Furia Page 10

  By the time we left el barrio, I was immersed in numbers, and the bus was full way beyond capacity. Passengers pressed against one another, stepped on freshly polished office shoes, and hung from the door, defying several laws of physics.

  “I don’t know what those nuns are teaching nowadays!” a woman said. “There she sits like a queen while this poor girl stands right in front of her, full of baby. In my days, the front-row seats were only for the disabled and the elderly, not for good-for-nothing, selfish teenagers. And that green handkerchief! The feminazis like her are murderers in the making . . .”

  I saw the corner of Roxana’s green handkerchief peeking out of the backpack at my feet. I looked up at the pregnant woman. She glared at me. She was a girl, really, maybe even younger than me. She looked too thin to be growing a life inside her.

  There was nothing else for me to do. I crammed my accounting homework into my backpack and stood up. The pregnant girl puffed at my attempt to switch places with her and didn’t meet my gaze when I told her how sorry I was for not noticing her.

  I made my way through the throng of people all the way to the back door, where the factory guy reappeared.

  “St. Francis?” he asked.

  He leaned against the back seat with a smirk on his face. His eyes swept over my uniform—the red tartan skirt, white shirt, and knee-high socks, a pervert’s fantasy. I had the urge to send him to hell, but he looked familiar and somehow harmless. He was younger than I’d first thought.

  I shrugged. “And you? La Valeria?”

  La Valeria was the spice processing factory on Circunvalación, which the bus had passed long ago. When he smiled, the corners of his eyes wrinkled in lines premature for his young face. “First year,” he said. “My uncle knows the manager. I’m heading to a medical appointment first.”

  And then I recognized him.

  “Luciano Durand?” The name came to me through a fog of memories. I hoped he couldn’t hear the pity in my voice. He used to play with Pablo and Diego. He’d been Central’s most promising player until he tore his meniscus. It ended his career in an instant.

  Luciano just nodded, then looked out the window. “I saw my cousin Yael last night.” He winked at me like we shared a secret. And we did. “Good luck in the Sudamericano. Bring that trophy to el barrio, Camila.” He rang the bell and stepped off the bus.

  El Mago, the press used to call him.

  His magic couldn’t heal his shredded ligaments.

  The former Scoundrel limped away.

  I replayed Luciano’s last words: Bring that trophy to el barrio. Who else knew my secret? Who else was talking about us?

  13

  I didn’t notice Roxana waiting for me until she pretty much jumped me at the front door.

  “Chill, Roxana! You almost gave me a heart attack,” I said.

  “Diego posted a picture of you, and you dropped off the face of the earth. I’m the one who’s been apoplectic,” Roxana hissed as she followed me inside.

  At the blank look on my face, she clamped a hand on my shoulder and said, “Wait, you haven’t seen? What happened this weekend?”

  A flock of small elementary school girls ran ahead of us, and Roxana glared at them. “Watch it! You’re going to give her a heart attack!”

  What had I ever done to deserve her? Nothing.

  Before I even asked, she showed me Diego’s Instagram. I dropped my backpack on the floor and grabbed her phone.

  It was a picture from when we were eleven and thirteen, which he’d captioned with the word amigos. I wore a blue one-piece swimsuit, and he had on a pair of old Central shorts. We were both tanned dark already, though it wasn’t even real summer yet. Skinny like lizards, we sat in a tree eating nísperos, smiles big as the blue sky. I remembered that day clearly. Pablo had taken the photo with his first phone.

  I covered my mouth with my hand to stop myself from swearing in front of the innocent elementary school girls.

  What had Diego been thinking? He had no right to post about me, but at the same time, I couldn’t help the rush of tenderness that swept over me for those two little kids who had no idea what was in store for them. Where would we be now if Diego had never left for Turín? What would our lives be like?

  “Can you delete it?” I asked, knowing perfectly well that the answer was no.

  Roxana rolled her eyes.

  “He has to take it down,” I said.

  I hooked my hand through the crook of her elbow as we walked to class.

  “Everyone, and I mean everyone, is talking about it,” Roxana said. “It’s only a matter of time before the reporters find out who you are. Then what will you do?”

  The only thing I knew was that Saturday, the day Diego was supposed to leave, couldn’t come fast enough. Even as I wished for it, a part of me still grieved. At least I had Roxana in my life. I thanked the universe for her, because Deolinda couldn’t take any credit for it.

  I’d found Roxana long before La Difunta Deolinda Correa had come into my life. Maybe if Deolinda had had a friend as good as Roxana, she wouldn’t have died of thirst in the desert. Maybe she’d have waited at her friend’s house for her husband’s safe return. Or maybe I should’ve stopped having sacrilegious thoughts.

  “I called your house probably ten million times,” Roxana said. “You need to put some credit on your phone, woman!”

  “I called you from Diego’s phone, and you didn’t answer. I even texted you.”

  “Yeah, and when I called back, you weren’t there, and I had to awkwardly ask about Italy before I hung up.”

  “You talked to him?”

  The hall monitor, a girl named Antonia who had joined the convent last year after graduating, looked at us from the middle of the courtyard. Her early-morning voice blared, “Fong! Shirt tucked in!”

  Roxana glared, but she tucked her shirt in. “Who does she think she is? The traitorous bi—”

  “Do you want me to tell you about the weekend or not?” I cut her off, because Antonia had supersonic hearing. I couldn’t risk getting a detention.

  “Tell me everything right now,” Roxana demanded.

  I didn’t even have time to start.

  A small group of girls from the commercial track were chatting by the preschool playground. As soon as they saw me, they started pelting me with questions.

  “Are you really moving to Italy?”

  “Is it true he gave you diamond earrings?”

  “How come you didn’t tell us you were dating him?”

  When I didn’t give them any answers, their words turned venomous.

  “Some have all the luck in the world, and they don’t even know it,” Vanina said as her friends nodded in agreement. “In her position, I wouldn’t have even come to school today.”

  “Dios le da pan al que no tiene dientes,” Pilar added. “She didn’t even like his post.”

  “Don’t you have anything better to do than talk about me?” I said, rushing at her. A surge of pleasure went through me when she scrambled away too quickly and fell backward.

  Roxana pulled me by the arm, and Pilar’s friends helped her up. If the bell hadn’t rung, I don’t know what I would’ve done.

  But after that, the gossipers left me alone.

  Throughout the morning, I updated Roxana in bits and pieces, ignoring the teachers and the forty girls around us. I didn’t mention we’d gone out on a real date, though. And of course I didn’t even hint at the kiss.

  “I don’t understand,” she said through clenched teeth. “He said ‘I’m here for Camila'? Who does he think he is? As if you’re gonna jump into his arms and let him take you to Italy!”

  Turning my body to the side so the teacher wouldn’t see me talking, I said, “I don’t know, Roxana. I, like . . . avoided the topic in the car. I don’t think he wants me to leave with him. H
e got me a job, actually, at El Buen Pastor.”

  “The old women’s prison?”

  “Yeah. He wouldn’t have done that if he wanted to whisk me away.”

  “You’re a futbolera, not a botinera. Did you tell him that?”

  “I wanted to, but there was too much going on. I can’t drag Diego into my mess.”

  She shook her phone in front of my face. “It seems to me like he’s dragging himself in of his own free will. And when he posted that photo, he dragged you into a greater mess.”

  “Once he leaves, everyone will stop talking about that post.” I didn’t know how I expected Roxana to believe me when I didn’t even believe myself.

  “And you?” she asked. “Will you be hung up on this for a year like you were obsessed about that kiss?”

  I couldn’t meet her gaze. I’d told her it had been just one kiss. If she knew about yesterday . . .

  “Camila, be careful.”

  It was more than Diego’s kisses that tormented me. We had so much shared history that every memory was wound around him.

  But we were both sick with this incurable fútbol illness. It was bigger than everything else in our lives. Diego was my first love. Seeing him again had proven that in spite of the silence, the time, and the distance between us, he felt the same for me. But to get to the next level, we had to follow our own paths.

  We were running in different directions.

  Roxana pressed my hand. “I know it must hurt, but I’m proud of you. We’re going to the Sudamericano. What else could you want from life?”

  “Winning the Sudamericano,” I said. I didn’t say: the freedom that would come with winning. The freedom not to answer to my father or even my mother for every choice I make.

  Roxana’s face lit up. “You never asked me why I called,” she said over the sound of the bell that ended class.

  “You should’ve told me first thing, che,” I teased her.

  All around us, people relaxed, taking their phones out, snacking, getting caught up on gossip. We had five minutes between accounting and history.

  Roxana closed her eyes and shook her head, like she was resetting her brain. “Do you know about the team meeting tomorrow night?”

  “No practice today?” My body ached to be back on the pitch.

  Roxana handed me her phone again. Her background was the photo of our team raising the cup. With the vintage filter, it seemed like it had happened a lifetime ago and not last weekend.

  “Call Coach Alicia,” she said. “She texted me last night that she needs to talk with you and couldn’t get hold of you, either.”

  I hesitated. I hoped Coach wasn’t mad at me.

  “Call her now, before Sister Brígida gets here,” Roxana insisted.

  I wasted no time. Coach Alicia picked up on the first ring. “Roxana?”

  My hand prickled with sweat at the sound of her voice. “It’s Camila,” I hurried to explain. “My phone doesn’t work, Coach. Sorry I never saw your message.”

  Coach got straight to the point. “Listen carefully. Tomorrow we have a meeting in preparation for the Sudamericano. My sister Gabi is making a flash stop in Rosario before she heads back to the States. I want you to meet her so that when I gush about you, she can put a face to the name. You have to make it. ¿Está claro?”

  She hung up just as the teacher walked in, but in any case, I was speechless.

  The moment I’d been praying for all my life was just about here.

  The rest of the morning, Roxana and I obsessed over the meeting.

  “What do you think Coach wants to talk about?” I asked her.

  “Money. That tournament’s not free.”

  “How much do you think the fees will be?”

  She whistled. “We’re going to have to do some serious fundraising.”

  Diego went unmentioned, but he remained a ghost between us.

  Right after the noon Angelus bells, though, when Sister Clara made us stand to recite the mystery of the Word becoming flesh, Roxana took her phone out of her blazer pocket. Her eyes widened, and she looked back at me. “A message for you,” she mouthed.

  “Coach?” I asked, my heart jumping into my throat.

  “No, Diego.” She passed me her phone. Sister Clara cleared her voice mid-prayer, and I put the phone in my jacket pocket.

  The seconds until I could look at the message stretched out forever, and by the time the Angelus was over, I was hyperventilating.

  Hey, Ro, can you pass this on to Camila?

  Her phone must be dead.

  Cami! Best of luck today with the kids. I’m

  free later in the afternoon. Can I drive you?

  It’s up to you. Let me know, Mami. <3

  “Mami?” Roxana asked pointedly. “Heart emoji?”

  If Roxana was getting this riled up about an innocent message, I didn’t even want to imagine what she’d think of my date with Diego or the kiss. She could never know about it, but it was only a matter of time before she found out.

  “Listen, Ro. Can I take your phone for a minute? I need to call him.”

  She shook her head. “What for? You’re not going to fall for his pretty words, are you? Yesterday he almost made me like him. He’s dangerous.”

  Ay, Roxana . . .

  “If I text him, he’ll call me anyway,” I said, pressing her arm. “He’s my friend, too, Ro. It’s not that simple.”

  She closed her eyes and exhaled, and when she looked at me again, she said, “Be strong. Remember you’re la Furia.”

  “I will. I am.”

  Sister Clara wasn’t too happy when I told her I needed to go to the bathroom, but she had no choice but to let me go.

  When I closed the stall door behind me, my heart was pounding, and not because of the run. A part of me wanted to get this over with, and another screamed that I was going to regret turning my back on Diego now.

  Before I gave in to the second voice, I dialed his number.

  He picked up on the first ring. “Hola,” he said.

  The words I was about to say tried to choke me. I swallowed, and they scraped my throat like fish bones. This was for his own good.

  “Hola, Diego.” I heard him inhale at the sound of my cold, cold voice.

  “What happened?”

  “It’s just that I can’t go out with you today. Yesterday was . . . magical, but I have a lot of things going on, and anyway, you’re going back to Turín on Saturday—”

  “Thursday,” he said. “Giusti changed my flight. He wants me at practice on Monday.”

  I had no right to be disappointed. Maybe this was a miracle La Difunta Correa had performed for me, even though I didn’t deserve her grace. But still, my determination to keep Diego away wavered.

  “This is for the best, then.”

  “But why?”

  I shook my head, trying to dispel the images of heartbreak his voice painted in my mind. It didn’t work. “I need some space,” I said.

  “But Camila, I lo—”

  “I said I need some space,” I snapped. The words echoed off the tile walls. “Please, don’t make this harder for me, okay? This hurts me, too, but I can’t let it go further.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. Before he found an argument that would change my mind, I said, “I wish you all the best in life, Diego.”

  And I hung up.

  All my life, I’d known how to hide my sorrows behind a mask. But after the call, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to pull it off today. I wanted to sleep for a thousand years so the ache in my heart would go away, but I couldn’t fail Father Hugo.

  On the way to El Buen Pastor, I got off the bus too early and had to walk three blocks to the church. Finally, I turned the corner that led to the entrance. When I saw that Diego’s car wasn’t parked by t
he curb, I breathed easier.

  Still, my nerves followed me inside like a stray dog.

  On the interior patio, two nuns cleaned a flower bed. When the younger one saw me standing at the entrance, she waved and smiled. The other nun peeked out from behind the naked rosebush she was pruning. Her round face broke into a smile, too.

  I waved back at them.

  A shadow stretching from behind me preceded Father Hugo’s voice. “There you are, Camila. Right on time, too.”

  I exhaled. “Hello, Father. Here I am.”

  “Ready?”

  I nodded, and he motioned for me to follow him. In the shabby room he led me to, there was a long wooden table surrounded by chairs in various degrees of disrepair. Sheets of ruled paper lay on the table and the floor, scattered by the breeze blowing through the open window. Five boys looked at me in respectful silence.

  “Kids, this is Señorita Camila Hassan. She’ll be helping us here from now on,” said Father Hugo.

  “Hello,” I said, intimidated by being called señorita. The boys looked to be about ten years old. Their teeth were too big for their still-childish faces.

  “Camila, these are your students. Miguel, Leandro, Javier, Bautista, and Lautaro . . .” He paused, looking at the group.

  I smiled at them, and three of them returned the smile feebly. One just stared, but Lautaro beamed at me.

  A few seconds later, a girl rushed in, breathless.

  “I’m sor . . . sor . . . sorry I’m . . . I’m late!” The newcomer took a spot at the table opposite the boys, who leaned away as if she were infested with cooties. The priest and the girl ignored them, and I assumed this behavior wasn’t out of the ordinary.

  “Welcome, Karen,” Father Hugo said. “Señorita Camila will help you with your schoolwork from now on. Please, let’s treat her with the respect she deserves.” He scanned the whole room when he said this, but Karen’s cheeks flushed bright red as if the warning had been directed mostly at her.

  Then Father Hugo left me alone with my students. Karen looked me up and down, taking stock of me, deciding how much respect I deserved. My soul was instantly attracted to her.