The chants of the fans hanging from a bus that thundered down the avenue swallowed the rest of her words. But not the thoughts clamoring inside me. Diego had seen me. He had called for me without hesitation.
The first-place medal pressed against my chest, reminding me of the most important thing that had happened today: my team had won. Now I would have to tell my parents.
5
By the time I showered and changed back into my obedient daughter uniform and the buses started running again, my seven o’clock curfew had come and gone. When I actually left Roxana’s hours later, night had fallen dark and damp over the city. The bus left me on the corner of José Ingenieros and Colombres. Far from home, but still better than walking by myself through Empalme and Circunvalación.
With only a flicker of starlight to guide me, my mom’s warning about the murdered girl didn’t seem empty anymore. I quickened my pace. Finally, I saw the light in front of my building, number six, shining bright yellow. It was ten forty-five. The more I delayed, the more trouble I would be in.
With each step I took, I forced my face into a mask, obliterating the vestiges of my rebellious afternoon: the sunshine breaking through the clouds during my victory goal, us picking up Coach Alicia, Diego with his leather jacket and gelled hair. I moved all these images to the back of my mind to revisit in the quiet of my room later.
“Chau, Pablo’s sister!” a small boy riding a bicycle shouted at me cheerfully. “Say hi to the Stallion for me!”
“Camila!” I yelled. “My name is Camila!” He didn’t turn back, though, and soon the darkness of la placita swallowed him.
In my barrio, most of the people didn’t know my name or even that I existed. To them, I was only Pablo’s sister, or Andrés and the seamstress’s daughter—my mom, too, was nameless. But I was determined to leave my mark. And with the Sudamericano, I would have my chance.
No one in the barrio knew that I’d been reborn as Furia, and I held this luminous secret inside me like a talisman.
As I reached my apartment at the top of four flights of stairs, my father’s laughter boomed through the metal door. The hallway light went off, and damp blackness enveloped me. I filled my lungs with wintry night air and went in.
The scene around the table was always the same after a game. My brother, dressed to go clubbing, was sprawled on a rattan chair with Marisol the girlfriend, the permanent ornament, by his side. My father, also ready to go out, was flanked by Tío César and Tío Héctor, his sidekicks. They weren’t really my uncles, but they’d all been friends since they were young boys.
The scent of homemade pizza was overwhelming, and my stomach growled loudly.
“Princesa Camila is here!” César exclaimed, and I gifted him with a smile. He always had a kind word for me.
Héctor’s eyes scanned me and then lingered on my chest. “Kind of late for a respectable girl to be out and about, don’t you think? Come here, negra. Give me a kiss.”
I cringed as he planted a wet kiss on my cheek and closed my jacket to hide my chest even though all he could’ve seen was my black T-shirt. Before I could summon up my snark, my mom asked from the kitchen, “Where have you been, Camila? You were supposed to be here hours ago. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
I weighed what would happen if I blurted out the truth, telling them all I was late because my team had won the championship and I’d celebrated by sneaking a peek at Diego. They would think I was joking. But even so, saying my secrets aloud was too risky.
“Sorry, Ma. The phone ran out of credit.” I slid the backpack off my shoulder. I left it next to the dark hallway, where I hoped no one would notice it.
It didn’t work.
“What’s in the backpack?” My father tried to be casual. César and Héctor kept their eyes glued to the TV, which was airing a replay of the day’s games with the volume turned all the way down. In spite of their blank expressions, I knew they were paying attention to each word my dad said. Like me, they knew him too well to miss the signs.
I looked my father in the eye, mustered a courage I didn’t really possess, and said, “Math books.” I didn’t blink. “I was studying.”
“Where?”
“At Roxana’s.”
He smiled like a cat. “Roxana? The pretty chinita from school?”
“What other Roxanas do you know, Papá?”
In the corner of my eye, I saw Pablo, his smile frozen in place, warning me to stop.
Luckily, my father’s eyes had already drifted back to the TV and the replay of Pablo’s goal.
“Just wait until the national team calls Pali for the U20 World Cup,” he said.
“They’ll call Diego for sure.” César stabbed where it would hurt my father the most. “Two from Rosario is a lot for the Buenos Aires jefes, Andrés. Diego’s Juve material now. Pablo can’t compete with that.”
“Maybe he’s in town to meet with AFA?” Héctor said. “He was right there in the stands. I saw him. Did you, Pablito?”
Pablo shrugged, but he glanced at me like he wanted to make sure I didn’t say anything stupid.
As if.
“Who cares that he’s in town?” My father’s laughter was jarring. “Diego’s a fine player, but Pablo will make a better impression. You mark my words. And then it will be Europe. No Italy, though. For Pablo it will be Barcelona or Manchester United. Did you hear, Camila? You can help us with the English. Get your bags ready!”
“Don’t count on me,” I said, glancing at Pablo so he’d remember my fight was with our father, not with him. “I’m not going anywhere with you guys.” I’d leave this house the first chance I got, but not by chasing after a boy, including my brother. I’d do it on my own terms, following my own dreams, not someone else’s. And most importantly, no one would leech off my sacrifices. No one.
From behind me, my dad continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “We’ll follow the Stallion to the ends of the world. We’ll finally be able to leave this rat hole and live the life we were meant to. Like I would’ve if that damned Paraguayan hadn’t broken my leg.”
“Paraguayo hijo de puta,” Héctor muttered.
“You were the best one, Andrés. The best one of all.” César recited his part.
“Pablo’s better,” my father said with a melodramatic quiver in his voice that I was immune to. “He’ll save us all.”
“Yes,” Héctor said. “He’ll make us rich.”
Marisol rolled her eyes at me. If she had a say in all this, no one but her would enjoy Pablo’s millions. She’d already dyed her hair platinum blond a la Wanda, the most famous botinera—footballer catcher—of all time.
My brother whispered something in Marisol’s ear, and she smiled. This intimate gesture gave me goose bumps. I went to the kitchen to kiss my mom hello.
“Hola, Ma. You’re going out?” I already knew the answer.
“At this hour? No, bebé. I still have to finish that dress, if you want to help.”
“I can. After I do my accounting homework. I ran out of time.”
“So they’re calling it accounting homework now?” She sniffed at me. “Where were you? Your jacket stinks.”
“A guy was smoking on the bus.”
Nico, my dog, saved me from more questions. He whimpered from the laundry on the back balcony, where he was banished when there was company. He shed horribly even in the winter, and now that his coat was getting ready for our short spring and scorching summer, the shedding was out of control.
I escaped to his side. “There you are, mi amor.”
Nico wagged his whole back half to make up for his lack of a tail. He licked my face in greeting, and I held my breath. His mouth stank worse than my boots, but he loved me unconditionally.
“I scored two goals, Nico,” I whispered in his pointy ear. “We won the championship! And guess what? Diego’s he
re. You should’ve seen him . . .”
Nico bobbed his head up and down like he understood every word, even those I couldn’t say. I tried to kiss his triangular face, but he slunk away from me to greet my brother, who had just joined me.
“Marisol’s in the bathroom,” Pablo explained. “And I had to get out of there.”
I widened my eyes in an exaggerated expression of shock. “Oh? I didn’t know she pooped like the rest of us!”
He swatted my shoulder, and I scooted over so he could sit beside me on the floor. After a long exhale, I rested my head on his shoulder. My brother’s long black hair was silky under my cheek. Nico sprawled across our legs, pinning us under him so we’d behave.
“Good job on that goal, Pali.” I was bursting with pride at how fine his shot had looked on TV.
“I was watching you the whole time in the kitchen, and you weren’t even paying attention to the TV.”
Roxana and I had dissected every play, but he didn’t need to know how obsessively we studied the men’s games. “I watched it at Roxana’s,” I said.
“Roxana? The pretty chinita from school?” He mocked our father’s voice. “And your game?” Pablo whispered after a few seconds.
My heart hammered. He’d remembered about my championship.
“We won,” was all I said. “I scored.”
He ruffled my already-messy hair and said, “Ah, Maradonita! I wish I could come see you someday.”
“Maybe next time.” I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
After his debut on Central’s first team two years ago, Pablo’s life had become even more complicated than when he was in the youth academy. He never had time to come see me play. Which was for the better, maybe. Ever since the baby leagues, he’d won dozens of international championships. Pablo had never laughed at me for wanting to be a futbolera. He had always encouraged me behind our parents’ backs, but he didn’t really know the hunger I had. He thought fútbol was something I did for fun. Maybe it was time I trusted him more.
“I’ll tell you the rest later,” I said.
He nodded, but his face darkened as he cleared his throat.
“What’s going on?”
“Diego thought he saw you outside the bar. Were you roaming around the stadium hoping to see him?”
“Stop it!” I said, and slapped Pablo’s leg.
Nico whined.
Pablo pulled away from me and looked into my face until I finally met his eyes. “Mirá, nena, you’re my little sister, and I have to protect you.” He sounded so much like our mom that I rolled my eyes. “I don’t like you going out all alone, coming back late, and doing who knows what.” He smiled but drilled me with one of his stares, the kind he’d inherited from our father. “Remember what I said last time?”
“What, Pablo? What did you say?”
“That you’re going to get hurt,” he said as if he were an ancient wise man. “Stay away from him. Trust me.”
Pablo was so full of it.
When I didn’t reply, he asked, “You haven’t been talking to him behind my back, have you?”
Last year, Pablo had given me the talk, a tirade about not being like the other girls and wanting a piece of Diego just because he was going to be famous. What Diego and I had wasn’t like that at all, but the words had burrowed deep inside of me.
“What are you now? My dad?” I asked, slapping his leg again.
“He’s only here for a week, you know? Then he’ll go back to his fame and fortune and glamorous life.” There was a sharp edge to his voice that made the hairs at the back of my neck prickle. What had happened between them?
“I haven’t talked to him. Happy now?”
Pablo’s eyes flickered away from mine, as if he knew way more than he pretended to. Had Diego told him anything? I was dying to ask, but my pride was greater than my curiosity.
“I saw how you two looked at each other the night he left,” Pablo said. “I’m a guy, too, Camila—”
“How did we look at each other? That was a whole year ago. And now, what? I’m not even supposed to look at him because he’s famous?” Now it was Pablo’s turn to roll his eyes, and I continued, “It’s not like that, Pablo. Not at all. We’re just friends, or we were. We haven’t talked much since he left. Besides, I’m too busy with school, and . . . planning for med school.”
Héctor’s laughter echoed from the kitchen, followed by César’s and my father’s. Pablo and I listened.
The night before Diego had left, there had been more than charged looks between us. A lot more. But ignorance was bliss, and I intended to keep my brother in the dark. What was the point in fighting? For all I knew, Diego was over our . . . fling.
I patted my brother’s shoulder and changed the subject. “In any case, I’m sure he was amazed to see you play. You guys flattened Talleres, honestly.”
Pablo laughed. “It was good to see him there,” he said with a crooked smile. “But I want you to come watch one day. When was the last time you came to the stadium?”
Two years. When Pablo had debuted on the first team.
“I’ll come see you one day,” I said. “Stallion.”
The nickname was perfect for him. Tall and dark. He could run forever and never stop smiling. How many girls had lost themselves over that grin?
“Pali!” Marisol’s musical voice called from the dining room.
Like an obedient lapdog, Pablo jumped to his feet and ran to her.
Pali?
Pali was just for family, and Marisol wasn’t that. God willing, she would never be. She had never given Pablo the time of day until Diego had left. But if I ever even hinted at this, I’d make an enemy out of my brother. I could deal with anything but losing Pablo.
6
Back in the dining room, César and Héctor thanked my mom for the delicious fugazza con queso. She hid her smile behind a paper napkin, but her eyes sparkled. Her gaze, so full of longing, flitted to my father every few seconds. She was still hoping, waiting, for . . . I didn’t know what. They’d been together since they were sixteen. If he hadn’t changed by now . . .
My mom grabbed a bit of crust from a plate and nibbled on it.
My father dropped one of his bombs. “You’re eating pizza, Isabel? I thought you were staying off carbs to look amazing. Like me.” His hand swiped over his lean body, and then he winked at her, as if the gesture could erase the damage to her heart.
I grabbed a slice of pizza and took a bite. My taste buds exploded in pleasure. “Oh, Mami! This is the food of the gods!”
“You say that now,” my dad said with a mocking expression. “Just wait until your thirties, when even the air you breathe accumulates on your thighs. Right, Isabel?”
Mami’s smile vanished, and her luminous copper skin turned ashy, as if she’d been struck by a curse.
Pablo put a hand on Mami’s shoulder. “No, Mama. You’re beautiful just the way you are.”
She didn’t tell Pablo off for speaking like a country boy, but the endearment wasn’t enough to bring the color back to her face. She gathered the plates and took them to the sink.
Pablo and I locked eyes, and when I turned around, I saw Héctor and César having their own silent conversation. But no one said anything. My father excused himself to the bathroom. César walked out for a cigarette, since my mom didn’t let him smoke inside the house. I should have escaped to my room then, but the TV caught my attention. It was the reporter who’d been at my game, Luisana. I was about to turn the volume up when Héctor said, “Don’t. It’s that woman commentator, and I can’t stand listening to her burradas.”
I hesitated, debating whether I should obey him or turn it all the way up out of spite. But they were showing footage of Diego waving at his fans. I had to see if there was any trace of me on the sidewalk, staring at him like a zombified fool. I stood in front of
the TV for a few minutes, but the whole time, I saw Héctor out of the corner of my eye. He shifted from side to side and looked at me like he wanted to say something. When I turned to face him, he opened his mouth to speak once or twice, but in the end, he just sighed and went back to checking his phone.
“¡Vamos!” My father called to him, and walked out, completely ignoring me.
Héctor looked at me sadly. Before following my father, he said, “Careful, Camila. You’re too pretty to be out on your own.”
Now it was my turn to struggle for words. It was as if a fish bone were stuck in my throat. Was he threatening me, or was he genuinely worried about me?
Soon after, Pablo and Marisol left, too. Usually they didn’t go clubbing on Sunday nights—she was in fifth year, the last, just like I was—but tomorrow was a holiday. The memory of Pablo whispering in her ear and Marisol’s sly smile flashed through my mind again, and I shuddered.
The news went back to reporting about Gimena Márquez and a march organized in her honor, demanding justice for her murder. I turned up the volume.
People marched, chanting, “¡Ni una menos!” Then the demands for an end to the violence got overshadowed by a fight between a group with pro-choice green handkerchiefs and another with pro-life light blue ones. No amount of insults was going to bring Gimena back. People could fight over handkerchief colors until the sun bleached them all to the same shade of gray, and in the meantime, girls would continue to die.
The anchor cut in with news of another missing girl, a twelve-year-old this time.
My mom sighed heavily behind me. I turned to look at her. She stared disapprovingly at me, as if I were responsible for these girls and had failed to protect them.
Or as if my own carelessness meant I’d be next.
I grabbed my backpack and a plate with more pizza and escaped to my room. Maluma smiled at me from the poster on the wall next to the only picture I had of Abuelo Ahmed—the one with a love letter to a woman who wasn’t my grandmother scribbled on the back. In sepia, he looked like an old-fashioned movie star.
Furia Page 3