The anchor cut in with news of another missing girl, a twelve-year-old this time.
My mom sighed heavily behind me. I turned to look at her. She stared disapprovingly at me, as if I were responsible for these girls and had failed to protect them.
Or as if my own carelessness meant I’d be next.
I grabbed my backpack and a plate with more pizza and escaped to my room. Maluma smiled at me from the poster on the wall next to the only picture I had of Abuelo Ahmed—the one with a love letter to a woman who wasn’t my grandmother scribbled on the back. In sepia, he looked like an old-fashioned movie star.
I unpacked my bag and hid my medal under the mattress. Cliché, but there wasn’t any other place to hide it. Maybe it would infuse my sleep with strength and feed my hunger for more. I placed la estampita of La Difunta Correa on my nightstand, leaning against a tottering pile of books, mostly TOEFL prep manuals and The Shadow of the Wind, which Diego had lent me before he left. All I had for La Difunta’s ofrenda was a half-empty water bottle, and I set it next to the card.
After plugging in my phone, I played one of my mom’s old Vilma Palma e Vampiros CDs on my ancient boom box.
When I lay down on my bed, my sore muscles complained, but not loudly enough to drown out all the voices in my head blaring about homework, my brother and Marisol, my father, the money I’d need for the tournament, the permission I’d need for the tournament, and Diego.
Especially Diego. Why did he have to show up now?
Uninvited, a memory of the last time we were together weaved its way into my mind. The loud music of the club booming, Diego’s soft lips on mine. My right hand on his chest, feeling his heart beating through his unbuttoned shirt, my left hand holding a yellow lollipop he’d traded for my pink one.
I still had the yellow lollipop in my trove of treasures under the mattress.
That night, a future together seemed magical and possible. And then life got in the way.
For the first weeks after he left, we chatted constantly. He even called me a couple of times. But then the time difference and his schedule and my unreliable internet connection and having to hide it all from my family took a toll. The emails and chats became shorter, colder, stiffer, until finally, they stopped.
We hadn’t spoken since November.
I scoured the internet, looking for signs that he’d made up with his ex-girlfriend, that he’d been playing with me, just like Pablo had warned. But all I found were brief reports of a prodigious boy from Rosario who lived only for the ball and the white-and-black jersey of his new club. I was too proud to ask him if his feelings had changed.
Still, I wished I could tell him about my games and my dreams and ask him about his new life. When I went on long runs past his building, I carried on imaginary conversations, recycling words he’d once said to me.
Eventually, I forgot the sound of his laughter. Coach Alicia’s promises that I could have a life playing fútbol replaced fantasies of a future where I was a spectator, witnessing Diego’s transformation from a boy into a titan. Even if I loved him.
It was true what the songs said—no one dies of a wounded heart—and I believed mine had healed. But the sound of my name on Diego’s lips had tugged at the scar, unraveling feelings I’d ignored all these months.
The shrill ringing of the house phone pierced through the music and my memories. My mom’s voice reverberated through the walls.
“Hola, Dieguito, mi amoooooor.” She stretched that o to an impossible length. “I can’t believe you’re back and that you remember your old friends.”
I tried breathing deeply to calm myself, but it didn’t work.
“No, nene. Pablo left,” she said. “I thought he was going to meet you.”
El Pájaro kept singing in the background. I ran to turn the music off.
“Since when do you ask permission to come visit?” There was a pause, and then Mamá added, “Tonight? This is your home.” She laughed. “I’ll tell her you’re on your way, then.”
She hung up the phone but didn’t come to my room to tell me Diego had called.
Diegui was coming here. My phone was dead, so I couldn’t even call Roxana. I had no time, anyway. Ana, Diego’s adoptive mom, lived only a couple of blocks from us. He’d be here in minutes.
I told myself he was just the same Diego as always. No big deal. But it was midnight, and I looked terrible. I peeled off my T-shirt. It reeked of cigarette smoke from the bus. When I undid my braid, my hair puffed up into a halo of frizz around my head, but there was nothing I could do.
The slamming of a car door brought me back to my room. As I listened, someone whistled the melody of Central’s anthem. Un amor como el guerrero, no debe morir jamás . . . The melody came closer and closer.
I was paralyzed.
Nico’s booming barks preceded the doorbell. I counted the seconds.
One . . . two . . .
“Quiet!” my mom snapped at the dog. The door opened, and in a softer, more civilized voice, she added, “Diego! Come in. I’m so proud of you, hijo. I see you on TV, but you look so grown up in person! Say something in Italian for me.”
Diego said something I didn’t catch. She laughed like a young girl, and the sound spurred me into action.
My hands moved lightning fast as I put on a clean T-shirt. My mom’s footsteps approached my door, and I jumped back onto my bed and grabbed a book. A second later, she opened without knocking.
“Camila?”
“What, Ma?” I looked at her, but I avoided her eyes, pretending I’d been reading.
“Diego’s here.” The glow on her face was back. My heart went into triple time, as if I were sprinting to the goal line.
We stared at each other for a couple of seconds until I whispered, “What’s he doing here?”
She shrugged. “He wanted to come see Pablo, but your brother’s gone. I told him you were the only one home.”
I scrambled off the bed, and when I put the book back on the nightstand, the rest of the pile tottered and collapsed, knocking down the bottle of water that was La Difunta’s offering.
My mom hurried to help me pick up the mess. “What’s this?” she asked, studying la estampita.
“La Difunta Correa, Ma.”
“Where did you get it?”
“From a little boy on the bus. He looked hungry.”
Mami sighed, the kind of sigh that took my soul into one of her specialties—the guilt trip. “What have I told you, Camila? Those kids never get to keep their money. There’s always an adult exploiting them.”
She placed the estampita on the nightstand and the bottle beside it. “Make sure you go to a shrine and leave the offering. La Difunta is a strict cobradora. She never forgets who owes her.” Her voice was so serious. “I hope whatever you asked for was worth it.”
I’d already asked for so many things . . .
“Diego’s waiting,” I said.
She stared at me for a few long seconds. Finally, her finger raised for emphasis, she said, “Don’t keep him too long. That boy must have places to go.”
7
Roxana didn’t like Diego, but she’d give me grief when she found out I’d let him see me looking like hell. She’d say that I could have at least put on some lipstick or perfume to impress him. I was supposed to be over him, after all. But it was too late for all that.