Furia(51)

The melancholy of his words stuck to me like honey. When I walked into the apartment, Mamá looked up. When she saw it was me, the surprise on her face turned into annoyance, as if the mere sight of me had ruined her day. She reached for her phone, and the music playing died.

“You missed Diego.”

All the intentions I had of being gentle with her disintegrated. Why was she so mean to me? Why did she take her anger out on me?

Then I noticed she was also wearing a Juventus T-shirt. The letters stretched across her breasts were a little distorted. The black and white showed off her curves. For a second, I got a glimpse of that young girl César had known. That girl whose dreams had died when she’d chosen to follow someone else’s was buried under layers of expectations, responsibilities, and lies, just like I kept la Furia hidden. That girl had suffocated under all the rubble.

My anger collapsed in on itself. Twenty years from now, would that be me? Would I be resigned to my fate, pushing my daughter toward the light so she could be free? Or pulling her down so I wouldn’t be alone in the dark?

I took my shoes off and left them next to the space heater.

“I know. César told me Diego came over.”

My mom busied herself trying to thread a needle so thin it almost looked like she had nothing pinched between her fingers. “Ah, you saw him?”

I hobbled to the kitchen. “Yes. I didn’t know he came over when Papá wasn’t here.” My voice sounded way more accusing than I had intended.

My mom looked up and shrugged. “Cesc and I grew up together. Almost like you and Diego.”

What did she mean? That their relationship was like Diego’s and mine because of how long they’d known each other? Or that there was something else? Did she have any idea what pictures her words brought to my mind?

“Diego stopped by El Buen Pastor, too,” I said. “He . . . he gave everyone presents. The kids were so glad. He brought this for me.”

I showed her the backpack, because there was no point in hiding it. But I didn’t mention the phone weighing down my jacket pocket.

She looked inside the backpack, her forehead wrinkled. “You could get quite a bit of money if you sell this. It’s all name-brand clothes. With the tags, even.”

“I’m not selling anything, Mami.” I felt like Paola when she’d shown me the autographed picture.

“Suit yourself, but why would you need cleats?” my mom asked.

Since I couldn’t heal my ankle without help, and getting back into shape was imperative, and keeping secrets was so exhausting, I decided to come clean.

“Look.” I pulled down my pants and showed her the bruise that spread over my thigh and knee. It was like a green-and-purple map of misery.

My mom covered her mouth with her hand. I’d expected surprise, but not the flames of anger rising behind the fear. “Who did this to you?” She stretched out her hand, but before her fingers grazed my skin, I pulled the pants back up and rolled up one leg to show her my ankle.

“Camila, por Dios!” she exclaimed at the sight of my swollen foot. “How did this happen? Pablo said you fell in the street last night, but I had no idea . . . Did Papá . . .” She left the sentence hanging.

With a sigh, I lowered my foot and sat down next to her. “I have to tell you something.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, but before she got carried away, I said, “I’ve been playing fútbol for about a year.”

My mom sucked in air through her teeth. “You what?”

After a deep breath, I told her the rest of the story. “A while ago, I started playing in a night league with Roxana. She’s a goalie. Her team needed a striker. I hadn’t played since I was twelve, but I don’t know . . . it all came back. Then this woman, Coach Alicia, saw us playing and invited us to join her team.”

The more I spoke, the more my mom’s face hardened. The paper napkin I’d been shredding made a little mountain on the tablecloth. “We played in a league championship game last Sunday. We won.” I wondered if it was too pretentious to say we’d won because of me.

“We qualified for the Sudamericano tournament—a real FIFA tournament—it’s in December, here in Rosario, and we—”

“We’re going to Córdoba in December,” she said. “Papi promised that after Pablo’s last game and your graduation, we’d go to Carlos Paz for the holidays. Our first real family vacation.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” I shook my head. “Least of all with him. My team needs me.”

Her mouth fell open.

“This coach from the U.S. saw me in a scrimmage yesterday.” My throat burned, but I talked through the pain. “She says I have something special.”

My mom shook her head, her hand wiping nonexistent crumbs from the table.

“I know it’s a long shot —”

“It’s impossible. It’s insanity. It’s a waste of time!” She didn’t have to raise her voice to topple my house of cards. “What about medical school, Camila? Have all your studies been for nothing? I have been sewing my fingers off so you could concentrate on school next year. I’ve been designing your dress for graduation. Since you didn’t have a quinces party, I wanted to go all out for this.”

My mother threw her sacrifices at me like knives.