Furia(29)

He swallowed. His hands were shaking.

He wasn’t really speaking to me. He was working things out in his mind. All he wanted was a bite of what Diego had.

I was his way in. He didn’t even know that I had that flair, too. For him, I was just a tool to get what he wanted. But I wouldn’t help him get Diego’s money and glory, and as hell was my witness, he wouldn’t get any of mine, either. He’d be the last person to know I played fútbol, and when he tried to take credit for my success, I’d squash him like a cockroach.

By then adrenaline was coursing through my body, and I started shaking. My father stared at me, squinting, as if he was wondering what I was doing here in my room. “Go to bed,” he said. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

My mom and I locked eyes from across the hallway before he shut their door in my face.

My lock was broken.

It couldn’t protect me anymore. It never could.

Nico was waiting at the end of the dark hallway. I couldn’t even say anything to him. Tentatively, he walked back to my room and sat next to me as I dragged my dresser in front of the broken door, conscious that I was scratching the floor, that I was probably waking up the neighbors. But it was the heaviest thing I had.





12





Throughout the night, my father’s words burrowed into every crevice of my mind like vermin. By the morning, the pain they had inflicted was a dull echo. Not only was my future at stake, but so was Diego’s. I would not be the vulture feeding off his fame.

Love can be a burden and a curse. I wasn’t going to be that for Diego.

I had a secret card to play, and I had to be smart about it. I couldn’t tell my mom about the tournament. She hadn’t stood up for me when I was little or last night, so why would she support me now?

As I got ready for school, I carefully packed my practice clothes in my backpack.

Nico, my loyal honor guard, walked me to the kitchen.

“Buenos días.” My mom sat at the little table against the window in a single beam of morning sunshine. Her index finger was hooked around a piece of ivory silk, as if she’d been trying to feel the shape the fabric wanted to take. I kissed her cheek. Before I pulled away, she grabbed my wrist softly and whispered, “Papi didn’t mean it, negrita. You don’t have to do anything with any boy to save us.”

She let go of me and motioned to the chair in front of her. On the table, a café con leche was steaming. She put her fabric aside and made my favorite breakfast: toast with butter and tomato marmalade.

“I’d like to know how your date with Diego went yesterday.” She spoke in a low voice, glancing back at the hallway every few seconds. “Or will that be another secret?”

“Mami, I don’t have any secrets. It’s impossible to have a secret in this house. Please—”

“You don’t need to hide your feelings from me. I’m your mother. I just want you to know”—she licked her lips and swallowed before continuing—“that you can tell me anything.”

For a second, part of me leaned into the warmth of her offer. I wished I could confide in her.

And then she said, “I was a girl like you once, and I got pregnant with Pablo in my last year of high school.”

A cold dread fell over me; I didn’t need to be a math genius to understand that there had only been six months between my parents’ wedding and Pablo’s birth. Still, I’d never been reckless enough to mention it, and no one in our family had ever confirmed it.

“I was so afraid of telling my mom,” she continued. “My dad had died the year before. He had never liked your father. I thought it was because my dad was a Newell’s fan.”

Fútbol was woven into every family story, even the telenovela versions. Especially the telenovela versions. We were such a stereotype. What if I told her I was a futbolera and that I had been born with the kind of talent my father was obsessed with? She’d turn and run to him with my secret as if she’d found a precious stone. He would forbid me to play or, worse, use me like he used Pablo, like he wanted to use Diego.

My mom’s face quirked in a tentative smile.

“My dad was the odd Leproso in Arroyito,” she said, “but he didn’t mind the rabid Central fans and players who teased him relentlessly. But he hated your dad. My mom, on the other hand, adored Andrés. He can be charming when he wants to, and he was to my mom. When my dad died, I leaned on him. I depended on him for everything. He was handsome and famous, and every other girl envied my good luck. He’d chosen me.”

Ay, Mamá . . .

But then, hadn’t I glowed with joy when Diego had called me his girl? He and my dad were different men, but I couldn’t ignore their similarities. Both were handsome professional players any girl would lose her head for.

My mom continued, “He had a great future ahead, and if it hadn’t been for the—”

“—Paraguayo de mierda,” I said automatically.

She sent me a warning look. It was ironic that we could be talking about fornication, lies, and betrayals, but swearing wasn’t allowed, but I didn’t say anything.

“The thing is, had my father been alive, I wouldn’t have dated your father. Or if fate had brought us together and I had ended up pregnant, my father wouldn’t have made me marry Andrés.”