Furia(18)

We were both flying. I was the first to reach the line of trees by the Ludue?a River.

We threw ourselves on the soft, fragrant clover, breathing in the greenness around us. The fat white clouds flew above us. We were in heaven.

“Remember I said Abuelo would do anything for you?” Diego asked, propping himself on his elbow.

“Yes.” Somehow I was holding his hand again.

I saw my reflection in his honey-brown eyes.

“So would I. I’d do anything for you,” Diego said, and kissed me on the cheek.





There were no clover fields anymore. The little kids Diego and I once were would hate the chain-link fences around the new soy crops. But what would they think of the people we had become?

As I headed back home, sweat trickled down the sides of my face and my back and in between my breasts, which were squashed under two running bras two sizes too small.

I crossed the street to avoid the Jehovah’s Witnesses waiting with their pamphlets. I didn’t try to avoid the golden-haired North American Mormons, because even though they always smiled, they didn’t talk to girls in the street, not even when I tried to practice my English. I was pretty sure they changed those guys regularly, but they all looked the same to me.

When I turned the corner of Schweitzer and Sánchez de Loria, finishing my loop, I saw kids wearing Juventus jerseys huddled around a fancy black car.

It could only belong to one person. Diego was early, and I was doomed.

“Franco!” I called to my downstairs neighbor. He was about nine years old and lived with his grandma. His brown hair gleamed like polished ebony, and his blue eyes brimmed with joy, as if he had seen Papá Noel in person.

“Camila! Look at what el Titán brought us!”

Seven or eight boys, all under the age of ten, rushed to show me their treasures.

“Mirá! An authentic Juve jersey! He signed it, too. He signed it!”

Franco’s aunt, Paola, barely thirteen, was among the boys. She hugged her own white-and-black jersey, and her blue eyes sparkled just like Franco’s.

She ran to me. “He even remembered me, Camila. He said he didn’t bring me a Central jersey because, you know, Franco and his dad are Boca fans, but that we could all wear Juve, so that’s what he brought us. They’re originals, not knock-offs! And look,” she whispered, showing me a picture of the whole Juventus FC squad. She turned it over. It was signed by all the players, personalized to Paola. Even the superstars like Buffon and Dybala had signed it.

“Put it in a safe place.” I whispered back. “One day, this might be worth a lot of money.”

She clutched it against her chest and shook her head. “Diego gave this to me. I’ll never sell it. Would you?”

“Maybe?” I taunted her.

“Seriously, Camila,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re so lucky. He’s upstairs waiting for you already, and you’re here stinking like a pig. What are you thinking?”

“How do you know he’s waiting for me?”

She gave me a smile that was too knowing for thirteen years old. “Because he literally told me, ‘I’m here for Camila, Pao.’ ”

Pretty words and a fancy postcard might have enchanted Paola, but I wasn’t thirteen. Diego could spin the sweetest promises, but I knew better than to create fantasies that would leave me brokenhearted when he left again at the end of the week.

I opened the door.

Sitting across from my father at our kitchen table, Diego looked like a model out of those old AXE commercials Roxana and I loved watching on YouTube.

Impeccably pressed black shirt. Worn-out jeans and sleek leather shoes. His outfit probably cost more than what my mom made in a month of straining her eyes, poking her fingers, and hunching over her sewing machine.

When Diego saw me, he flashed that radiant smile of his, but he didn’t quite meet my eyes.

“There you are.” He stood up while a thousand replies blared in my mind.

Looking great, Titán.

I can’t stop thinking about you.

Voglio fare l’amore con te.

Conscious of my father staring at us, I stepped back, put a hand up, and said, “Paola told me I smell like a pig. You might want to stay away until I shower. Give me a few minutes.”

And I made my grand escape.

After my shower, I locked my door and stood in front of my armoire. If there was a fairy godmother giving out wardrobes, now would have been a really great time for her to show up.

With Diego’s outfit in mind, I settled for jeans and a charcoal sweater. My black combat boots were more fashionable than my Nikes. Abandoning all attempts to tame my long, wet mane of hair, I twisted it into a bun high on my head. I spritzed Impulse into the air and I waved the scent away so it wouldn’t be too obvious I was trying. I wished I owned fancy perfume. After some frenzied eyeliner and mascara application, I dabbed on some lip gloss and grabbed my purse.

My glance fell on la estampita of La Difunta, but asking her for a favor felt sacrilegious when I hadn’t even left her an offering yet.

Wish me luck, pretty boy, I begged my poster of Maluma instead before I headed out to the kitchen.

Quietly, I crossed the hallway on tiptoe. My dad and Diego spoke in hushed tones.

“What did Giusti say about the last game, Diego?” my dad asked. “You played the whole ninety.”