I tried to keep up with her, but as I watched her reach the finish line, I tripped on the uneven pavement and fell. Blood bloomed from my knee and ran down my leg, seeping into my white knee-high sock. My mom was furious when she saw how I’d ruined my school clothes.
I was crying on the balcony when I heard Diego, whistling as he climbed the stairs. I would have climbed up onto the roof if I’d known how, but there was no way to escape.
Diego saw me. The melody died on his puckered-up lips. “What happened?” he asked. “Did someone hurt you?” His voice was so gentle.
I shook my head. I didn’t want him to be angry, not even at Analía. When boys and men became angry, they tried to fix the world by breaking it down with their fists. I tried to speak, but I burst into tears instead.
In hushed whispers, I told him everything. He listened, and when I was done crying, he wiped my face with the inside of his Pokémon T-shirt.
Unable to find words to express my gratitude, I wrapped my arms around his neck.
Diego’s skin smelled of sunshine and sweat.
In the tone my teacher at school used when telling a story, he said, “The other day, Ana told me the legend of a warrior princess who had your name.”
I couldn’t help but look up at his face. Was he making fun of me? No Disney princesses—the only ones I knew—had my name.
“Camila? Like me? She was a warrior?”
He nodded. “And not only that, she was a great runner. She ran so fast that when she ran across the sea, her feet didn’t even get wet.”
I peered down at my ugly black shoes and saw the blood stain on my sock getting darker and bigger as it spread through the cotton fibers. “Can you teach me how to run like that?”
His eyes flickered in the direction of my brother’s window before returning to me. “Abuelo isn’t home, is he? You know he’d teach you like he taught Pablo. He’d do anything for you.”
“He’s out.”
Diego hesitated, but then he said, “Let’s go to the road behind the sports center. I can teach you there. I’ll tell your mom where we’re going.”
But I shook my head. Even then, I’d known there were things she didn’t want to hear.
While we walked under the naked paradise trees that lined the street, Diego told me more stories about the other Camila, the warrior princess who fought in the great Trojan War. The sunlight painted intricate designs on the ground. The dust swirled on the shimmering air before it settled on my dry lips.
“I’ll hold your hand and run,” he said. “You hold on tight and raise those knees. Don’t look down.”
I bit my lip and nodded.
“Ready?” he asked.
I looked ahead at the curving road that went on forever. We could run to the end of the world.
“Ready,” I said.
Our feet hit the compacted dirt hard, raising a cloud of dust around us. Diego’s hand was sweating in mine. He picked up speed, and for a second, I panicked. I imagined myself falling, bringing him down with me. I pulled his arm back to slow him down.
“Don’t give up,” he yelled.
I willed my legs to keep up. We ran and ran until he let go of my hand. “Race you to the willows!”
We were both flying. I was the first to reach the line of trees by the Ludueña River.
We threw ourselves on the soft, fragrant clover, breathing in the greenness around us. The fat white clouds flew above us. We were in heaven.
“Remember I said Abuelo would do anything for you?” Diego asked, propping himself on his elbow.
“Yes.” Somehow I was holding his hand again.
I saw my reflection in his honey-brown eyes.
“So would I. I’d do anything for you,” Diego said, and kissed me on the cheek.
There were no clover fields anymore. The little kids Diego and I once were would hate the chain-link fences around the new soy crops. But what would they think of the people we had become?
As I headed back home, sweat trickled down the sides of my face and my back and in between my breasts, which were squashed under two running bras two sizes too small.
I crossed the street to avoid the Jehovah’s Witnesses waiting with their pamphlets. I didn’t try to avoid the golden-haired North American Mormons, because even though they always smiled, they didn’t talk to girls in the street, not even when I tried to practice my English. I was pretty sure they changed those guys regularly, but they all looked the same to me.
When I turned the corner of Schweitzer and Sánchez de Loria, finishing my loop, I saw kids wearing Juventus jerseys huddled around a fancy black car.
It could only belong to one person. Diego was early, and I was doomed.
“Franco!” I called to my downstairs neighbor. He was about nine years old and lived with his grandma. His brown hair gleamed like polished ebony, and his blue eyes brimmed with joy, as if he had seen Papá Noel in person.
“Camila! Look at what el Titán brought us!”
Seven or eight boys, all under the age of ten, rushed to show me their treasures.
“Mirá! An authentic Juve jersey! He signed it, too. He signed it!”
Franco’s aunt, Paola, barely thirteen, was among the boys. She hugged her own white-and-black jersey, and her blue eyes sparkled just like Franco’s.
She ran to me. “He even remembered me, Camila. He said he didn’t bring me a Central jersey because, you know, Franco and his dad are Boca fans, but that we could all wear Juve, so that’s what he brought us. They’re originals, not knock-offs! And look,” she whispered, showing me a picture of the whole Juventus FC squad. She turned it over. It was signed by all the players, personalized to Paola. Even the superstars like Buffon and Dybala had signed it.
“Put it in a safe place.” I whispered back. “One day, this might be worth a lot of money.”
She clutched it against her chest and shook her head. “Diego gave this to me. I’ll never sell it. Would you?”
“Maybe?” I taunted her.
“Seriously, Camila,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re so lucky. He’s upstairs waiting for you already, and you’re here stinking like a pig. What are you thinking?”
“How do you know he’s waiting for me?”
She gave me a smile that was too knowing for thirteen years old. “Because he literally told me, ‘I’m here for Camila, Pao.’ ”
Pretty words and a fancy postcard might have enchanted Paola, but I wasn’t thirteen. Diego could spin the sweetest promises, but I knew better than to create fantasies that would leave me brokenhearted when he left again at the end of the week.
I opened the door.
Sitting across from my father at our kitchen table, Diego looked like a model out of those old AXE commercials Roxana and I loved watching on YouTube.
Impeccably pressed black shirt. Worn-out jeans and sleek leather shoes. His outfit probably cost more than what my mom made in a month of straining her eyes, poking her fingers, and hunching over her sewing machine.
When Diego saw me, he flashed that radiant smile of his, but he didn’t quite meet my eyes.
“There you are.” He stood up while a thousand replies blared in my mind.
Looking great, Titán.
I can’t stop thinking about you.