Furia(52)

“I haven’t been studying for med school, Mami.”

She cried out as if I’d stabbed her. I saw her dreams for me crumbling.

“You lied about med school? I’ve been telling everyone how proud I am of you. What will people say now, hija?”

But these were my dreams, not hers. Even if the path I chose led to more heartbreak, the decision would be mine.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

I took the tournament forms from my backpack and placed them on the table. They were the same forms Pablo had filled out when he officially signed with Central. The humidity had curled the corners of the paper.

She glanced down at them. “Eva María?” she asked with a sneer. “What kind of team name is that?”

If I’d had any tears, I would’ve cried then. I was ready for my father’s ridicule, for Pablo’s, even, but not hers. Pushing my pride aside, I said, “I know it’s not Central, Mami, but it’s a good team. Coach Alicia is a good person. You’d like her.”

She bristled at the mention of Coach. To her, any other woman was an enemy.

“And she does this out of the goodness of her heart? What’s in it for her if, like you say, you do have something special and a team signs you?”

Usually, I knew what she wanted to hear. Now I was lost, so I stayed silent.

“I’m not signing anything until I meet this woman, Camila.”

“My team has a scrimmage on Saturday. We can talk to her then.”

“I can’t go. Your brother has a game in Buenos Aires.”

“But you don’t even go to his games, Mami! You can listen on the radio or watch it later on TV.”

Her eyes softened, but she shook her head. “Your father’s gone tonight. He’s traveling with the team. He needs to look this over and make sure you’re not signing your life away to this woman.”

She stood up and started clearing the table. My blood rushed in my ears, and I saw myself telling her everything: that my father had lied to her. He wasn’t with the team. He was with that woman with the blond hair and high heels. I wasn’t going to let him sign my papers and control my life like he controlled Pablo’s.

Just when I was about to lose control of my tongue, she put a hand on my arm and said, “You need to get that leg seen. It looks horrible. How can you even walk?”

Who knew what kind of war was raging inside her while I fought my own?

“I just want to play, Mami.” I tugged at my hair, trying to pull some of the pressure from my head. “Why is it so easy for Pablo, but for me it’s a disgrace?”

She paled, and I was afraid I’d gone too far. If she had to choose between my brother and me, I didn’t stand a chance. But then she shook her head and, surprisingly, brushed her hand across mine. “Remember that Christmas when you asked for a size five ball and you got a doll?” Her voice was soft. It always was when she traveled back in time to the days when Pablo and I were little and she was the queen of our hearts. She smiled. “You were what, eight or nine?”

“Nine,” I said. I was in fourth grade. That was the year Roxana had moved to our school.

“I found you and Nico playing with the doll’s head in the laundry, remember? You kicked, and he guarded the goal. I got mad at you and left you in the corner. After that, I went to my room and cried.”

The mere thought of my mom crying had more power over me than any shout, threat, or sneer. It tore at my heart.

“Why did you cry, Mama?”

“Because you reminded me of myself when I was that age. My dad, bless his soul, never let me play. He didn’t want me to become a lesbian. Can you believe it?” She dabbed at the corner of her eye with the inside of the Juventus jersey.

Seconds passed. I had nothing else to say. If she wasn’t going to sign my papers, I needed another plan. Just as I was about to head to my room, she said, “Leave the papers. I promise I’ll take a look. That way, I can prepare your father so he won’t say no before you can explain.”

Hope flared inside me like a torch. I had to give her something in return now. “I can still be a doctor if you want, Mami. I can do both, you know?”

My mom smiled through her tears. “Mamita, you can’t have it all. You’ll see.”

Although I wanted to yell that this was the greatest lie told to girls like us for centuries, seeing the defeat in her eyes, I couldn’t find my voice.





22





When I was about to fall asleep, Diego called me. He’d set the ringtone for his number to the Central anthem.

Un amor como el guerrero . . .

“Hola!” Even with everything going on, his name on my screen had the power to make me smile. “You made it?”

“Hola, Mamita. I just got to Buenos Aires,” he said. “I’ll be home in eighteen more hours, give or take . . . hang on.”

In the background, I heard muffled conversation. Someone had recognized him, and he agreed to a picture. During the half hour we tried to talk, this happened five more times. Everyone wanted a piece of this boy, and things would only get worse—or better, depending on your perspective.

Between interruptions, I told him about my conversation with my mom and how my leg still didn’t feel any better.