Furia

by Yamile Saied Méndez

  A smattering of freckles covered her white skin. Karen was rod thin and tall, and her hands were rubbed raw. Her pale lips were chapped from the cold, but her brown eyes were bright and wise. Finally, she said, “Welcome to El Buen P . . . P . . . welcome, señorita.” A wave of protectiveness overtook me when the boys snickered.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  After wiping my sweaty hands on my skirt, I took a seat next to Karen and tried to emulate appropriate teacher behavior. “Do you want to show me what you’ve been working on?” I asked.

  The boys silently challenged each other to be the first. Karen opened her notebook and pushed it in my direction. I browsed through the thin pages. Everything was in English. The neatness of her handwriting, the correctness of her grammar, and the breadth of her vocabulary rendered me speechless. She mistook my silence for lack of understanding, and with badly concealed pride, she explained, “I am . . . am . . . am writing a translation of Alfonsina Storni, la po . . . la poetisa? Her po-poems. She lived in Rosario when she was very young. Did you know that?”

  Karen’s eyes shone. She had an infection, the hunger. I knew that the only cure was to feed it, and I hoped that I could help Karen like Coach Alicia had helped me.

  Miguel groaned. “Not again with la poetisa!”

  “La seño might n-not know,” Karen shot back.

  “They always fight about this,” Lautaro told me with a shrug.

  “La seño won’t care about your stupid poems, Caca,” Javier said.

  The change in Karen’s face was instantaneous. The brave, spunky girl was consumed by a shadow. She moved her lips like she wanted to speak, but no words came out.

  I rounded on Javier and snapped, “What did you call her?”

  Javier’s dark face was mottled with embarrassment, and I exhaled to calm myself down. The last thing these kids needed was another person who yelled, who put them down. I placed my hand on his arm, but he snatched it away as if my touch had burned him.

  “I’m sorry, Javier,” I said, but Javier turned his face away from me.

  Lautaro explained, “Karen stutters. That’s why some people call her Caca. When she’s nervous and she tries to say her name it sounds like Ka-Ka-Ka!” The boys tried to stifle their laughter, but Karen’s face hardened. The glassy shine in her eyes made my skin break into goose bumps. There was a little fury inside this girl, and I had the impulse to hug her, to tell her everything would be okay, but I had no right to make this promise when her life was already a hundred times harder than mine.

  “Listen,” I said. “I won’t tolerate name-calling of any kind. I can’t tell you what to do when I’m not here, but you won’t call Karen any names in my presence. Claro?”

  “Claro,” Lautaro said quickly.

  “Gracias,” I said, and all the boys’ faces softened, even Javier’s.

  After such a rocky start, the class felt uncomfortably tense. Karen worked in silence, shielding her writing with her arm. There was no need, though. None of the boys were on her level.

  An hour in, I went over a pronunciation guide with them, and they all repeated the words with care. All except for Karen, who seemed to listen with her whole body, staring down at the worn table, moving her lips soundlessly.

  Finally, the clock on the wall announced it was five.

  “It’s merienda time. Will you stay with us, Seño? Today is pan casero day,” asked Miguel.

  My stomach rumbled embarrassingly loudly. The boys laughed as if I had just told the funniest joke in the world.

  “I guess that’s a yes,” Lautaro said with a little smirk on his face.

  Karen glanced at me and gathered her notebook and pencil as if they were the most precious things in the world. I waited for her to finish. Her thin shoulders were folded in on themselves, a glorious butterfly hiding her colors.

  My students and I walked out to the courtyard, where there was a round brick-and-mud oven. White smoke leaked from the metal door that hid the pan casero cooking over coals. Lured by the mouthwatering smell of fresh bread baking, streams of little ones came out of several doors that lined the courtyard and joined me and my class.

  We all waited in line behind Sister Cruz, the round-faced nun, who served mate cocido, ladling the steaming tea into metal mugs. When Sister Cristina opened the oven, the kids cheered. With perfect coordination, the nuns passed a cup and a slice of bread, fragrant and warm from the oven, to each of the children waiting patiently.

  “Chau, Karen. See you tomorrow,” Sister Cruz called after she placed a slice of bread in my open hand.

  I turned to say goodbye, too. On Karen’s shoulders, a shopping bag hung as if it were a backpack. The front cover of her notebook showed through the semitransparent plastic.

  “You aren’t staying for your snack?” I asked.

  When she turned in my direction, I noticed the grease-stained paper-wrapped package in her hands. Karen blushed bright red, and her feet fidgeted like they itched to be somewhere else. She shook her head and turned to go.

  In a little voice, Bautista filled me in. “She’s wanted back home. Her little ones get hungry at this time of the day.”

  “Her little ones?” My eyes lingered on her vanishing figure.

  “Her siblings.”

  Mad at myself for not being more observant or more tactful, I ran to her. “Karen, take my bread, too.”

  My arm was outstretched, the warm bread getting cold in my hand.

  “Thanks,” she said with a small bow of her head, and took my offering. She didn’t smile, not even out of courtesy, and I admired her so much for it. Without another word, she walked out of the courtyard and through the main door.

  14

  After a stop at the ferretería for a new doorknob and a chain that ate away at my Sudamericano money, I arrived home.

  Mamá still sat at her worktable, embroidering another dress, as if she hadn’t moved all day. When she saw me, she set her work down.

  “Hola, hija,” she said, and I kissed her on the cheek. “Are you hungry?”

  “Always,” I said, my stomach roaring for food since I’d teased it with homemade bread. My appetite didn’t understand charity and compassion. “What’s in the fridge?”

  “Milanesas from lunch. Should I make you a sandwich?”

  Tender deep-fried steak sprinkled with lemon juice was the way to my heart.

  “I’ll add a fried egg,” she said, the pan already sizzling on the burner.

  “Temptress.” I filled the kettle while Mamá filled the mate gourd with herbs.

  “How was studying at Roxana’s?” she asked. “Will you be okay keeping up with regular school?”

  My hand jerked, and I almost burned myself with hot mate. I wiped up the spilled drink with a napkin, relieved it was clear. Mamá hated mate stains. The green never came out.

  “I’ll be okay,” I said, glancing in her general direction, trying not to make eye contact. I swerved into my confession like a 146 bus merging onto Circunvalación—full throttle. “And actually, I found a job teaching English.”

  My mom looked at me like she was a judge. “A job on top of prep courses and school? I don’t know, Camila.” She hesitated. “We’re okay for now. I work hard so you don’t have to. How did you find this job, anyway? Is it worth it?”

  Now it was my turn to hesitate. The image of Karen walking back home with a bundle of food for her siblings flashed into my mind. It was worth it.

  “Actually, it’s at El Buen Pastor, Mami. Did you know it was reopened? The priest there organizes workshops for the community. A group from the States is funding English lessons for the kids.” I was surprised my constricted throat let enough air through for me to speak.

  She scoffed. “I wish a group from the States funded your education. We’ve spent a fortune we don’t have on it.” She passed me the milanesa sand
wich. I chewed slowly to stop myself from talking.

  At least she hadn’t made a connection between El Buen Pastor, Father Hugo, and Diego.

  She passed me the mate and said, “I don’t know, Camila. Maybe you shouldn’t do it. You have me to support you as long as I’m able to work. You need to focus on school.”

  Gathering strength from somewhere inside me, I made myself look at her. “They pay very well. And I can use this opportunity to build my resumé. Besides, if I don’t keep using English, I’ll lose it.”

  The change in her expression was instantaneous.

  “In that case, I guess it’s a good idea. I worked too hard and spent too much for you to lose it.”

  She said it as if I hadn’t been the one studying till all hours of the night to ace my tests. Before I could remind her, she said, “Make sure to tell your father before he finds out from someone else.”

  “I will.” My voice didn’t waver, and my mom’s gaze was fixed on the design of her lacy shawl. She pulled it even more tightly around her.

  She placed a hand over mine. “Everything okay with Diego?”

  Heat rushed to my head. I wanted to tell her everything. But the sound of voices approaching the door from outside shattered the moment. My father and Pablo were arguing. Marisol laughed.

  My mom looked at me and groaned. “Don’t tell me he brought her again!”

  “Mamita,” I said, chewing the last bit of my sandwich. “I hate to break it to you, but Pali’s in love—”

  “No!” she exclaimed. “What he sees in her is beyond me.”

  Before I could enumerate all the things Pablo saw in Marisol, the door swung open. Nico sprang to his feet and bounced on his hind legs to greet Pablo and my dad and even Marisol, who shooed him away with a wave of her hand. Then he beelined to the person behind them. I should’ve known why my dog was so excited he had started to cry.

  Diego didn’t smile when our eyes met. I averted my gaze.

  “Good evening,” the newcomers said in unison, except for Marisol. She was blocking the door while she brushed dog hair off Diego’s shirt, and she whispered something that sounded like, “Perro asqueroso.”

  “Good evening,” my mom said. “Are you all staying for dinner? I need to run to the store for a few things.”

  My dad and Pablo argued about having Mamá cook versus ordering delivery from the rotisserie on the corner. After Diego told her he didn’t mind the dog hair, Marisol excused herself to use the bathroom.

  “Hola, Camila,” Diego said, hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. “How are you?”

  “Hola,” I said.

  At that moment, the phone rang, and my mom ran to pick it up, the family’s official operator. From the corner of my eye, I saw Diego checking his own phone, pretending he didn’t care, but the tips of his ears were bright red.

  A second later, my mom’s voice rippled through the air. “Hi, Roxana. Yes, Camila’s here. Camila!” she shouted as if I were ten blocks away and not next to her.

  “Sorry,” I said to no one in particular. I took the phone from my mom and left, feeling Diego’s eyes following me all the way to my room.

  “I’m here,” I said into the receiver, leaning against the door and sliding down to sit on the floor.

  “Camila?” Roxana sounded like she was crying. My own problems marched into the background. “Marisa quit the team. Her boyfriend won’t let her play in the tournament, and . . .” She stopped talking, and although she must have been trying to cover the microphone with her hand, I could hear her muffled sobbing.

  My first impulse was to squeeze myself through the phone and help her calm down, then turn around and punch Marisa’s boyfriend. But I couldn’t do either of those things, so I gave her the only thing I could offer: time.

  She blew her nose and spoke again. “She came over with Micaela to give me her uniform and boots. She said she won’t need them anymore. She had tried to put makeup on to cover a bruise. When I asked her about it, she said she should learn to shut her mouth. And Cami, the look on her face! Like a beaten dog who thinks she deserves the abuse. How can Marisa do this to herself? To her daughter?”

  Marisa and Roxana had been best friends in elementary school, but their friendship hadn’t been the same since Marisa got pregnant in second year and didn’t confide in Roxana. But given the way Roxana had reacted to the news, I didn’t really blame Marisa. Some secrets are too heavy to share.

  I let Roxana cry, and when her fury was spent, leaving only disappointment and despondency, she asked, “How do we get her back?”

  There wasn’t anything we could do, but Roxana wouldn’t understand that yet.

  “Have you talked to Coach Alicia? What did she say?”

  She clicked her tongue. “Coach said not to bother Marisa, that she has enough problems as is and that this is just a game. Can you believe it? Really, how can we do nothing? This tournament could be her way out. She won’t have another opportunity like this.”

  In a way, I understood Marisa’s point of view. Roxana had parents who loved each other and doted on her. They worked hard, but they also didn’t have to worry about paying the bills every month. Marisa didn’t have money or time to spend on things other than her daughter. Not all women could leave abusive relationships. Things weren’t that simple.

  “Listen, Roxana, the best thing we can do is get a replacement—”

  “A replacement for Marisa? Didn’t you hear what I just said? She needs us.”

  “She does, Roxana, but I don’t know what we can do. Tomorrow we’ll see where we stand and if anyone else has dropped out. Then we’ll figure out how to help Marisa.”

  15

  Roxana’s words and Diego’s wounded eyes haunted me all night long. Worrying about the team was pointless, but the urge to call Diego was torture. I resisted, but only barely.

  In the morning, I grabbed my favorite childhood book, Un Globo de Luz Anda Suelto by Alma Maritano, and put it in my backpack along with my textbooks and, at the very bottom, my uniform, practice clothes, and cleats. Alfonsina Storni was a national treasure, but at her age, Karen needed light and hope. She needed Alma. There would be time for fury and heartbreak and Alfonsina’s poems later.

  The day zipped by, and before I had a minute to be nervous about the team meeting, the afternoon bells tolled six. The sun was sinking fast behind the courtyard walls, robing the garden and its statues in a mantle of velvet shadows.

  Karen hadn’t come to class, but I left Alma’s book with Sister Cruz, who told me she would for sure be there for dinner. When I walked outside, Roxana and her father were waiting for me in his ivory Toyota Hilux.

  “I could’ve walked,” I said as I got in the back seat, then added quickly, “Thanks for the ride, Papá Fong.”

  He gave me the thumbs-up but didn’t say a word.

  Roxana must have seen the worry on my face, because she answered for him. “Don’t look all mortified. He just went to the dentist. Root canal. He can’t talk.” I raised my eyebrows, and she added, “He can drive. Don’t worry about that.”

  If he hadn’t been completely anti-hug, I would have embraced Mr. Fong for being so amazing. A pat on the shoulder from my spot in the back seat had to suffice.

  He looked at me in the rearview mirror, and his dark eyes crinkled into a warm smile. His right cheek was swollen and red.

  Then he gave his total attention to the road ahead, driving away from Parque Yrigoyen.

  Once again, Roxana guessed my question. “Change of plans.”

  I sighed. “I’ll buy data as soon as I get my first check. I promise.” Not being in the loop about the team’s business was unforgivable.

  “We’re going to the Estadio Municipal. Coach sent a message a couple of hours ago. We’re meeting there, and then we’re playing a scrimmage against a team of North Americans who are t
ouring Argentina. Gabi’s team. Rosario is their last stop. Their opponents cancelled, and Coach volunteered us to play instead.”

  “Gabi’s team? For real?”

  “For real.” Roxana helped me change in the back seat.

  The pungent smell of my socks when I unrolled them made Roxana cough. Mr. Fong silently rolled the window down, and I, a little embarrassed, laughed.

  “Sorry. I forgot to do laundry on Sunday.” The truth was that I hadn’t had time to wash my uniform without my mom noticing. In my defense, I hadn’t planned on playing today. My practice clothes were clean.

  “I’ll take them home with me tonight,” Roxana said, and handed me a protein drink, the kind I could never afford and that her family bought by the case.

  She did so much for me already. So much I should’ve told her no, but I needed her help more than I was embarrassed to take it. I wasn’t too proud to thank her, though. I squeezed Roxana’s hand, because I had no words to tell her what she meant to me.

  Mr. Fong parked by the curb. A narrow, packed-dirt path flanked by naked liquidambar trees led to the fútbol pitch. Roxana and I dashed out. Seeing the expanse of grass ahead, la Furia stirred inside me.

  Under the bright white beams of the floodlights, Coach Alicia stood next to a woman who looked just like her, except somehow even tougher. That had to be Gabi. Mrs. Tapia.

  Dogs barked in the distance. The smell of burning leaves made my nose itch, and Nicky Jam’s voice blared from one of the houses beyond the trees. Up close, the field looked uneven and full of holes, the white lines almost invisible in the unkept grass.

  Roxana and I stood on the sidelines, watching a group of girls jumping in place to warm up. They looked like the Amazon warrior women from Themyscira.

  “Ay,” was all Roxana said.

  I echoed, “Ay.”

  My team started arriving: Cintia and Lucrecia, Yesica, Sofía, Mabel. Yael, followed by her cousin Luciano, el Mago. He joined the huddle of parents and family waiting at the end of the pitch. Gisela and Mía trickled in.