Furia(33)

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 the 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 Se?orita Camila Hassan. She’ll be helping us here from now on,” said Father Hugo.

“Hello,” I said, intimidated by being called se?orita. 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.