Furia(28)

Now, standing in front of my father, wearing only a long T-shirt and underwear, I felt like that doomed bird.

He lifted a hand, and like a child, I cowered. Nico barked twice, the sound piercing my ears.

“?Qué te pasa? Why do you do this?” my father asked, as if I were the one who had just broken into a room and breached someone else’s defenses. “What’s gotten into you, Camila?”

Nico barked again.

“Perro de mierda, shut up!” My father turned on Nico and struck him with the back of his hand. Nico squealed in pain and streaked out of the room.

“Leave him alone!” I yelled. “What are you doing?”

Across the hallway, sitting on her bed, my mom warned, “Camila.”

Pablo’s door remained closed, but I felt his presence, quailing as he waited for each word to drop like a hammer. I was on my own.

“Why did you hit him?”

My father hissed, “Lower your voice. We don’t want the neighbors to talk about us more than they already do.”

“What?” I asked.

“It’s all online,” he scoffed. “How Diego’s in town and all the women, including you”—he pointed his finger at me—“are throwing themselves at him, wanting to be a new Wanda or Antonela.”

I had never wanted to be like Icardi’s wife or Messi’s. Not that there was anything wrong with them, but I wasn’t looking for that. It wasn’t like that. I knew people would talk about Diego and me. I just hadn’t imagined the word would spread this fast.

I crossed my arms and squeezed them against my body.

“Listen,” my father said. “I see the way you look at Diego.” In a low whisper that couldn’t possibly carry to my mom, he added, “All this time, your mom thought you kept sneaking out to be with a boy, but I didn’t think you were into boys, to be honest.” My blood roared in my ears. He continued in a louder voice, “To my surprise, your mother and I noticed how he looks at you, too. We’ve been talking . . .”

The magic of my afternoon with Diego dimmed and then flickered. I tried to hold on to the thrill of his hand on mine as he taught me how to drive, how the wind had tangled his hair by the river, that look in his eyes when he’d called me his girl and given me the flowers. But the images curdled, stained by my father’s implications.

I implored La Difunta for her protection again, but I had done nothing for her. Why would she listen to me now? My dad’s words soaked everything they touched with tar.

“I mean, you were acting like a cat in heat, Camila. What did you think that was going to lead to?”

“Andrés,” my mom warned from her room, but he ignored her.

“You need to play your cards smart. He has a lot of money and an amazing career ahead of him. Imagine where he’ll be five years from now. Your life could turn into a fairy tale if you’re as smart as you pretend to be. Yours and ours, because of course you’ll help your family when fortune smiles on you.”

My tongue knotted, and the air in my lungs turned into steam. I took in the words in silence, but later, I’d purge them from my body. I’d vomit them up and shit them out and stomp on them until they were forgotten. But for now, I stood.

“Well . . .” he urged with a hand motion. “Say something.”

“It’s not like that,” I whispered.

My father showed me his hands, palms up. “The devil knows more for being old than for being the devil, negrita.” He sounded just like a loving father. “And I just want the best for you, mi amor. Haven’t I cared for you and your education and future?” For him, my whole childhood had been a business investment. “I mean, you go to that private school with the nuns, and you’ve had English lessons. You have your licenciatura, which you haven’t used, but you have it. You have a home, and although we don’t have luxuries, you’ve never gone hungry. The only thing I ask in return is that you don’t throw away the opportunities that life sends your way. Today life offered you a silver platter, and you have only to pick what’s best for you and your family.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Papá.” If he was going to ask me to do this, I wanted him to say it. He couldn’t dance around it.

He laughed, and his voice boomed off the walls.

“You want me to be blunt? To spell it out for you? Well, then, don’t give it out for free.”

It.

“If you still have something going on with another boy, don’t tell Diego about it. I mean, Diego’s a good boy. I wouldn’t let him inside the house if I suspected he was a druggie or a maricón, but he has a dark past. Who knows what happened? People abandon babies all the time, but to abandon an eight-year-old boy? Now, that’s coldhearted. He’s nice-looking, blanquito, with his light brown hair and those greenish eyes, but he’s damaged goods. In any case, now that he’s famous, none of that matters.”

There was so much wrong with what my father had just said that I didn’t know where to start arguing with him. Besides, the words wouldn’t come. He reached out and brushed my hair from my eyes. I forced myself not to flinch.

“Things might not work out in the long run, but make the most of it, if you know what I mean. Once men taste the forbidden fruit, they lose interest. And as soon as Diego goes back to Europe and becomes more famous . . . because he will, oh, he will. I know good fútbol when I see it.” He clapped his hands, and this time I did flinch. “Techniques can be learned, but not that flair. You can’t teach it. I mean, look at your brother! How many times have I tried to teach him? Pablo is a nice player, but if he doesn’t shape up, he’ll be forgotten in a couple of years. Now, Diego . . . Diego’s the real deal. He really is.”