The scent of homemade pizza was overwhelming, and my stomach growled loudly.
“Princesa Camila is here!” César exclaimed, and I gifted him with a smile. He always had a kind word for me.
Héctor’s eyes scanned me and then lingered on my chest. “Kind of late for a respectable girl to be out and about, don’t you think? Come here, negra. Give me a kiss.”
I cringed as he planted a wet kiss on my cheek and closed my jacket to hide my chest even though all he could’ve seen was my black T-shirt. Before I could summon up my snark, my mom asked from the kitchen, “Where have you been, Camila? You were supposed to be here hours ago. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
I weighed what would happen if I blurted out the truth, telling them all I was late because my team had won the championship and I’d celebrated by sneaking a peek at Diego. They would think I was joking. But even so, saying my secrets aloud was too risky.
“Sorry, Ma. The phone ran out of credit.” I slid the backpack off my shoulder. I left it next to the dark hallway, where I hoped no one would notice it.
It didn’t work.
“What’s in the backpack?” My father tried to be casual. César and Héctor kept their eyes glued to the TV, which was airing a replay of the day’s games with the volume turned all the way down. In spite of their blank expressions, I knew they were paying attention to each word my dad said. Like me, they knew him too well to miss the signs.
I looked my father in the eye, mustered a courage I didn’t really possess, and said, “Math books.” I didn’t blink. “I was studying.”
“Where?”
“At Roxana’s.”
He smiled like a cat. “Roxana? The pretty chinita from school?”
“What other Roxanas do you know, Papá?”
In the corner of my eye, I saw Pablo, his smile frozen in place, warning me to stop.
Luckily, my father’s eyes had already drifted back to the TV and the replay of Pablo’s goal.
“Just wait until the national team calls Pali for the U20 World Cup,” he said.
“They’ll call Diego for sure.” César stabbed where it would hurt my father the most. “Two from Rosario is a lot for the Buenos Aires jefes, Andrés. Diego’s Juve material now. Pablo can’t compete with that.”
“Maybe he’s in town to meet with AFA?” Héctor said. “He was right there in the stands. I saw him. Did you, Pablito?”
Pablo shrugged, but he glanced at me like he wanted to make sure I didn’t say anything stupid.
As if.
“Who cares that he’s in town?” My father’s laughter was jarring. “Diego’s a fine player, but Pablo will make a better impression. You mark my words. And then it will be Europe. No Italy, though. For Pablo it will be Barcelona or Manchester United. Did you hear, Camila? You can help us with the English. Get your bags ready!”
“Don’t count on me,” I said, glancing at Pablo so he’d remember my fight was with our father, not with him. “I’m not going anywhere with you guys.” I’d leave this house the first chance I got, but not by chasing after a boy, including my brother. I’d do it on my own terms, following my own dreams, not someone else’s. And most importantly, no one would leech off my sacrifices. No one.
From behind me, my dad continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “We’ll follow the Stallion to the ends of the world. We’ll finally be able to leave this rat hole and live the life we were meant to. Like I would’ve if that damned Paraguayan hadn’t broken my leg.”
“Paraguayo hijo de puta,” Héctor muttered.
“You were the best one, Andrés. The best one of all.” César recited his part.
“Pablo’s better,” my father said with a melodramatic quiver in his voice that I was immune to. “He’ll save us all.”
“Yes,” Héctor said. “He’ll make us rich.”
Marisol rolled her eyes at me. If she had a say in all this, no one but her would enjoy Pablo’s millions. She’d already dyed her hair platinum blond a la Wanda, the most famous botinera—footballer catcher—of all time.
My brother whispered something in Marisol’s ear, and she smiled. This intimate gesture gave me goose bumps. I went to the kitchen to kiss my mom hello.
“Hola, Ma. You’re going out?” I already knew the answer.
“At this hour? No, bebé. I still have to finish that dress, if you want to help.”
“I can. After I do my accounting homework. I ran out of time.”
“So they’re calling it accounting homework now?” She sniffed at me. “Where were you? Your jacket stinks.”
“A guy was smoking on the bus.”
Nico, my dog, saved me from more questions. He whimpered from the laundry on the back balcony, where he was banished when there was company. He shed horribly even in the winter, and now that his coat was getting ready for our short spring and scorching summer, the shedding was out of control.
I escaped to his side. “There you are, mi amor.”
Nico wagged his whole back half to make up for his lack of a tail. He licked my face in greeting, and I held my breath. His mouth stank worse than my boots, but he loved me unconditionally.
“I scored two goals, Nico,” I whispered in his pointy ear. “We won the championship! And guess what? Diego’s here. You should’ve seen him . . .”
Nico bobbed his head up and down like he understood every word, even those I couldn’t say. I tried to kiss his triangular face, but he slunk away from me to greet my brother, who had just joined me.
“Marisol’s in the bathroom,” Pablo explained. “And I had to get out of there.”
I widened my eyes in an exaggerated expression of shock. “Oh? I didn’t know she pooped like the rest of us!”
He swatted my shoulder, and I scooted over so he could sit beside me on the floor. After a long exhale, I rested my head on his shoulder. My brother’s long black hair was silky under my cheek. Nico sprawled across our legs, pinning us under him so we’d behave.
“Good job on that goal, Pali.” I was bursting with pride at how fine his shot had looked on TV.
“I was watching you the whole time in the kitchen, and you weren’t even paying attention to the TV.”
Roxana and I had dissected every play, but he didn’t need to know how obsessively we studied the men’s games. “I watched it at Roxana’s,” I said.
“Roxana? The pretty chinita from school?” He mocked our father’s voice. “And your game?” Pablo whispered after a few seconds.
My heart hammered. He’d remembered about my championship.
“We won,” was all I said. “I scored.”
He ruffled my already-messy hair and said, “Ah, Maradonita! I wish I could come see you someday.”
“Maybe next time.” I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
After his debut on Central’s first team two years ago, Pablo’s life had become even more complicated than when he was in the youth academy. He never had time to come see me play. Which was for the better, maybe. Ever since the baby leagues, he’d won dozens of international championships. Pablo had never laughed at me for wanting to be a futbolera. He had always encouraged me behind our parents’ backs, but he didn’t really know the hunger I had. He thought fútbol was something I did for fun. Maybe it was time I trusted him more.