Furia

by Yamile Saied Méndez

César shrugged and opened his denim jacket to show me a Juventus T-shirt. “For one thing, I hadn’t seen Diego. He texted me that he’d be here, and I said I’d come over to say hi.” César’s eyes were sparkling. Now that he didn’t have to pretend not to care about Diego in front of my dad, he was starstruck. “Then your mom and I kept talking. You know how it is.” He always looked down when he talked about my mom, and I wondered why he tried to hide their friendship. But then, my suspicions, Doña Kitty’s spying from behind the curtains—it was all proof that a friendship like theirs would always be an anomaly.

  “You’re not going to the game with my dad and Héctor?”

  When he looked back up, sadness veiled his eyes. He said only “No,” but the word hung in the air, as if waiting for me to guess what he couldn’t say. He took a breath. Were my father’s secrets fighting to stay put in the bottom of César’s heart?

  César had to know about that girl in the short dress. Had he been talking with my mom about my dad? But then he exhaled in a puff, ruffled my hair, and said, “You’re going to get sick in this weather. Go in. Your mother is just starting el mate.”

  I nodded, realizing how my cold had vanished at the sight of Diego.

  “You look just like she did at your age, you know? Be nice to her.” He kissed me on the cheek and continued down the stairs, his hands pushed into the pockets of his jacket.

  The melancholy of his words stuck to me like honey. When I walked into the apartment, Mamá looked up. When she saw it was me, the surprise on her face turned into annoyance, as if the mere sight of me had ruined her day. She reached for her phone, and the music playing died.

  “You missed Diego.”

  All the intentions I had of being gentle with her disintegrated. Why was she so mean to me? Why did she take her anger out on me?

  Then I noticed she was also wearing a Juventus T-shirt. The letters stretched across her breasts were a little distorted. The black and white showed off her curves. For a second, I got a glimpse of that young girl César had known. That girl whose dreams had died when she’d chosen to follow someone else’s was buried under layers of expectations, responsibilities, and lies, just like I kept la Furia hidden. That girl had suffocated under all the rubble.

  My anger collapsed in on itself. Twenty years from now, would that be me? Would I be resigned to my fate, pushing my daughter toward the light so she could be free? Or pulling her down so I wouldn’t be alone in the dark?

  I took my shoes off and left them next to the space heater.

  “I know. César told me Diego came over.”

  My mom busied herself trying to thread a needle so thin it almost looked like she had nothing pinched between her fingers. “Ah, you saw him?”

  I hobbled to the kitchen. “Yes. I didn’t know he came over when Papá wasn’t here.” My voice sounded way more accusing than I had intended.

  My mom looked up and shrugged. “Cesc and I grew up together. Almost like you and Diego.”

  What did she mean? That their relationship was like Diego’s and mine because of how long they’d known each other? Or that there was something else? Did she have any idea what pictures her words brought to my mind?

  “Diego stopped by El Buen Pastor, too,” I said. “He . . . he gave everyone presents. The kids were so glad. He brought this for me.”

  I showed her the backpack, because there was no point in hiding it. But I didn’t mention the phone weighing down my jacket pocket.

  She looked inside the backpack, her forehead wrinkled. “You could get quite a bit of money if you sell this. It’s all name-brand clothes. With the tags, even.”

  “I’m not selling anything, Mami.” I felt like Paola when she’d shown me the autographed picture.

  “Suit yourself, but why would you need cleats?” my mom asked.

  Since I couldn’t heal my ankle without help, and getting back into shape was imperative, and keeping secrets was so exhausting, I decided to come clean.

  “Look.” I pulled down my pants and showed her the bruise that spread over my thigh and knee. It was like a green-and-purple map of misery.

  My mom covered her mouth with her hand. I’d expected surprise, but not the flames of anger rising behind the fear. “Who did this to you?” She stretched out her hand, but before her fingers grazed my skin, I pulled the pants back up and rolled up one leg to show her my ankle.

  “Camila, por Dios!” she exclaimed at the sight of my swollen foot. “How did this happen? Pablo said you fell in the street last night, but I had no idea . . . Did Papá . . .” She left the sentence hanging.

  With a sigh, I lowered my foot and sat down next to her. “I have to tell you something.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes, but before she got carried away, I said, “I’ve been playing fútbol for about a year.”

  My mom sucked in air through her teeth. “You what?”

  After a deep breath, I told her the rest of the story. “A while ago, I started playing in a night league with Roxana. She’s a goalie. Her team needed a striker. I hadn’t played since I was twelve, but I don’t know . . . it all came back. Then this woman, Coach Alicia, saw us playing and invited us to join her team.”

  The more I spoke, the more my mom’s face hardened. The paper napkin I’d been shredding made a little mountain on the tablecloth. “We played in a league championship game last Sunday. We won.” I wondered if it was too pretentious to say we’d won because of me.

  “We qualified for the Sudamericano tournament—a real FIFA tournament—it’s in December, here in Rosario, and we—”

  “We’re going to Córdoba in December,” she said. “Papi promised that after Pablo’s last game and your graduation, we’d go to Carlos Paz for the holidays. Our first real family vacation.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” I shook my head. “Least of all with him. My team needs me.”

  Her mouth fell open.

  “This coach from the U.S. saw me in a scrimmage yesterday.” My throat burned, but I talked through the pain. “She says I have something special.”

  My mom shook her head, her hand wiping nonexistent crumbs from the table.

  “I know it’s a long shot —”

  “It’s impossible. It’s insanity. It’s a waste of time!” She didn’t have to raise her voice to topple my house of cards. “What about medical school, Camila? Have all your studies been for nothing? I have been sewing my fingers off so you could concentrate on school next year. I’ve been designing your dress for graduation. Since you didn’t have a quinces party, I wanted to go all out for this.”

  My mother threw her sacrifices at me like knives.

  “I haven’t been studying for med school, Mami.”

  She cried out as if I’d stabbed her. I saw her dreams for me crumbling.

  “You lied about med school? I’ve been telling everyone how proud I am of you. What will people say now, hija?”

  But these were my dreams, not hers. Even if the path I chose led to more heartbreak, the decision would be mine.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  I took the tournament forms from my backpack and placed them on the table. They were the same forms Pablo had filled out when he officially signed with Central. The humidity had curled the corners of the paper.

  She glanced down at them. “Eva María?” she asked with a sneer. “What kind of team name is that?”

  If I’d had any tears, I would’ve cried then. I was ready for my father’s ridicule, for Pablo’s, even, but not hers. Pushing my pride aside, I said, “I know it’s not Central, Mami, but it’s a good team. Coach Alicia is a good person. You’d like her.”

  She bristled at the mention of Coach. To her, any other woman was an enemy.

  “And she does this out of the goodness of her heart? What’s in it for her if, like you say, you do have something special and a team signs yo
u?”

  Usually, I knew what she wanted to hear. Now I was lost, so I stayed silent.

  “I’m not signing anything until I meet this woman, Camila.”

  “My team has a scrimmage on Saturday. We can talk to her then.”

  “I can’t go. Your brother has a game in Buenos Aires.”

  “But you don’t even go to his games, Mami! You can listen on the radio or watch it later on TV.”

  Her eyes softened, but she shook her head. “Your father’s gone tonight. He’s traveling with the team. He needs to look this over and make sure you’re not signing your life away to this woman.”

  She stood up and started clearing the table. My blood rushed in my ears, and I saw myself telling her everything: that my father had lied to her. He wasn’t with the team. He was with that woman with the blond hair and high heels. I wasn’t going to let him sign my papers and control my life like he controlled Pablo’s.

  Just when I was about to lose control of my tongue, she put a hand on my arm and said, “You need to get that leg seen. It looks horrible. How can you even walk?”

  Who knew what kind of war was raging inside her while I fought my own?

  “I just want to play, Mami.” I tugged at my hair, trying to pull some of the pressure from my head. “Why is it so easy for Pablo, but for me it’s a disgrace?”

  She paled, and I was afraid I’d gone too far. If she had to choose between my brother and me, I didn’t stand a chance. But then she shook her head and, surprisingly, brushed her hand across mine. “Remember that Christmas when you asked for a size five ball and you got a doll?” Her voice was soft. It always was when she traveled back in time to the days when Pablo and I were little and she was the queen of our hearts. She smiled. “You were what, eight or nine?”

  “Nine,” I said. I was in fourth grade. That was the year Roxana had moved to our school.

  “I found you and Nico playing with the doll’s head in the laundry, remember? You kicked, and he guarded the goal. I got mad at you and left you in the corner. After that, I went to my room and cried.”

  The mere thought of my mom crying had more power over me than any shout, threat, or sneer. It tore at my heart.

  “Why did you cry, Mama?”

  “Because you reminded me of myself when I was that age. My dad, bless his soul, never let me play. He didn’t want me to become a lesbian. Can you believe it?” She dabbed at the corner of her eye with the inside of the Juventus jersey.

  Seconds passed. I had nothing else to say. If she wasn’t going to sign my papers, I needed another plan. Just as I was about to head to my room, she said, “Leave the papers. I promise I’ll take a look. That way, I can prepare your father so he won’t say no before you can explain.”

  Hope flared inside me like a torch. I had to give her something in return now. “I can still be a doctor if you want, Mami. I can do both, you know?”

  My mom smiled through her tears. “Mamita, you can’t have it all. You’ll see.”

  Although I wanted to yell that this was the greatest lie told to girls like us for centuries, seeing the defeat in her eyes, I couldn’t find my voice.

  22

  When I was about to fall asleep, Diego called me. He’d set the ringtone for his number to the Central anthem.

  Un amor como el guerrero . . .

  “Hola!” Even with everything going on, his name on my screen had the power to make me smile. “You made it?”

  “Hola, Mamita. I just got to Buenos Aires,” he said. “I’ll be home in eighteen more hours, give or take . . . hang on.”

  In the background, I heard muffled conversation. Someone had recognized him, and he agreed to a picture. During the half hour we tried to talk, this happened five more times. Everyone wanted a piece of this boy, and things would only get worse—or better, depending on your perspective.

  Between interruptions, I told him about my conversation with my mom and how my leg still didn’t feel any better.

  “I’ll send you the contact information for a doctor at the polyclinic on Martínez de Estrada, across from the sports center in el barrio. Doctor Facundo Gaudio treated me back when I hurt my ACL, remember? He’s also seen Pablo. Your mom will know about him. The polyclinic is free—”

  A robotic voice announced the next flight to Rome.

  “That’s me.” He couldn’t quite hide the excitement in his voice. Like he’d said, he was going home.

  “You’re going to Rome first?”

  The familiar envy snaked inside me again. I wanted to go to Rome. If I were another type of girl, I’d be there with him instead of staring at the humidity stain on my ceiling. But one day, maybe, it would be me getting on an airplane to join my own team.

  “It’s only a layover. Next time you’ll be with me, right? The flight is too long to endure on my own.” He was so cheesy that I started laughing.

  “Listen, I’m sure there are plenty of girls who’d be more than willing—”

  “I only want you, Furia. I’ve only ever wanted you.”

  I held my breath until the world stopped spinning, until I could stop myself from saying he was all I’d ever wanted, too. For a long time, that had been true. But it wasn’t anymore. I wanted so much more than Diego’s love or money could give me.

  “Welcome, Mr. Ferrari,” a young woman’s voice said. “Have a safe flight, and thanks for flying with Aerolíneas Argentinas.”

  The interruption saved me from needing to respond.

  “Have a safe flight, Mr. Ferrari,” I said, imitating the woman’s sultry voice. “I’ll see you on TV next time.”

  He laughed. “I’ll see you in my dreams and on FaceTime. Every day and every hour, know I’m thinking of you, and your lips, and those killer legs. And remember, next time, I won’t come back to Italy without you. That’s a promise. Te quiero, Furia. Get better soon. You owe me some shots.”

  He hung up before I could say anything, and I stared at the ceiling, half wanting to squeeze myself inside the phone and half relieved he was now far away.

  There was a teacher’s strike on Friday, which gave me a chance to stay off my hurt leg. My mom and I didn’t talk about either Diego or my team, but I could think of nothing else.

  The next day, I was restless.

  Saturday mornings were chore mornings, but Mamá must have decided to sleep in, because the familiar sounds of the washing machine and her radio competing with the neighbor’s music were absent.

  Raindrops echoed in our apartment, which seemed empty without my brother and father. I stretched in my bed, careful not to overextend my leg. It still throbbed. The only other sound was Nico’s breathing in the hallway between my room and my parents’.

  Pablo was with the team. Central’s game against Colón de Santa Fe was at three in the afternoon, and the bus wouldn’t be back until late. My father was . . . who knew where?

  Coach Alicia’s words rang in my mind: no days off. Yesterday, I’d done some push-ups and sit-ups in my room. But today, my work for the team had more to do with the administrative aspect of the game than the physical one.

  I had to convince my mom to sign the forms before my father came back.

  By the time she got up, I’d already folded the laundry she’d left drying on the Tender by the space heater. I’d prepared her mates and gotten her favorite facturas from the bakery on the corner. I’d put away last night’s dishes and swept and washed the floor. The kitchen smelled of strawberry Fabuloso. If only I knew how to make the tiny stitches for the hem of the dress she’d left on her worktable.

  When she walked into the kitchen and saw her chores completed, her eyebrows rose with delight.

  “You went down to the bakery on that leg?” she asked.

  “I paid Franco with two dulce de leche facturas, and he went for me.” I pulled a chair out for her like I’d seen waiters do in mo
vies. She smiled as she sat and picked up a tortita negra, her favorite kind of biscuit. She grinned, black sugar dusting her smile. “I forgot how good these are.” She patted the table and in a conciliatory voice said, “Come, sit with me.”

  We drank mate in silence, and then she said, “I’ve been thinking . . .”

  I put my factura down on a napkin as she continued, “I felt like Pablo had no choice but to become a fútbol player. Once he started walking, he was always chasing after a ball.” She swallowed as if the words were too bitter. “Abuelo Ahmed once told me you had a good foot, that he’d seen you playing with Diego and Pablo, and panic seized me.” She clutched her shirt like she was trying to grab the fear still wriggling inside her. “When he saw how upset I was, he said you’d save us all.”

  My father’s words about Pablo blared in my ears.

  He’ll save us all.

  And Héctor’s declaration: He’ll make us rich.

  I shook my head. I was just a girl with a strong will. A girl who told too many lies. How was I going to save us?

  “I don’t want you to save us, at least not in the way everyone else does. I want you to break the cycle, Camila. That’s why I want you to go to school. Why I don’t ever want a boy around you, even if that boy has a good heart and a good future and money. Fame and money eat good hearts like rust eats metal. Even the strongest perish, mi amor.”

  Before I could reply that Diego wasn’t like that, she placed the forms on the table, her clear signature at the bottom.

  “What’s he going to say?”

  We both knew who he was.

  She placed a finger on my lips. I tasted the sugar from the pastry. “The hunger for money and power eat away like rust, too, hija. I love your father, but . . .”

  She didn’t finish her sentence, and I desperately wanted to know what she was going to say. But she loved me more? But she didn’t trust him?

  “No matter what, you can’t play with that leg, hija.”

  “Diego said that Doctor Gaudio at the polyclinic could help?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “He’s kind of a jerk, but we’ll go Monday. He’s not in on the weekends. In the meantime, I know someone else who can help.”