At the end of another escalator down to baggage claim, Mrs. Tapia waited for me. “Welcome, Furia.”
Epilogue
Seven months later
Sometimes I wake up, my throat parched, my arms tangled in a Juventus jersey after dreaming of a boy with swift feet and soft lips, and I wonder why the air is so dry, why the morning is so quiet. And then I remember, and all these months rush back to me in a tsunami of impossibility.
I left Rosario, but Rosario hasn’t left me.
Diego was right. It is possible to love two places with the same intensity. I love the majestic mountains covered with snow, but I miss the endless plains and the expansive river.
My team practices on a beautiful turf field. The girls here complain about it all the time, and I get why they do—my legs have the scars to prove how brutal turf can be. But when I remember the state of Parque Yrigoyen, I can’t help but feel I’m in paradise.
During the American national anthem, I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Tapia on the jumbo screen. When she squints her eyes, she looks so much like Coach Alicia it takes my breath away.
I’m about to play against the Orlando Pride. I’m going up against Marta. My team warms up, but I can’t stop looking at her. When the announcer says my name, the stadium erupts in cheers. “The public loves you, Furia,” Mrs. Tapia yells. Little girls and boys wear my jersey. Men and women celebrate my goals.
Life is a wheel, I hear my mom say in my mind.
The sun shines brightly behind the Wasatch mountains as I jog to the center of the field to join my teammates.
In Rosario, Central is playing their opening game. On both Juventus and the national team, Diego’s still breaking records. The press has run out of adjectives to describe him. Now that he’s cut his hair short, he looks more like an avenging angel than a titan.
With a deep breath, I summon the spirits of my loved ones. Abuela Elena, the Andalusian with all the regrets and the broken heart. My Russian great-grandmother Isabel and her pillows embroidered with sayings. Matilde and her stubbornness. My mom and her newborn freedom. She’s opened her atelier and is living with Tía Graciela in an apartment downtown. My niece, Leyla, and her pure eyes. Roxana and our eternal friendship, even though we’re on different teams now. Eda and all the other missing and murdered girls, resting in love. Karen, growing in power. All the unnamed women in my family tree, even the ones forced into it against their will, those who didn’t ask to be my ancestors. I have their warrior fire inside me. I summon their speed, their resourcefulness, their hunger for life.
The ref starts the game, and I unleash everything in me. After months of professional training and nutrition, I am faster than ever before. My stride has grown as if my legs have gotten longer. Or maybe it’s that I’ve stopped lying. No one can stop me but myself, and I’m never going to stop.
I fight for every ball, and although I don’t always win, no one can say I hold back. I leave my soul on the pitch. I relish what my body can do, appreciate its unorthodox beauty. The eyes of the crowd are on me, and I feel like a goddess.
With my assist, one of my teammates scores. We win the game. I laugh at the way the girls say Furia, over-rolling the r, but they try their best.
I try to memorize every moment so I can tell Roxana about it all during our nightly call.
When I finally leave the field and head to my car (my car!), two Latina girls run to me.
They must be around nine years old, dressed in pink versions of my team’s jersey, their hair braided and beribboned. There’s room in this beautiful game for girliness. That’s something I’ve learned here, and I’m grateful for this gift. I’ll never take it for granted.
“Can we get your autograph?” one of the girls asks.
“Of course, chiquita!” I sign their jerseys. “Always be proud to play like a girl,” I say, and they run off.
They join the man waiting for them. He high-fives them.
Their dad.
He waves at me, grateful, before taking their hands and walking away. They are so lucky.
“Bye, Camila!” Mrs. Tapia calls from her red convertible. “Good game.”
Just as I get in my car, my phone goes off. It’s the ringtone that takes me back home.
Un amor como el guerrero, no debe morir jamás . . .
I let the phone’s song die down, but it rings again insistently.
In a far corner of the parking lot, Nuria, my roommate from Spain, is talking to a girl who comes to see her play every game.
Finally, I rummage in my purse.
Diego smiles in his profile picture, but I don’t pick up. Two hours ago, when my head was fully in the upcoming game, he sent me a message, and I want to read it first. I take a deep breath and jump into the whirlpool.
Hola, Camila. I don’t know if you’ll see this, but weeks ago, I had a dream we were drinking mate and eating alfajores at El Buen Pastor. We were talking about fútbol—what else?— and at the end, you gave me a hug. It seemed so real. Mamana says sometimes our souls find our friends when we sleep. Above all, you and I were always friends first, and I’ve missed you.
Last night before I went to sleep, hoping to dream of you again, I saw your goal from last week in the highlights. You were glorious.
You made the right choice, and I’ll always regret how hard I made that decision for you. I’m sorry.
La Juve is coming to the States on tour in two weeks. We’re facing the MLS All-Stars in Utah, of all places. No offense, but we intend to obliterate them.
I know you’re in the middle of your season, but if you have some time, I’d love to see you. You still owe me some shots, after all. I think I can beat you to ten.
The ball is on your half, Furia.
Always yours,
Diego
No more lying, no more running. No more regretting things I never said.
I press Diego’s number on the screen. It rings once, then his voice travels over the ocean, the sorrow, the months apart.
“Camila?”
“The one and only,” I say, and he laughs.
Author’s Note
Furia isn’t an autobiographical story. However, like Camila, I come from a multicultural and multiracial family, was raised in barrio 7 de Septiembre, have always been obsessed and in love with fútbol, and my nickname has always been either Negra (because of the color of my skin, much darker than anyone else’s in my family) or Turca (because of my Syrian-Palestinian ancestry).
In Argentina, nicknames are given according to appearance, country of origin, or any other distinctive personal feature or attribute. Many times, the names (like Gorda, Negra, Chinita, etc.) would be considered offensive to an American, but the level of offensiveness to an Argentine can vary depending on the intention or tone of voice. So, while the nicknames can be endearments that wouldn’t be considered microaggressions, they can also be flung as insults.
I debated whether or not to write the more palatable version of how Camila would react to being called Negra or Negrita by eliminating the instances completely or having her call them out, and I ultimately decided that doing either one of these would have been unrealistic for her character. In a situation in which her life is at risk every day just for being a woman—a woman who wants to play fútbol professionally, no less—she wouldn’t have the emotional energy to notice or address the nickname, much less call it out. Sometimes, she would even use the words herself.
Argentina, my birthplace, my home even after all the time away from it, has a complicated relationship with race. From president Domingo Faustino Sarmiento (1868–1874), whose legacy was to replace the undesirable gaucho, Indigenous, and Black population with the more “desirable” Western European immigrants, to president Julio Argentino Roca (1898–1904), who commandeered la Campaña del Desierto to eradicate Indigenous nations, the history of our country since its colon
ization has been riddled with struggle when it comes to race, education, and social class. The struggle continues to this day.
Although in some respects our society has become more inclusive and tolerant, there is still a lot of work to do to eradicate injustices. I deliberately included this dilemma in Camila’s life to open up the conversation about race, colorism, and discrimination in Argentina and how the racial conflicts of our society differ from those in the United States. At the same time, I’m writing from my own lived experience and perspective, which by no means represent those of the rest of the Argentine people, including my own family.
Acknowledgments
I’m a blessed person. This book wouldn’t have been possible without the following people. Thank you to all.
Kari Vidal, my alpha reader, for the daily emails asking what happened next.
The Sharks and Pebbles: Scott Rhoades, Julie, Daines, Jaime Theler, and Taffy Lovell.
The writing communities at Vermont College of Fine Arts (especially the Harried Plotters), VONA, WIFYR, Storymakers, SCBWI, Pitchwars, and Las Musas.
My mentors: Cynthia Leitich-Smith, Mary Quattlebaum, Jane Kurtz, An Na, Daniel José Older, Martine Leavitt, Carol Lynch Williams, Kate Angelella, Ashley Mason, Kate Angelella, and Ann Dee Ellis.
The retreat that changed my life: Diane Telgen, Katie Bayerl, Mary-Walker Wright, Anna Waggener, and especially Suma Subramaniam.
Nova Ren Suma, for believing in me.
My amazing editors. Elise Howard, working with you is a dream come true, and sometimes I still pinch myself to see if this is my real life. Sarah Alpert, your expertise and guidance helped me shed the extra words to let my story breathe.
The Algonquin Young Readers team: Ashley Mason, Laura Williams, Megan Harley, Stephanie Mendoza, Caitlin Rubinstein, Randall Lotowycz, Alison Cherry, and Nell Ovitt.
Rachelle Baker. I will never forget the moment I saw Camila’s expression for the first time.
Linda Camacho, and the Gallt and Zacker Literary family.
Amigas: Yuli Castañeda Smothers, Veeda Bybee, Karina Rivera, Anedia Wright, Romy Goldberg, Olivia Abtahi, and Courtney Alameda.
Iris Valcarcel. I’ll miss you forever.
Adriana Jaussi, Becca Lima, Jennie Perry, Chloe Turner, Kassidy Barrus, and Natalie Mickelson, for loving my kids!
Verónica Muñoz and Rachel Seegmiller, for everything!
Jefferson and Paola Savarino, for answering all my questions about a young couple in the world of professional fútbol.
Ruby Cochran-Simms, my real-life Coach Alicia.
Familia Saied y Stofler. La casa de mi infancia no está más, pero siempre tengo un hogar con ustedes.
Mis hermanos Damián, María Belén, y Gonzalo y sus familias.
Mi mamá, Beatriz Aurora López. Mami, you broke the cycle.
Las mamás de Auxiliadora por el partido de fútbol.
Las familias del 7 de Septiembre.
Las chicas de la promoción Bachiller 1995 del colegio Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe: Natalia Bernardini, Sabrina Bizzoto, Verónica Luna, y Carolina Cip.
My fútbol idols and teams: Pablo Aimar, Diego Ordoñez, Paulo Dybala, Martín Palermo, Paulo Ferrari, Lionel Messi, Marta, Alex Morgan, Mia Hamm, Abby Wambach, el equipo Argentino de Francia 2018, and the USWNT! Rosario Central, Utah Royals, RSL, Barcelona, Juventus, and Argentina. I love you even when you make me suffer so much.
The Power Zone Pack: Matt Wilpers, Denis Morton, Christine D’Ercole, Olivia Amato, and Angie VerBeck. The Boocrew and Cody Rigsby.
My husband, Jeff, for never asking me to choose. My children, Julián, Magalí, Joaquín, Areli, and Valentino. We all grew up together. Here’s the fruit of our labors.
The Méndez family in the US and Puerto Rico.
Las futboleras who paved the way.
The girls and women lost to violence, and those who live in dire circumstances and still make the world a better place. This book is for you. ¡Ni una menos! ¡Vivas nos queremos!
Published by Algonquin Young Readers
an imprint of Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of Workman Publishing
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2020 by Yamile Saied Méndez.
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Published simultaneously in Canada by Thomas Allen & Son Limited.
Design by Carla Weise.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 9781643751207 (ebook)
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