“I’ll tell you the rest later,” I said.
He nodded, but his face darkened as he cleared his throat.
“What’s going on?”
“Diego thought he saw you outside the bar. Were you roaming around the stadium hoping to see him?”
“Stop it!” I said, and slapped Pablo’s leg.
Nico whined.
Pablo pulled away from me and looked into my face until I finally met his eyes. “Mirá, nena, you’re my little sister, and I have to protect you.” He sounded so much like our mom that I rolled my eyes. “I don’t like you going out all alone, coming back late, and doing who knows what.” He smiled but drilled me with one of his stares, the kind he’d inherited from our father. “Remember what I said last time?”
“What, Pablo? What did you say?”
“That you’re going to get hurt,” he said as if he were an ancient wise man. “Stay away from him. Trust me.”
Pablo was so full of it.
When I didn’t reply, he asked, “You haven’t been talking to him behind my back, have you?”
Last year, Pablo had given me the talk, a tirade about not being like the other girls and wanting a piece of Diego just because he was going to be famous. What Diego and I had wasn’t like that at all, but the words had burrowed deep inside of me.
“What are you now? My dad?” I asked, slapping his leg again.
“He’s only here for a week, you know? Then he’ll go back to his fame and fortune and glamorous life.” There was a sharp edge to his voice that made the hairs at the back of my neck prickle. What had happened between them?
“I haven’t talked to him. Happy now?”
Pablo’s eyes flickered away from mine, as if he knew way more than he pretended to. Had Diego told him anything? I was dying to ask, but my pride was greater than my curiosity.
“I saw how you two looked at each other the night he left,” Pablo said. “I’m a guy, too, Camila—”
“How did we look at each other? That was a whole year ago. And now, what? I’m not even supposed to look at him because he’s famous?” Now it was Pablo’s turn to roll his eyes, and I continued, “It’s not like that, Pablo. Not at all. We’re just friends, or we were. We haven’t talked much since he left. Besides, I’m too busy with school, and . . . planning for med school.”
Héctor’s laughter echoed from the kitchen, followed by César’s and my father’s. Pablo and I listened.
The night before Diego had left, there had been more than charged looks between us. A lot more. But ignorance was bliss, and I intended to keep my brother in the dark. What was the point in fighting? For all I knew, Diego was over our . . . fling.
I patted my brother’s shoulder and changed the subject. “In any case, I’m sure he was amazed to see you play. You guys flattened Talleres, honestly.”
Pablo laughed. “It was good to see him there,” he said with a crooked smile. “But I want you to come watch one day. When was the last time you came to the stadium?”
Two years. When Pablo had debuted on the first team.
“I’ll come see you one day,” I said. “Stallion.”
The nickname was perfect for him. Tall and dark. He could run forever and never stop smiling. How many girls had lost themselves over that grin?
“Pali!” Marisol’s musical voice called from the dining room.
Like an obedient lapdog, Pablo jumped to his feet and ran to her.
Pali?
Pali was just for family, and Marisol wasn’t that. God willing, she would never be. She had never given Pablo the time of day until Diego had left. But if I ever even hinted at this, I’d make an enemy out of my brother. I could deal with anything but losing Pablo.
6
Back in the dining room, César and Héctor thanked my mom for the delicious fugazza con queso. She hid her smile behind a paper napkin, but her eyes sparkled. Her gaze, so full of longing, flitted to my father every few seconds. She was still hoping, waiting, for . . . I didn’t know what. They’d been together since they were sixteen. If he hadn’t changed by now . . .
My mom grabbed a bit of crust from a plate and nibbled on it.
My father dropped one of his bombs. “You’re eating pizza, Isabel? I thought you were staying off carbs to look amazing. Like me.” His hand swiped over his lean body, and then he winked at her, as if the gesture could erase the damage to her heart.
I grabbed a slice of pizza and took a bite. My taste buds exploded in pleasure. “Oh, Mami! This is the food of the gods!”
“You say that now,” my dad said with a mocking expression. “Just wait until your thirties, when even the air you breathe accumulates on your thighs. Right, Isabel?”
Mami’s smile vanished, and her luminous copper skin turned ashy, as if she’d been struck by a curse.
Pablo put a hand on Mami’s shoulder. “No, Mama. You’re beautiful just the way you are.”
She didn’t tell Pablo off for speaking like a country boy, but the endearment wasn’t enough to bring the color back to her face. She gathered the plates and took them to the sink.
Pablo and I locked eyes, and when I turned around, I saw Héctor and César having their own silent conversation. But no one said anything. My father excused himself to the bathroom. César walked out for a cigarette, since my mom didn’t let him smoke inside the house. I should have escaped to my room then, but the TV caught my attention. It was the reporter who’d been at my game, Luisana. I was about to turn the volume up when Héctor said, “Don’t. It’s that woman commentator, and I can’t stand listening to her burradas.”
I hesitated, debating whether I should obey him or turn it all the way up out of spite. But they were showing footage of Diego waving at his fans. I had to see if there was any trace of me on the sidewalk, staring at him like a zombified fool. I stood in front of the TV for a few minutes, but the whole time, I saw Héctor out of the corner of my eye. He shifted from side to side and looked at me like he wanted to say something. When I turned to face him, he opened his mouth to speak once or twice, but in the end, he just sighed and went back to checking his phone.
“¡Vamos!” My father called to him, and walked out, completely ignoring me.
Héctor looked at me sadly. Before following my father, he said, “Careful, Camila. You’re too pretty to be out on your own.”
Now it was my turn to struggle for words. It was as if a fish bone were stuck in my throat. Was he threatening me, or was he genuinely worried about me?
Soon after, Pablo and Marisol left, too. Usually they didn’t go clubbing on Sunday nights—she was in fifth year, the last, just like I was—but tomorrow was a holiday. The memory of Pablo whispering in her ear and Marisol’s sly smile flashed through my mind again, and I shuddered.
The news went back to reporting about Gimena Márquez and a march organized in her honor, demanding justice for her murder. I turned up the volume.
People marched, chanting, “¡Ni una menos!” Then the demands for an end to the violence got overshadowed by a fight between a group with pro-choice green handkerchiefs and another with pro-life light blue ones. No amount of insults was going to bring Gimena back. People could fight over handkerchief colors until the sun bleached them all to the same shade of gray, and in the meantime, girls would continue to die.