Furia(65)

“Fast-forward,” Héctor added. “Let’s watch the goals.”

I carried my plate back to the table. I wanted to watch the whole thing. Fútbol was more than goals, but it was best to stay quiet and avoid my father’s attention. I sat in silence as my dad fast-forwarded to Diego’s first goal and celebration. The stadium exploded in cheers, but Diego was the best part. He kissed a bracelet made of white tape and lifted his tight fist to the sky.

I felt the hotness of his lips on my skin, searing through me.

“He’s still the same old Diego,” César said, a smile on his face. “Look at him. That spark . . . you can’t manufacture that. He plays like he’s still in the vacant lot.”

“And not like he has a stick up his ass, like Pablo,” my dad said.

The three of them started arguing about the pros and cons of playing in Europe, the pressure of having a family, the pressure of being paid millions. My mom had disappeared into her room, and quietly, I went to mine to text my boyfriend and thank him for the gift.





28





Three days before the tournament, Roxana texted the team’s group thread.



Eda, Marisa’s sister, is missing. At seven, the family and neighbors are marching to the police station to demand the police look for her. Who’s with me?





I sat down hard on my bed.

One by one, the girls of the team replied, echoing each other’s shock and support:



Ay, Dios mío. Eda? Not her!



I’ll be there.



On my way.





Count me in, Coach texted.

Everyone knew a girl who had gone missing. Most times, they turned up dead.

I’ll be there, I typed with shaking hands.

Heavy-hearted, I turned the TV on. A grainy picture of Eda as the flag bearer at the math Olympics took up half the screen. She was twelve years old and hadn’t come home from school. Her seventh-grade graduation was the next day. There was no reason for her to run away.

Not wanting to go to the march by myself, I knocked on my mom’s door. She’d been locked in for days, coming out only to make dinner for my father.

She didn’t reply, so gingerly, I turned her doorknob and walked in.

“Mami,” I called.

She didn’t answer.

Bright sunshine filtered through the cracks in her shutters, but it only made the rest of the room seem darker. The heat and stale air felt like a wall.

I sat by her side on the bed and shook her gently. Slowly, she opened her eyes, and when she realized it was me, she bolted upright with a gasp of terror. “What happened? Is Pablo okay?”

My first impulse was to reply that who cared about Pablo? He was obviously okay, loving playing house. But that would only have made my mom feel worse. Instead, I tried to summon the voice Sister Cruz used when Lautaro was having one of his tantrums.

“Everything’s okay,” I whispered, thinking of Marisa’s little sister. My mind replaced her face with Karen’s, Paola’s, the faces of the other girls from El Buen Pastor. Even Roxana’s or my own. My mom’s.

Mamá’s eyes softened and fluttered shut like butterfly wings; she was fast asleep again before I could tell her the truth. Everything was wrong. I wanted to lie next to her like when I was little and feel the warm safety of her arms. But she looked so fragile in the bed, I also wanted to protect her. On the bed, there was a gigantic set of mahogany rosary beads, but nothing else in the room showed that this was her private space. Careful not to disturb her, I fixed the covers and left. I wrote a note that I put on the table so she wouldn’t worry about me if she woke up alone.

Right before I walked out the door, I texted Pablo.



Mamá isn’t doing well. Come over. She won’t get up. You know how she is.





The message showed as delivered, but he didn’t reply.

Nico watched me. I thought about texting Diego and asking him to help me convince Pablo to come over, but it was ten at night in Turín, and Diego and I had already said our good nights. In any case, I needed to get to the march.





On the way to Marisa’s house, I counted seven boys and one girl wearing Diego’s Juventus jersey. In el barrio, it used to be only Central and Newell’s jerseys with the occasional Barcelona one because of Leo Messi, but now everyone wore Juventus twenty-one. I wondered if someday I’d see kids wearing my colors, my number, my name. It seemed like a fantasy that would never actually happen. But I’d fantasized about kissing Diego and him telling me he loved me on TV . . .

After the game, Diego had shown me that under the top layer of tape, there was another layer with my name on it.

You’re why I do everything I do, Camila. Without you, all this effort would have no meaning.

Part of me had melted like sugar over fire, and the other part had wondered what he expected in return for all the love.

The bus approached Arroyito, and I got off and joined the crowds of people heading toward Avenida Génova. Although most of the team had promised they’d be there, when I arrived, I only saw Roxana. She must have felt my gaze on her, because she looked up, and her face crumpled when she saw me.

The months of silence vanished like they’d never happened. I rushed toward her and hugged her tight, tight, tight while she cried.