Furia(68)

“I can’t believe they named only you and Diego in an article about a team of girls. The patriarchy! It burns,” I said, laughing to dispel the toxic cloud around us.

But when I looked up, I saw that Pablo was livid.

“You think you’re so much better than me, playing for the love of the game and all that? What do you know about playing fútbol? Love can only take you so far. All my life, I’ve busted my balls with one purpose only: saving our family, Camila.” Somewhere in the back of my mind, a part of me registered that Mamá had stopped singing.

“I didn’t ask you to save me.”

My words only made him angrier. “I gave my whole life for this family.”

“Playing fútbol, Pablo,” I reminded him. “It’s not like you’re enslaved.”

“I never had a choice. Why couldn’t you just leave with Diego when you had the chance? You could’ve managed his career. No matter how much you try, you’ll never make it. You’ll never make the kind of money we need—”

“You think this is all about the money? You think I’m going to be like your little Marisol? What does she know about anything? What does she say about Mexico, Stallion?” I taunted him. “I thought she wanted to go to Italy . . .”

His lip curled in a vicious sneer. “She’ll go where I go; she’s expecting my child.”

“She’s not even eighteen years old! What does she know?”

“And what do you know? It’s easy to claim girlfriend status from far away. If you cared about Diego, shouldn’t you be with him? But maybe he’s just playing with you, like I said he would.”

He hadn’t yelled at me since we were little kids, but when he did now, his voice thundered like our father’s. I recoiled from him.

But I wasn’t backing down. We were both our father’s children. We carried the curse of hot tempers and quick, lashing tongues. “You have no right to say anything about Diego and me.”

He laughed, and the cruelty in his voice slashed at me. “Negrita, you really think he’s in love with you? ?Vamos, por favor! He scored in Barcelona today. Why would he come back to you when he could have anyone?”

I slapped him. The sound reverberated around the kitchen, mixing with Nico’s frantic barking.

Pablo inhaled sharply. His face drained of blood.

The palm of my hand stung.

I’d never hit Pablo before. And in spite of what we’d both grown up with, he’d never lifted a finger against me.

An apology was blooming on my lips. Pablo’s face was already softening, forgiving me before I spoke.

“What’s happening here?” Mamá asked, stepping into the kitchen, a towel wrapped around her head.

Before either of us could answer, the front door slammed open.

My father walked into the apartment like he was bringing in a Sudestada storm on his shoulders.

Pablo’s face transformed, and something in me withered seeing my brother, the father-to-be, cower.

“Camila,” my father asked. “Where were you just now?”

My mom’s eyes found mine. In hers, there was a silent plea for me to find a good excuse.

But I was tired of running. We were all buried underneath mountains of blame, shame, guilt, and lies.

I wouldn’t hide anymore. I’d let him deal with the surprise or disappointment. I was done carrying this load.

“Where were you?” he asked again, his face close to mine, spittle flying from his angry mouth.

He was so much taller than me, but I wouldn’t shrink.

“I was at a march for the missing girl.”

“Why do you waste your time protesting instead of doing something productive? I better not find out you’re part of that green-handkerchief group of abortionists.”

“Abortionists?” My mom looked at me like I’d killed a baby on national TV. “Camila, we’ve raised you better than that. Why are you involved with those people at all?”

“Listen,” I said. “First of all, the march wasn’t about abortion or anything related to it. We carried the Ni Una Menos signs, and yes, some people wore green handkerchiefs, but it was about the girl, Eda. She was my friend’s sister.”

“There have always been rapes and killings.” My father wouldn’t stop. “The media makes everything seem worse than it is. If she hadn’t been running around with the wrong crowd—”

“Wrong crowd? She was walking to school.”

“Her sister had a baby in second year, though,” my mom added. “Isn’t it Marisa’s sister we’re talking about?”

I wanted to cry and scream and pull my hair, but they would never understand.

Instead, I took my chance. I threw up my hands in exasperation and tried to head to my room. My father grabbed me by the arm, pressing it so hard that I cried out in pain. I wasn’t going to be tossed around like a rag doll. I twisted out of his grasp. He reached for me again but lost his balance and fell, knocking me down with him.

My mom and Pablo were screaming in the background, but I couldn’t understand what anyone was saying. Nico ran around us in a panic.

The old ghosts came back, wailing that this was all my fault.

But the guardian angels Miriam had seen around me came, too. They screamed at me to rise up.