Furia(48)

I’d been so distracted by everything with Diego that I hadn’t thought about the conflict between the tournament and graduation, or the paperwork my parents had to sign for my FIFA registration, or all the money I had to save. Fundraising would only take us so far.

The gravity of my secrets and all the lies I’d spun to cover them pressed down on me.

I put my head in my hands.

Roxana wrapped an arm around my shoulders. When the warmth of her body grounded me, I realized I’d been shaking again. Georgina and Laura eyed us suspiciously from the hallway. The year before, two girls in the class below us had been caught kissing in the bathroom, and ever since, there had been “a hunt for the gays,” as Roxana called it. Our country had legalized same-sex marriage way before the U.S., but prejudice didn’t read or obey laws. It was a hard weed to pull from people’s hearts.

Roxana didn’t let go of me but inched closer. “Let them think what they want.”

My laughter made me shake even more, and Roxana made a worried face.

“We got caught in the rain last night, and I think I’m sick.”

“Wait . . .” she said. I could practically see her mind trying to make a timeline. “How long were you and Diego together?”

“Not long,” I said, feeling myself turning as red as her can of Coca-Cola. “He’s going back today, anyway.”

She tugged at the red ribbon tied around my wrist.

The bell for last period, math, rang. It saved me from having to explain or lie.

What had happened with Diego the night before had been inevitable yet unexpected. Roxana loved me, but our lives were so different. She’d never understand. Lying to my best friend was probably the worst sin I’d committed so far, but it was too late to back down now.

I blundered through my math test. I probably wouldn’t scrape even a six, which would put a dent in my GPA.

At the end of the school day, Roxana walked out to Alberdi Avenue with me.

“Well, well, well,” she said. “I didn’t expect he’d actually give up so easily. I really thought he’d pull a Tres Metros Sobre el Cielo and come pick you up on his motorcycle.”

“He doesn’t have a motorcycle,” I replied. Although I knew I’d see him later, my eyes still scanned the street for his car.

“BMW—same thing,” Roxana replied.

I kissed her cheek and walked away before she pulled the thread of my lies and unspooled the truth.

On the bus, my eyes searched for Diego. Every black car I saw made my heart race. Sweat beaded on my forehead in spite of the return of winter weather. But every time I caught a glimpse of the drivers, my hopes were shattered.

In the end, Diego’s car was not the one that gave me a jolt.

It was my father’s. I got off the bus a block too late and saw his red Peugeot in the carport of a house just around the corner from El Buen Pastor.

At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. But the Rosario Central banner that hung from the rearview mirror along with the blue-and-yellow rosary beads confirmed that it was my father’s car.

The rain pelted my legs, and the wind pulled at me, trying to snatch my umbrella.

What was he doing here?

The door of the house opened, and in the least stealthy move ever, I shielded my face with the umbrella. I couldn’t stand in the middle of the sidewalk like this, so I darted to the kiosco across the street. From the display case, I grabbed a Capitán del Espacio alfajor. I hadn’t seen this brand of chocolate cookie for years. I checked the expiration date just in case. It was good.

While I waited to pay, I peeked over my shoulder. The front door of the house was still open, and a young woman, not much older than me, walked out. She had dyed blond hair and looked unnaturally skinny in her jeans and leather jacket. Her black boots had heels so high that she walked like a stick bug. Then my father followed her out of the house, opened the car door for her, and got in the driver’s seat. His whole face glowed with happiness.

I stared at him while the car backed out and finally merged into the boulevard’s traffic.

“Nena, are you going to pay for that?” the kiosco guy asked me. An unlit cigarette hung from his lips. When I didn’t respond, he took the cig out of his mouth and put it out on the counter. Then he continued, “Only the alfajor? The things I had to do to find those cookies . . .”

I handed him some money and looked back at the car. My father lifted his gaze to the rearview mirror, locked eyes with me, and then drove away.





20





The first person I saw at El Buen Pastor was Karen reading by the window. The Alma Maritano book covered her face. The sight of her awakened a smile I didn’t know I had in me.

Father Hugo had been right. It was all worth it just for the one.

Karen and I were on different paths headed in the same destination: freedom, a place as mythical as heaven. She looked like a younger version of me, poring over Alma’s book, making sense of the secret code the author had woven into the pages for furious girls like us. If part of our souls stayed in the books we read and loved, I hoped Karen was getting some courage from the little Camila I’d once been.

Karen felt my eyes on her and looked up at me. She didn’t smile but held her finger up, asking for a second as she glanced back down at the book.