Someone, or something, was scratching the door. I glanced at the clock.
One in the morning. Time to go back to reality.
“Oh!” I laughed when I recognized the whining. “It’s only Nico.”
I hurried to open the door, and Nico trotted toward my room. I, on the other hand, walked out onto the balcony, welcoming the cold south wind, which blew on my face and cleared my thoughts. My lungs expanded, taking in the smell of eucalyptus leaves and quebracho smoke. Diego followed me out and stood next to me, leaning on the balustrade.
Last time we were alone in the dark, he’d found me shaking with cold outside the club, wearing a skimpy dress I’d borrowed from Roxana and high heels I was surprisingly good at walking in. All night long, Diego and I had looked at each other across the dance floor, but neither of us had made a move. At two in the morning, when Roxana said her dad was waiting for us outside, I told her I needed to say goodbye to Diego. But I had lost him in the throngs of people dancing and the girls passing out lollipops for La Semana de la Dulzura.
Outside, I couldn’t find Roxana or her dad’s car. I couldn’t walk home dressed like this. I’d never make it back. Desperation had started to creep in when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I pulled my arm back, ready to punch whoever thought they could play with me.
“Let’s swap?” Diego said, holding out a yellow lollipop.
In my hand, I had a pink one. His favorite flavor.
Fate had given me a chance, and I wasn’t going to waste it. Diego was flying out in a few hours, and I might never see him again.
“I will for a kiss. Everyone knows the pink lollipop is better than a yellow one.”
His eyes sparkled, and he bit his lip deliciously.
We leaned in at the same time. His mouth tasted so sweet, it made me drunk; his arms around me were so warm, I felt myself melt into him. When someone wolf whistled, we broke apart, gasping for air. I started shaking again, and Diego gave me his coat.
“Let’s go back inside,” he said in my ear, and we spent the next few hours in our own bubble in the club, trying to pretend he wasn’t about to leave.
More than a year later, here we were. Both of us shivering again, apparently too confused to put our feelings into words.
There was so much I wanted to tell him. About the championship and my whole double life as a futbolera. About how much I’d missed him. How hurt I’d been when he’d stopped calling me.
There was so much he hadn’t told me yet. About Turín, and Luís Felipe, his roommate from Brazil. But it was late, and I didn’t trust myself to say anything in case the wrong words came out.
I glanced down at his arm and noticed the tattoo on his wrist. It was kind of hidden by a humble red ribbon meant to ward off the evil eye and a fancy watch that looked nothing like the knockoffs the manteros sold in Plaza Sarmiento. I grabbed his wrist and traced the words: La Banda del 7. His pulse hammered under my fingers.
“A tattoo for our barrio?”
I tried to keep my face impassive. I couldn’t afford to lose my head. Not now.
He leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.
His lips lingered on my skin. Before I made up my mind and turned my face that crucial distance, he pulled away.
He turned around and went down the stairs. “Good night, Mama,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”
8
Nico woke me up the next morning, whining for me to let him out of my bedroom. There was music blasting from the apartment downstairs, a Christian ballad with awesome drums, and the sun was baking my face. The clock read 11:30 a.m. I jumped out of bed.
“Ay, por Dios, Nico! Why did you let me sleep so late, che?”
I opened the door, and he darted outside. I hobbled back to my room to change for my run. I put on a pair of long pants, because although the sky through the window was a perfect blue, the air would be chilly. I tied my shoes tightly and headed to the kitchen. Every inch of my body complained about how hard I’d played the day before. I ignored the weakness screaming in my muscles. The gym was all right for conditioning once in a while, but an outdoor run the day after a game was a must.
Still, I didn’t have much time. Diego had said he’d be here at one . . . if he didn’t forget or change his mind or get too busy.
My mom was in the kitchen listening to the radio station that played old nineties songs, and she hummed along to Gustavo Cerati, stubbornly ignoring the neighbor’s music. It smelled of tomato sauce already, and my stomach rumbled.
“Good morning, Mami.” I kissed her on the cheek. She looked up and smiled briefly. She was pale and had dark circles under her eyes. The little freckles on her nose and cheeks popped out. Before Tío César became my father’s minion, he and Mamá had been neighbors and friends. He had told me stories of what she was like when she was little. I couldn’t imagine her so free.
“I got us facturas,” she said, pointing at a plate on the table. The rest of the surface was covered in sequins and crystals. She was supposed to deliver the dress tomorrow so the girl could take pictures before her quinces party. She was almost finished.
My mouth watered at the pastries, but I stopped myself from taking one. “Later, vieja. I’m going for a run.”
“But why, Camila? You’re so thin already. I know summer’s coming, but you don’t need to look like the skeletons on Dancing for a Dream.”
I took a deep breath. I’d never aspired to star in a dancing show. She said I was too thin, but the moment I picked up a pastry, she’d tell me to watch my carbs. My goal was to be fast, strong, and unstoppable, and I couldn’t be that by starving myself or by eating pastries. My mom wouldn’t get it.
“I feel better when I run. You should come with me sometime,” I said. “Besides, Mami, I need to make room for your amazing food. What are you cooking?”
“Gnocchi,” she said with a smile. “You’re going to love them. I made some spinach ones so Pablo can get vegetables, you know? I need to sneak them in.” She babied him so much. “Roxana said to call her.”
My heart went into batucada mode. I had to know what was so urgent that she’d call in the morning, but I couldn’t risk using the house phone. My mom had super hearing.
“I’ll call her later,” I said.
Mamá went back to her embroidering and didn’t glance at me as I left.
Earbuds in, I let the energy of Gigi D’Agostino’s songs set the tempo of my steps.
A couple of blocks into my run, a German shepherd jumped at me from behind a makeshift chicken wire fence that sagged under the weight of his body. A deep voice called him from inside the house. I didn’t look back. I ran and ran, imagining the bite of the dog would shock me at any second. I breathed, chasing my goal, the Sudamericano, a chance at a future in which I was the master of my own fate.
The first autumn Diego lived in el barrio, when he was twelve and I was ten, everyone was obsessed with running. An Argentine athlete had won an Olympic medal for racing, and every kid in el barrio was trying to imitate our new idol. Some were good runners. Not me.
When I asked Pablo for help, he said I wasn’t built for running. My legs were thin like a tero bird’s. Determined to prove him wrong, I raced the girl from downstairs, Analía, the monoblock’s best runner after my brother.