Furia(10)

My mom grabbed a bit of crust from a plate and nibbled on it.

My father dropped one of his bombs. “You’re eating pizza, Isabel? I thought you were staying off carbs to look amazing. Like me.” His hand swiped over his lean body, and then he winked at her, as if the gesture could erase the damage to her heart.

I grabbed a slice of pizza and took a bite. My taste buds exploded in pleasure. “Oh, Mami! This is the food of the gods!”

“You say that now,” my dad said with a mocking expression. “Just wait until your thirties, when even the air you breathe accumulates on your thighs. Right, Isabel?”

Mami’s smile vanished, and her luminous copper skin turned ashy, as if she’d been struck by a curse.

Pablo put a hand on Mami’s shoulder. “No, Mama. You’re beautiful just the way you are.”

She didn’t tell Pablo off for speaking like a country boy, but the endearment wasn’t enough to bring the color back to her face. She gathered the plates and took them to the sink.

Pablo and I locked eyes, and when I turned around, I saw Héctor and César having their own silent conversation. But no one said anything. My father excused himself to the bathroom. César walked out for a cigarette, since my mom didn’t let him smoke inside the house. I should have escaped to my room then, but the TV caught my attention. It was the reporter who’d been at my game, Luisana. I was about to turn the volume up when Héctor said, “Don’t. It’s that woman commentator, and I can’t stand listening to her burradas.”

I hesitated, debating whether I should obey him or turn it all the way up out of spite. But they were showing footage of Diego waving at his fans. I had to see if there was any trace of me on the sidewalk, staring at him like a zombified fool. I stood in front of the TV for a few minutes, but the whole time, I saw Héctor out of the corner of my eye. He shifted from side to side and looked at me like he wanted to say something. When I turned to face him, he opened his mouth to speak once or twice, but in the end, he just sighed and went back to checking his phone.

“?Vamos!” My father called to him, and walked out, completely ignoring me.

Héctor looked at me sadly. Before following my father, he said, “Careful, Camila. You’re too pretty to be out on your own.”

Now it was my turn to struggle for words. It was as if a fish bone were stuck in my throat. Was he threatening me, or was he genuinely worried about me?

Soon after, Pablo and Marisol left, too. Usually they didn’t go clubbing on Sunday nights—she was in fifth year, the last, just like I was—but tomorrow was a holiday. The memory of Pablo whispering in her ear and Marisol’s sly smile flashed through my mind again, and I shuddered.

The news went back to reporting about Gimena Márquez and a march organized in her honor, demanding justice for her murder. I turned up the volume.

People marched, chanting, “?Ni una menos!” Then the demands for an end to the violence got overshadowed by a fight between a group with pro-choice green handkerchiefs and another with pro-life light blue ones. No amount of insults was going to bring Gimena back. People could fight over handkerchief colors until the sun bleached them all to the same shade of gray, and in the meantime, girls would continue to die.

The anchor cut in with news of another missing girl, a twelve-year-old this time.

My mom sighed heavily behind me. I turned to look at her. She stared disapprovingly at me, as if I were responsible for these girls and had failed to protect them.

Or as if my own carelessness meant I’d be next.

I grabbed my backpack and a plate with more pizza and escaped to my room. Maluma smiled at me from the poster on the wall next to the only picture I had of Abuelo Ahmed—the one with a love letter to a woman who wasn’t my grandmother scribbled on the back. In sepia, he looked like an old-fashioned movie star.

I unpacked my bag and hid my medal under the mattress. Cliché, but there wasn’t any other place to hide it. Maybe it would infuse my sleep with strength and feed my hunger for more. I placed la estampita of La Difunta Correa on my nightstand, leaning against a tottering pile of books, mostly TOEFL prep manuals and The Shadow of the Wind, which Diego had lent me before he left. All I had for La Difunta’s ofrenda was a half-empty water bottle, and I set it next to the card.

After plugging in my phone, I played one of my mom’s old Vilma Palma e Vampiros CDs on my ancient boom box.

When I lay down on my bed, my sore muscles complained, but not loudly enough to drown out all the voices in my head blaring about homework, my brother and Marisol, my father, the money I’d need for the tournament, the permission I’d need for the tournament, and Diego.

Especially Diego. Why did he have to show up now?

Uninvited, a memory of the last time we were together weaved its way into my mind. The loud music of the club booming, Diego’s soft lips on mine. My right hand on his chest, feeling his heart beating through his unbuttoned shirt, my left hand holding a yellow lollipop he’d traded for my pink one.

I still had the yellow lollipop in my trove of treasures under the mattress.

That night, a future together seemed magical and possible. And then life got in the way.

For the first weeks after he left, we chatted constantly. He even called me a couple of times. But then the time difference and his schedule and my unreliable internet connection and having to hide it all from my family took a toll. The emails and chats became shorter, colder, stiffer, until finally, they stopped.