Furia(36)

Diego didn’t smile when our eyes met. I averted my gaze.

“Good evening,” the newcomers said in unison, except for Marisol. She was blocking the door while she brushed dog hair off Diego’s shirt, and she whispered something that sounded like, “Perro asqueroso.”

“Good evening,” my mom said. “Are you all staying for dinner? I need to run to the store for a few things.”

My dad and Pablo argued about having Mamá cook versus ordering delivery from the rotisserie on the corner. After Diego told her he didn’t mind the dog hair, Marisol excused herself to use the bathroom.

“Hola, Camila,” Diego said, hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. “How are you?”

“Hola,” I said.

At that moment, the phone rang, and my mom ran to pick it up, the family’s official operator. From the corner of my eye, I saw Diego checking his own phone, pretending he didn’t care, but the tips of his ears were bright red.

A second later, my mom’s voice rippled through the air. “Hi, Roxana. Yes, Camila’s here. Camila!” she shouted as if I were ten blocks away and not next to her.

“Sorry,” I said to no one in particular. I took the phone from my mom and left, feeling Diego’s eyes following me all the way to my room.

“I’m here,” I said into the receiver, leaning against the door and sliding down to sit on the floor.

“Camila?” Roxana sounded like she was crying. My own problems marched into the background. “Marisa quit the team. Her boyfriend won’t let her play in the tournament, and . . .” She stopped talking, and although she must have been trying to cover the microphone with her hand, I could hear her muffled sobbing.

My first impulse was to squeeze myself through the phone and help her calm down, then turn around and punch Marisa’s boyfriend. But I couldn’t do either of those things, so I gave her the only thing I could offer: time.

She blew her nose and spoke again. “She came over with Micaela to give me her uniform and boots. She said she won’t need them anymore. She had tried to put makeup on to cover a bruise. When I asked her about it, she said she should learn to shut her mouth. And Cami, the look on her face! Like a beaten dog who thinks she deserves the abuse. How can Marisa do this to herself? To her daughter?”

Marisa and Roxana had been best friends in elementary school, but their friendship hadn’t been the same since Marisa got pregnant in second year and didn’t confide in Roxana. But given the way Roxana had reacted to the news, I didn’t really blame Marisa. Some secrets are too heavy to share.

I let Roxana cry, and when her fury was spent, leaving only disappointment and despondency, she asked, “How do we get her back?”

There wasn’t anything we could do, but Roxana wouldn’t understand that yet.

“Have you talked to Coach Alicia? What did she say?”

She clicked her tongue. “Coach said not to bother Marisa, that she has enough problems as is and that this is just a game. Can you believe it? Really, how can we do nothing? This tournament could be her way out. She won’t have another opportunity like this.”

In a way, I understood Marisa’s point of view. Roxana had parents who loved each other and doted on her. They worked hard, but they also didn’t have to worry about paying the bills every month. Marisa didn’t have money or time to spend on things other than her daughter. Not all women could leave abusive relationships. Things weren’t that simple.

“Listen, Roxana, the best thing we can do is get a replacement—”

“A replacement for Marisa? Didn’t you hear what I just said? She needs us.”

“She does, Roxana, but I don’t know what we can do. Tomorrow we’ll see where we stand and if anyone else has dropped out. Then we’ll figure out how to help Marisa.”





15





Roxana’s words and Diego’s wounded eyes haunted me all night long. Worrying about the team was pointless, but the urge to call Diego was torture. I resisted, but only barely.

In the morning, I grabbed my favorite childhood book, Un Globo de Luz Anda Suelto by Alma Maritano, and put it in my backpack along with my textbooks and, at the very bottom, my uniform, practice clothes, and cleats. Alfonsina Storni was a national treasure, but at her age, Karen needed light and hope. She needed Alma. There would be time for fury and heartbreak and Alfonsina’s poems later.

The day zipped by, and before I had a minute to be nervous about the team meeting, the afternoon bells tolled six. The sun was sinking fast behind the courtyard walls, robing the garden and its statues in a mantle of velvet shadows.

Karen hadn’t come to class, but I left Alma’s book with Sister Cruz, who told me she would for sure be there for dinner. When I walked outside, Roxana and her father were waiting for me in his ivory Toyota Hilux.

“I could’ve walked,” I said as I got in the back seat, then added quickly, “Thanks for the ride, Papá Fong.”

He gave me the thumbs-up but didn’t say a word.

Roxana must have seen the worry on my face, because she answered for him. “Don’t look all mortified. He just went to the dentist. Root canal. He can’t talk.” I raised my eyebrows, and she added, “He can drive. Don’t worry about that.”

If he hadn’t been completely anti-hug, I would have embraced Mr. Fong for being so amazing. A pat on the shoulder from my spot in the back seat had to suffice.