Furia

by Yamile Saied Méndez

  His eyes flashed with an emotion I couldn’t decipher. “Not yet, Cami. Not yet.”

  The quiet laughter coming from the TV in my mom’s room clashed with the intimate mood in the living room. The mate was lavado, but I didn’t want to change the yerba. I didn’t want to ruin the moment. I didn’t want Diego to let go of my hand.

  “How did the test go?” Diego asked.

  “The test?”

  He studied my face, and I realized he was talking about the exam I’d taken last month. I was studying and doing prep tests when he left. He was stuck on old news.

  “Oh! I aced the TOEFL and the SAT.” Before he could say anything, I added, “Not only that, but you’re now speaking to a licenciada in the English language.”

  “You’re still planning on going to school in Norteamérica, then?”

  When he said it like that, it sounded so simple: because I had aced the tests, all the doors would be open to me.

  “No,” I said, and sipped my mate. “It’s impossible.”

  All my life, I had wanted to go to college in the United States, because there I could play fútbol while I got an education. But school in the States was irrationally expensive. With the exchange rate from peso to dollar, I wouldn’t be able to attend if I saved for a million years, not even with scholarships.

  But the Sudamericano would be a window of opportunity for a team to discover me. I could put college on hold and keep playing fútbol. I’d start small on a Buenos Aires team like Urquiza. Their men’s team wasn’t even in the first division, but the women had been to Copa Libertadores de América.

  Maybe in a few years, I’d climb my way up to the North American national league, the best women’s league in the world. Then my English would serve me well.

  “Nothing’s impossible, Camila. I assure you, the people who knew me when I was nine never imagined that one day I’d be playing in Italy.”

  He was right. Diego’s was a Cinderella story, which inspired me. It really did. After all, Rosario exported players to all corners of the world. Male players.

  “Anyway, look at you! A licenciada!” he said. That smile again. “You should’ve told me!”

  I retied my hair. “Well, you’ve been busy, haven’t you?” I hesitated, but if not now, when? “Besides, it’s not like we’ve been talking. You stopped calling me and never wrote me back.”

  The glow on his face dimmed. “Ay,” he said, placing a hand over his heart.

  “Ay,” I echoed.

  Diego bit his lower lip. “I’m sorry . . . things got . . .”

  “Complicated?”

  He nodded and grabbed my hand again. “Camila, you don’t know . . . I almost quit so many times. I missed you. I was homesick, lonely, confused . . . The mister said I wasn’t playing with my heart and asked if I wanted to come home.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That I wanted to stay in Turín. What else? Being there was my dream, and the possibility of them sending me back was terrifying. I focused all my energy on doing my best one day at a time. Before I knew it, weeks had passed, and then I didn’t know how to explain . . .” He exhaled like he had just dropped the heaviest burden. “Forgive me?”

  In my imaginary conversations with Diego, I always confronted him without hesitation, stating that we could still be friends, that we could pretend the kiss and the heartbreak were blips we could jump over and move on. But a part of me had always worried that we could never go back to the way things were before that night at the club. I didn’t want to lose him.

  I’d never expected an apology. I wasn’t ready for it, and now I was disarmed. It would’ve been so much easier to hold a grudge forever.

  His explanation made sense. In his place, I would’ve done the same thing. The time apart had taught me I could live without him. Perhaps what my heart needed was closure, and his being here explaining, apologizing, was enough.

  Diego looked at me like a man waiting for his sentence.

  Finally, I said, “I’m glad you stayed in Turín. I really am, Titán.”

  “I’m glad you have your degree. People need English for everything,” he said. “Are you making any extra money with it?”

  I laughed. “Extra money? I don’t have any money.” I shifted in the chair. My foot was falling asleep. I had the terrible habit of putting my leg under my bum to make up for my height. It messed up my ankle, and if Coach had seen me, she’d’ve had my head on a platter. “I went to the new mall to apply for this job at a clothing store. They asked for English speakers.”

  “And?” He motioned with his hand for me to continue.

  “Marisol came along, and after I completed her application and pretty much coached her through the whole interview, I didn’t get called back, but she did! No, don’t laugh. I speak English fluently and know accounting and tons of other things, and they hired her. She worked for two days and quit. They still didn’t call me.”

  By this time, I was kneeling on my chair, leaning over the table, both hands in the air, Evita Perón–style. All that was missing was the cry, ¡Pueblo Argentino . . . ! Diego laughed, and slowly, I sat back down and crossed my arms. “I have strong suspicions about why they hired her and not me.”

  “Which are?” he asked.

  “Really? She’s like a fragile anime fairy, batting her eyelashes and pretending to be dumb so people will like her. And then look at me.” I waved my hand in front of my body. “Employers don’t look beyond appearances.”

  The intensity in his eyes made every inch of my skin prickle. “I don’t understand what you mean, Cami.”

  “Never mind,” I said, cursing myself for walking into that trap. “Money. I need to earn some. Do you have any jobs for me, Titán?”

  His eyes narrowed, and his mouth quirked. I’d thought I knew all his gestures and expressions, but this fancy new Diego was a mystery. “Actually, I might.”

  “What?”

  “Did you see in the news that the church of El Buen Pastor opened up again?”

  “The abandoned church where they had the jail?”

  “Jail?”

  “The asylum for disobedient women?”

  Diego looked like he had no idea what I was talking about. But then, not a lot of people knew its history.

  “The one all the way in the Zona Sur?”

  “Yeah, that one,” Diego said.

  “Roxana showed me an article from La Capital about this asylum. Back in the day, families sent their disobedient daughters to El Buen Pastor.”

  “They did?”

  “Yes, and also their sisters, wives, even employees, sometimes. It was like a depository for unwanted women. Some orphan girls raised there became rich families’ free maids.”

  “I had no idea,” he said.

  “The girls were called ‘Las Incorregibles.’ Roxana said I was lucky it closed down or I may have ended up there.”

  “Ay, that’s not why I brought it up.” Diego grimaced and added, “It is a beautiful building to go to waste, and now it will be a place of healing . . . hopefully.”

  Maybe that would shoo away the ghosts that surely still haunted it. “I thought there was a nursing home there now.”

  “A section is, but the rest was vacant. Father Hugo has set up workshops for woodworking, sewing, gardening, and a comedor for the kids to get their afternoon merienda. He wants to start a new program for the kids in the group home to keep them off the streets. He can’t pay much, but a group of Argentines from the United States is funding some of it. Father Hugo wants someone, preferably a woman”—Diego’s eyes flickered—“or a girl, or . . . whatever, to teach them English.” He swallowed. “Would you be interested?”

  “It might work.” I said. “I’m a whatever, after all, and I do have a degree.”

  He had the good sense to duck his head sheepishly. “Okay,
woman. Licenciada.”

  “Good,” I said. Honestly, this sounded like a great opportunity, and I needed money. But sneaking out for practice was already hard enough. How could I get away for this, too?

  “What’s the matter, bambina?” Diego reached across the table and pushed my chin up with his index finger.

  Trying not to shiver at his touch, I said, “You know . . . my dad.”

  “What about him? You look like Rapunzel when Mother Gothel tells her she can’t go see the lights in the sky.”

  I laughed. We must have watched Tangled a thousand times when we were little. “I am not Rapunzel. And Titán, what will your fans say when they find out you still watch animated movies? Princess movies?”

  His smile faltered. “Don’t call me Titán. I’m just Diego, Mama.”

  No boy I cared for had ever called me Mama before.

  Mama is such a complicated word. It’s what we call our mothers. What we call a friend, a cute little girl that plays in the park.

  What a man calls his woman.

  Diego cleared his throat and said, “Tomorrow’s a holiday. After lunch, I’ll pick you up here and take you to Father Hugo’s.”

  “I don’t want to sneak out.” I said, shaking my head. “He’s going to be here all day. He’ll find out. He’ll drive by the church and see us. I’ll meet someone he knows, or we’ll have an accident—”

  Diego trapped both of my hands in his. “I’m not telling you to sneak. I’m asking you . . .” He hesitated. “I’m asking you out. Last time, everything happened so quickly—the kiss, saying goodbye like that. I’ve never taken you out. Just you and me.”

  His words sucked the air out of the room.

  “Let’s go catch a show at the planetarium. I’ve seen so many amazing places in Europe, but there’s still so much I don’t know about Rosario. Sad, right? I want to see it all so I can remember it when I’m away. I want to go with you. On the way back, we’ll stop and talk to Father Hugo.”

  Diego had always loved Rosario irrationally. Our industrial city could never compare to Italy, or even Buenos Aires, but Diego had never wanted to leave. He’d only left because no one said no to Juventus FC.

  I thought for a few heartbeats. I needed a job, and a real date with him was irresistible. When I finally smiled, he beamed as if he’d scored a goal.

  A metallic sound startled us, and we both jumped.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  Someone, or something, was scratching the door. I glanced at the clock.

  One in the morning. Time to go back to reality.

  “Oh!” I laughed when I recognized the whining. “It’s only Nico.”

  I hurried to open the door, and Nico trotted toward my room. I, on the other hand, walked out onto the balcony, welcoming the cold south wind, which blew on my face and cleared my thoughts. My lungs expanded, taking in the smell of eucalyptus leaves and quebracho smoke. Diego followed me out and stood next to me, leaning on the balustrade.

  Last time we were alone in the dark, he’d found me shaking with cold outside the club, wearing a skimpy dress I’d borrowed from Roxana and high heels I was surprisingly good at walking in. All night long, Diego and I had looked at each other across the dance floor, but neither of us had made a move. At two in the morning, when Roxana said her dad was waiting for us outside, I told her I needed to say goodbye to Diego. But I had lost him in the throngs of people dancing and the girls passing out lollipops for La Semana de la Dulzura.

  Outside, I couldn’t find Roxana or her dad’s car. I couldn’t walk home dressed like this. I’d never make it back. Desperation had started to creep in when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I pulled my arm back, ready to punch whoever thought they could play with me.

  “Let’s swap?” Diego said, holding out a yellow lollipop.

  In my hand, I had a pink one. His favorite flavor.

  Fate had given me a chance, and I wasn’t going to waste it. Diego was flying out in a few hours, and I might never see him again.

  “I will for a kiss. Everyone knows the pink lollipop is better than a yellow one.”

  His eyes sparkled, and he bit his lip deliciously.

  We leaned in at the same time. His mouth tasted so sweet, it made me drunk; his arms around me were so warm, I felt myself melt into him. When someone wolf whistled, we broke apart, gasping for air. I started shaking again, and Diego gave me his coat.

  “Let’s go back inside,” he said in my ear, and we spent the next few hours in our own bubble in the club, trying to pretend he wasn’t about to leave.

  More than a year later, here we were. Both of us shivering again, apparently too confused to put our feelings into words.

  There was so much I wanted to tell him. About the championship and my whole double life as a futbolera. About how much I’d missed him. How hurt I’d been when he’d stopped calling me.

  There was so much he hadn’t told me yet. About Turín, and Luís Felipe, his roommate from Brazil. But it was late, and I didn’t trust myself to say anything in case the wrong words came out.

  I glanced down at his arm and noticed the tattoo on his wrist. It was kind of hidden by a humble red ribbon meant to ward off the evil eye and a fancy watch that looked nothing like the knockoffs the manteros sold in Plaza Sarmiento. I grabbed his wrist and traced the words: La Banda del 7. His pulse hammered under my fingers.

  “A tattoo for our barrio?”

  I tried to keep my face impassive. I couldn’t afford to lose my head. Not now.

  He leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.

  His lips lingered on my skin. Before I made up my mind and turned my face that crucial distance, he pulled away.

  He turned around and went down the stairs. “Good night, Mama,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

  8

  Nico woke me up the next morning, whining for me to let him out of my bedroom. There was music blasting from the apartment downstairs, a Christian ballad with awesome drums, and the sun was baking my face. The clock read 11:30 a.m. I jumped out of bed.

  “Ay, por Dios, Nico! Why did you let me sleep so late, che?”

  I opened the door, and he darted outside. I hobbled back to my room to change for my run. I put on a pair of long pants, because although the sky through the window was a perfect blue, the air would be chilly. I tied my shoes tightly and headed to the kitchen. Every inch of my body complained about how hard I’d played the day before. I ignored the weakness screaming in my muscles. The gym was all right for conditioning once in a while, but an outdoor run the day after a game was a must.

  Still, I didn’t have much time. Diego had said he’d be here at one . . . if he didn’t forget or change his mind or get too busy.

  My mom was in the kitchen listening to the radio station that played old nineties songs, and she hummed along to Gustavo Cerati, stubbornly ignoring the neighbor’s music. It smelled of tomato sauce already, and my stomach rumbled.

  “Good morning, Mami.” I kissed her on the cheek. She looked up and smiled briefly. She was pale and had dark circles under her eyes. The little freckles on her nose and cheeks popped out. Before Tío César became my father’s minion, he and Mamá had been neighbors and friends. He had told me stories of what she was like when she was little. I couldn’t imagine her so free.

  “I got us facturas,” she said, pointing at a plate on the table. The rest of the surface was covered in sequins and crystals. She was supposed to deliver the dress tomorrow so the girl could take pictures before her quinces party. She was almost finished.

  My mouth watered at the pastries, but I stopped myself from taking one. “Later, vieja. I’m going for a run.”

  “But why, Camila? You’re so thin already. I know summer’s coming, but you don’t need to look like the skeletons on Dancing for a Dream.”

  I took a deep breath. I’d ne
ver aspired to star in a dancing show. She said I was too thin, but the moment I picked up a pastry, she’d tell me to watch my carbs. My goal was to be fast, strong, and unstoppable, and I couldn’t be that by starving myself or by eating pastries. My mom wouldn’t get it.

  “I feel better when I run. You should come with me sometime,” I said. “Besides, Mami, I need to make room for your amazing food. What are you cooking?”

  “Gnocchi,” she said with a smile. “You’re going to love them. I made some spinach ones so Pablo can get vegetables, you know? I need to sneak them in.” She babied him so much. “Roxana said to call her.”

  My heart went into batucada mode. I had to know what was so urgent that she’d call in the morning, but I couldn’t risk using the house phone. My mom had super hearing.

  “I’ll call her later,” I said.

  Mamá went back to her embroidering and didn’t glance at me as I left.

  Earbuds in, I let the energy of Gigi D’Agostino’s songs set the tempo of my steps.

  A couple of blocks into my run, a German shepherd jumped at me from behind a makeshift chicken wire fence that sagged under the weight of his body. A deep voice called him from inside the house. I didn’t look back. I ran and ran, imagining the bite of the dog would shock me at any second. I breathed, chasing my goal, the Sudamericano, a chance at a future in which I was the master of my own fate.

  The first autumn Diego lived in el barrio, when he was twelve and I was ten, everyone was obsessed with running. An Argentine athlete had won an Olympic medal for racing, and every kid in el barrio was trying to imitate our new idol. Some were good runners. Not me.

  When I asked Pablo for help, he said I wasn’t built for running. My legs were thin like a tero bird’s. Determined to prove him wrong, I raced the girl from downstairs, Analía, the monoblock’s best runner after my brother.

  I tried to keep up with her, but as I watched her reach the finish line, I tripped on the uneven pavement and fell. Blood bloomed from my knee and ran down my leg, seeping into my white knee-high sock. My mom was furious when she saw how I’d ruined my school clothes.