Furia

by Yamile Saied Méndez

  I was crying on the balcony when I heard Diego, whistling as he climbed the stairs. I would have climbed up onto the roof if I’d known how, but there was no way to escape.

  Diego saw me. The melody died on his puckered-up lips. “What happened?” he asked. “Did someone hurt you?” His voice was so gentle.

  I shook my head. I didn’t want him to be angry, not even at Analía. When boys and men became angry, they tried to fix the world by breaking it down with their fists. I tried to speak, but I burst into tears instead.

  In hushed whispers, I told him everything. He listened, and when I was done crying, he wiped my face with the inside of his Pokémon T-shirt.

  Unable to find words to express my gratitude, I wrapped my arms around his neck.

  Diego’s skin smelled of sunshine and sweat.

  In the tone my teacher at school used when telling a story, he said, “The other day, Ana told me the legend of a warrior princess who had your name.”

  I couldn’t help but look up at his face. Was he making fun of me? No Disney princesses—the only ones I knew—had my name.

  “Camila? Like me? She was a warrior?”

  He nodded. “And not only that, she was a great runner. She ran so fast that when she ran across the sea, her feet didn’t even get wet.”

  I peered down at my ugly black shoes and saw the blood stain on my sock getting darker and bigger as it spread through the cotton fibers. “Can you teach me how to run like that?”

  His eyes flickered in the direction of my brother’s window before returning to me. “Abuelo isn’t home, is he? You know he’d teach you like he taught Pablo. He’d do anything for you.”

  “He’s out.”

  Diego hesitated, but then he said, “Let’s go to the road behind the sports center. I can teach you there. I’ll tell your mom where we’re going.”

  But I shook my head. Even then, I’d known there were things she didn’t want to hear.

  While we walked under the naked paradise trees that lined the street, Diego told me more stories about the other Camila, the warrior princess who fought in the great Trojan War. The sunlight painted intricate designs on the ground. The dust swirled on the shimmering air before it settled on my dry lips.

  “I’ll hold your hand and run,” he said. “You hold on tight and raise those knees. Don’t look down.”

  I bit my lip and nodded.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  I looked ahead at the curving road that went on forever. We could run to the end of the world.

  “Ready,” I said.

  Our feet hit the compacted dirt hard, raising a cloud of dust around us. Diego’s hand was sweating in mine. He picked up speed, and for a second, I panicked. I imagined myself falling, bringing him down with me. I pulled his arm back to slow him down.

  “Don’t give up,” he yelled.

  I willed my legs to keep up. We ran and ran until he let go of my hand. “Race you to the willows!”

  We were both flying. I was the first to reach the line of trees by the Ludueña River.

  We threw ourselves on the soft, fragrant clover, breathing in the greenness around us. The fat white clouds flew above us. We were in heaven.

  “Remember I said Abuelo would do anything for you?” Diego asked, propping himself on his elbow.

  “Yes.” Somehow I was holding his hand again.

  I saw my reflection in his honey-brown eyes.

  “So would I. I’d do anything for you,” Diego said, and kissed me on the cheek.

  There were no clover fields anymore. The little kids Diego and I once were would hate the chain-link fences around the new soy crops. But what would they think of the people we had become?

  As I headed back home, sweat trickled down the sides of my face and my back and in between my breasts, which were squashed under two running bras two sizes too small.

  I crossed the street to avoid the Jehovah’s Witnesses waiting with their pamphlets. I didn’t try to avoid the golden-haired North American Mormons, because even though they always smiled, they didn’t talk to girls in the street, not even when I tried to practice my English. I was pretty sure they changed those guys regularly, but they all looked the same to me.

  When I turned the corner of Schweitzer and Sánchez de Loria, finishing my loop, I saw kids wearing Juventus jerseys huddled around a fancy black car.

  It could only belong to one person. Diego was early, and I was doomed.

  “Franco!” I called to my downstairs neighbor. He was about nine years old and lived with his grandma. His brown hair gleamed like polished ebony, and his blue eyes brimmed with joy, as if he had seen Papá Noel in person.

  “Camila! Look at what el Titán brought us!”

  Seven or eight boys, all under the age of ten, rushed to show me their treasures.

  “Mirá! An authentic Juve jersey! He signed it, too. He signed it!”

  Franco’s aunt, Paola, barely thirteen, was among the boys. She hugged her own white-and-black jersey, and her blue eyes sparkled just like Franco’s.

  She ran to me. “He even remembered me, Camila. He said he didn’t bring me a Central jersey because, you know, Franco and his dad are Boca fans, but that we could all wear Juve, so that’s what he brought us. They’re originals, not knock-offs! And look,” she whispered, showing me a picture of the whole Juventus FC squad. She turned it over. It was signed by all the players, personalized to Paola. Even the superstars like Buffon and Dybala had signed it.

  “Put it in a safe place.” I whispered back. “One day, this might be worth a lot of money.”

  She clutched it against her chest and shook her head. “Diego gave this to me. I’ll never sell it. Would you?”

  “Maybe?” I taunted her.

  “Seriously, Camila,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re so lucky. He’s upstairs waiting for you already, and you’re here stinking like a pig. What are you thinking?”

  “How do you know he’s waiting for me?”

  She gave me a smile that was too knowing for thirteen years old. “Because he literally told me, ‘I’m here for Camila, Pao.’ ”

  Pretty words and a fancy postcard might have enchanted Paola, but I wasn’t thirteen. Diego could spin the sweetest promises, but I knew better than to create fantasies that would leave me brokenhearted when he left again at the end of the week.

  I opened the door.

  Sitting across from my father at our kitchen table, Diego looked like a model out of those old AXE commercials Roxana and I loved watching on YouTube.

  Impeccably pressed black shirt. Worn-out jeans and sleek leather shoes. His outfit probably cost more than what my mom made in a month of straining her eyes, poking her fingers, and hunching over her sewing machine.

  When Diego saw me, he flashed that radiant smile of his, but he didn’t quite meet my eyes.

  “There you are.” He stood up while a thousand replies blared in my mind.

  Looking great, Titán.

  I can’t stop thinking about you.

  Voglio fare l’amore con te.

  Conscious of my father staring at us, I stepped back, put a hand up, and said, “Paola told me I smell like a pig. You might want to stay away until I shower. Give me a few minutes.”

  And I made my grand escape.

  After my shower, I locked my door and stood in front of my armoire. If there was a fairy godmother giving out wardrobes, now would have been a really great time for her to show up.

  With Diego’s outfit in mind, I settled for jeans and a charcoal sweater. My black combat boots were more fashionable than my Nikes. Abandoning all attempts to tame my long, wet mane of hair, I twisted it into a bun high on my head. I spritzed Impulse into the air and I waved the scent away so it wouldn’t be too obvious I was trying. I wished I owned fancy perfume. After some frenzied eyeliner and ma
scara application, I dabbed on some lip gloss and grabbed my purse.

  My glance fell on la estampita of La Difunta, but asking her for a favor felt sacrilegious when I hadn’t even left her an offering yet.

  Wish me luck, pretty boy, I begged my poster of Maluma instead before I headed out to the kitchen.

  Quietly, I crossed the hallway on tiptoe. My dad and Diego spoke in hushed tones.

  “What did Giusti say about the last game, Diego?” my dad asked. “You played the whole ninety.”

  Diego shook his head. “He isn’t too lavish with praise. He always wants more and better.”

  My dad laughed. “And right he is. You need to keep your feet on the ground. Don’t let your fame go to your head, but it’s never too early for your manager to think about the next step, you know? He should be talking about increasing your salary. No, don’t make that face. I won’t ask. I already know how much you make. But there’s always more. What about the national team? I have already started making arrangements to find a better team for Pablo. We all love Central, but we’re wasting our time here.”

  I tried not to scoff. My father acted like he knew better than Diego’s manager—the one who represented several first-class players and who already had Diego starting at Juventus FC.

  But Diego only said, “I’m sure there are plenty of teams who’ll want Pablo.”

  His gaze flicked to the hallway where I stood eavesdropping. The way his eyes swept over me made me light up like a bonfire. My dad turned his chair, obviously trying to see for himself what had captured Diego’s attention.

  My dad looked at me like he had X-ray vision. I took a quick inventory of the things he would find objectionable: my tight jeans, the sweater that tottered on the precipice between modest and provocative, the makeup.

  Beads of sweat broke out along the bridge of my nose. My hand itched to wipe it off, but if I did, he would notice how nervous I was.

  A heavy hand slapped me on the shoulder, and I yelped.

  “Pablo!” I said, turning around and pounding my brother’s bare chest.

  Pablo roared with laughter, clutching his abs with one hand and pointing at me with the other. “I had to! You should’ve seen how high you jumped!”

  My dad laughed, too, but my mom said, “Leave her alone, Pali. Put a shirt on before you sit at the table, please.”

  I was too embarrassed to look at Diego.

  “At least you have some color in your face, Camila.” Pablo defended himself, putting on the shirt that had been tucked in his back pocket. “You were pale as clay.” He and Diego kissed on the cheek and embraced. “And why are you wearing lipstick?” Pablo asked, looking at me over Diego’s shoulder. “Are you going out with a friend?”

  “She’s going out with me,” Diego said.

  My ears rang.

  Pablo clenched his teeth. “Cutting right to the chase, Titán?”

  I couldn’t believe he’d said that.

  “Ay, Pablo. ¡Qué boludo!” I rolled my eyes. “Why don’t you shut up?”

  Diego shook his head and whispered something I didn’t catch.

  “Camila, what a potty mouth!” my mom exclaimed. “And in front of Diego, too.” If saying “boludo” was having a potty mouth, then there wasn’t a single clean-mouthed person in our country, not even my mother. “Diego, you should’ve told me last night that you were going to come back today. I would’ve made sure Pablo was up.”

  “You came over last night?” Pablo’s words were directed at Diego, but he looked at me and shook his head as if I’d disappointed him.

  “Mamá,” I said, trying to stop her from making this a bigger mess than it already was.

  “Are you sure you don’t want Pablo and Marisol to go along?” she asked Diego.

  Pablo and Marisol? Like chaperones?

  Luckily, Diego shook his head. “We can’t wait for this vago to get ready. He’ll take hours.”

  Pablo grimaced. “And I don’t do double dates with my sister. We’ll hang out later, no, Diegui?”

  My dad had been too quiet, but I knew the scheming look on his face. “What ever happened to that girlfriend you had, Diego?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. “Won’t she be jealous that you’re spending your free time with little Camila?”

  Little Camila?

  “She has no business being jealous.” Diego’s ears were flaming red. “I haven’t seen her . . . I haven’t even talked to her.”

  “That’s too bad,” my dad continued, as if he hadn’t noticed we were halfway out the door. “She was a bonbon. But you were smart to break up with her. In Europe, you can find a proper woman. None of the villeritas, the botineras wanting to suck you dry in every way, you know what I mean?” He chuckled.

  My mom looked from my dad to me, but she didn’t say anything. She just straightened out a crooked corner of the tablecloth. Even Pablo’s face was scrunched with disgust, but he’d started this.

  In response, Diego walked to the door, opened it, and turned to look at me. I followed him. I had to get out of there.

  From the stairs, I heard Pablo call out, “Take care of my little sister, Titán.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I will.”

  He closed the door. I didn’t even want to imagine the reaction on the other side.

  9

  Diego’s car was a masterpiece. I sat on my hands to stop myself from touching the spaceship-like controls on the dashboard. The light gray leather was smooth under my fingers.

  “Is this the famous new car smell I’ve heard about?” I asked to break the awkwardness that had enveloped Diego and me as we made our way downstairs.

  He bit his lower lip as if trying not to smile and shrugged. “Just got it from the dealer this morning. They were holding it for me.”

  “But you’re going back to Turín next week.”

  “Renting a car each time I come back would be more expensive than owning one, to be honest.” I wasn’t going to ask when he’d be coming back. Not after the scene with Pablo and my dad. But if he’d bought a car, maybe he’d buy a house or an apartment in one of the brand-new buildings in Puerto Norte.

  “Where are you parking it?” I asked. “When you return, you won’t find even a thread of the leather seats.”

  “I’m driving it to Buenos Aires. This guy has a parking garage for players’ cars.”

  “Genius,” I said. The guy who owned that garage must have been raking it in with shovels.

  The BMW barely rocked on the narrow streets of el barrio, pockmarked by too much rain and too little maintenance. The seat automatically adjusted around my body and cushioned me from the minimal jostling.

  “Cool, huh?” Diego asked, noting my surprise.

  “Just like the 142,” I said, and looked out the window. From the safety of the car, I didn’t mind the wild dogs sprawled on the sidewalks, sleeping off the adventures of the previous night.

  Once we were outside el barrio, Diego rolled down his window. The wind that tangled his hair carried the scent of burning leaves. The sound of the popcorn seller’s handcart bell just barely reached my ears—a whisper, and then it was gone.

  “You look beautiful,” Diego said softly.

  I turned to see if he was joking, but he was looking at the road ahead, his hands clenching the steering wheel.

  He was beautiful.

  “I need to call Roxana. Can I borrow your phone?”

  “Now?”

  “Now. It’s urgent, and mine’s dead.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, but he took a slick phone from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. Pablo had a much older iPhone, and I hesitated because I didn’t know how to unlock this one.

  “Here,” he said, taking the phone back, lifting the screen to his face for just a second, and then passing it back to me in a swift movement.

 
He rolled the window back up, and I dialed Roxana’s number, once, twice, three times. She didn’t pick up. She probably didn’t recognize the number. Finally, I texted her.

  Answer the phone. It’s Camila.

  Diego drove on, and I held the phone in my sweaty hand, praying for Roxana to call and rescue me. No matter how long I stared at the screen, she didn’t reply. Carefully, I put the phone on the center console. Diego glanced at me and then at it but didn’t say a word.

  The tension between us was oppressive.

  This wasn’t a normal first date. It wasn’t like I could ask him basic questions to break the ice. I already knew all his trivia. He was an Aquarius. His favorite colors were blue and yellow, but he preferred pink candy. His favorite number was ten—duh—and his favorite superhero was Spider-Man, the same as mine.

  Still, even if his favorite colors and superheroes hadn’t changed, he had changed. I’d known the pre-Juventus Diego. Who was he now?

  “Last night we didn’t get to talk about Turín,” I finally said. “What is it like to play on that kind of team? How is it being back home?” I sounded like the reporter who’d pelted me with questions after the championship.

  He sighed with relief, the awkwardness gone. “Sometimes it feels like I never left Rosario.” He gave me that crooked smile. “Everything’s the same. The kids play in the parking lot, and the popcorn seller stands on the corner; there’s pasta on holidays, and wild dogs scratch their flea bites on the sidewalk. But this morning, it took me a second to remember where I was. I miss my apartment and my own bed.”

  “Everything must be beautiful in Turín.”

  Diego shrugged. “Yes, but the price of living there is too steep, and I’m not talking about euros.”

  “You miss Rosario?”

  “So much it hurts.” He rubbed his chest. “I’m doing what I love, but I miss Rosario in a way I never expected. Luís Felipe calls it saudade.”

  The Portuguese word filled me with longing for something I hadn’t lost yet. My saudade had more to do with not getting to experience what he had: a life playing fútbol without having to hide.