Furia(62)

Father Hugo and the kids didn’t expect me at El Buen Pastor on Saturdays, but Coach Alicia’s words felt like too heavy a burden to carry on my own. Roxana had always helped me process the messes at home and at school. Without her, I had no one to talk to.

Diego and I could text all day long, but when he asked me why Roxana was angry, I didn’t want to unload my drama on him. He didn’t need to worry about my problems, and deep down, I didn’t want him to. What could he do from the other side of the world?

I didn’t want to go back home. Mamá would be there, quietly working in the corner, a Penelope who refused to accept her Ulysses was a monster. She constantly moped over how much she missed Pablo and blamed me for him leaving. El Buen Pastor, once a prison for incorrigible daughters, was now the only place where I felt welcome.

A group of kids played fútbol in the dappled sunshine of the inner courtyard. Sister Cristina was the goalie for one of the teams, and when she blocked a shot, all the kids ran to her in celebration. She saw me and waved happily before turning back to the game. Lautaro was already kicking off again.

My eyes prickled. I had forgotten how beautiful fútbol was. Without referees, lines on the ground, trophies, tournaments, or life-changing contracts, the ball was a portal to happiness.

A little hand tugged at my sleeve.

“Se?o, do you want to play goalie for my team?” Bautista asked. His brown eyes were huge, his little face flushed from the exercise. His invitation was tempting, but I could hear voices coming from my classroom.

“I’m having fun watching, but thank you,” I replied.

“You come in if you get tired of standing here like a palm tree, okay?” He ran back to his team, his too-big Juventus jersey flapping around him.

In my classroom, Karen sat at the head of the table, my usual spot. She didn’t stutter as she read from Un Globo de Luz Anda Suelto. It was as if a new Karen had emerged.

Five other girls encircled her, hanging on her every word. They were all about the same age, that awkward stage right at the beginning of puberty. Baby faces, budding breasts, bashful eyes. Dark-haired golden goddesses with the latent power to change the world if given one chance.

Their enraptured faces turned to Karen as if she were the sun, the light in her voice germinating the seeds Alma’s words planted. I tried not to make a sound. I didn’t want to break the spell.

Eventually, one of them looked up, and, puckering her lips, pointed in my direction. Karen felt her friends’ restlessness and followed their gazes. When she saw me, she smiled, her nose crinkling adorably.

“Se?o,” she said, “the girls kept asking about the books, and I told them it was b-b-best if I read to them.”

Bautista, followed by a younger boy with Down syndrome, burst into the room and bellowed, “Time for the semifinal!”

The girls turned toward Karen, and she rolled her eyes but nodded. One by one, they left in respectful order, then broke into a run once out the door.

“What was that all about?” I asked, sitting next to Karen, who’d placed a bookmark on her page, put the book away, and taken another from the pink backpack Diego had given her. It was Locas Mujeres, by Gabriela Mistral. I hadn’t read it, but the title alone made me laugh.

“Karen,” I said, “where did you get that one?”

“The library,” she said, chin lifted high. “There’s a version with the English translation, but I don’t like it as much, so I’m doing my own translation.”

“And why weren’t you reading this to the girls?”

She scoffed. “Apostle Paul says that first, you must feed the babies with milk, and then, when they’re ready, you give them meat.”

I shivered. I wasn’t worthy to stand in her presence. “You’re amazing.”

She blushed. “So are you, Maestra Camila.” Then she hesitated. At first, I thought it was her stutter, but then I realized she was trying not to offend me. “Are you going to leave us, too? Are you going to go live with Diego in It-Italy?”

Now I was the one having a hard time finding the right words. “Diego and I . . . we’ve loved each other since we were little kids, you know?”

“Like Nicanor and Gora?” she asked.

“Like Nicanor and Gora,” I said. “But I have my own dreams, too. I play on my own fútbol team. I want to play professionally one day.”

Her eyes widened at the revelation. “But you’re so smart! You speak English. You go to school; you have choices.”

“I like to play, and I happen to be very good at it. I have choices, and fútbol is my choice. I won’t ever give up when I have a chance to make it.”

“Not even for Diego?”

“Not even for him.”

“Does he know yet?”

“I’m following my own path, chiquita.”

“But he’s your true love.” Karen sounded like any little girl hoping for a happily ever after. When she saw me, she saw her teacher, a role model to follow. I didn’t want her to think that to be free and happy, a woman had to turn her back on love, but I didn’t know how to do both.

Outside the window, the frogs and crickets sang to the setting sun. “He said he’d wait for me.”

Karen nodded slowly.

She was only ten. She wanted to believe that love was possible for crazy, incorrigible girls like us.