Furia: Chapters 8–14

After my shower, I locked my door and stood in front of my armoire. If there was a fairy godmother giving out wardrobes, now would have been a really great time for her to show up.

My glance fell on la estampita of La Difunta, but asking her for a favor felt sacrilegious when I hadn’t even left her an offering yet.

I took a quick inventory of the things he would find objectionable: my tight jeans, the sweater that tottered on the precipice between modest and provocative, the makeup.

The tension between us was oppressive.

Vagabond dogs sprawled everywhere.

Diego smiled, shaking his head, the sheen of sadness gone from his eyes.

“Every year, multitudes travel to my native India to find enlightenment,” Father Hugo said.

The church’s turret cast a long shadow over the courtyard.

Most of the kids who seek refuge here, Camila, have families. They come here or else they don’t eat. They come because children still have that divine spark intact in them, and they instinctually gravitate to a place where there is order, warmth, and love.

“It’s a meager salary, but you need to take it. This is a job, not a volunteer position.”

Two thousand pesos a week was eight thousand a month, more money than I’d ever had at once, so for me, it wasn’t a pittance.

I sat back, relishing the warm caress of the sun on my face.

The park was teeming with activity.

The car lurched forward when I slammed on the pedal.

My every sense focusing on not running over anyone, ruining this car, the price of which I couldn’t even fathom, or hurting Diego, who had just renewed his contract with Juventus, I drove around the block.

We dodged a dog walker and his pack of huskies, chihuahuas, and mestizos, wending through the artisans’ stands and food vendors until we came across a group of people blocking the path.

From here, we could see the whole esplanade.

“¿Qué te pasa? Why do you do this?” my father asked, as if I were the one who had just broken into a room and breached someone else’s defenses.

Pablo’s door remained closed, but I felt his presence, quailing as he waited for each word to drop like a hammer.

I tried to hold on to the thrill of his hand on mine as he taught me how to drive, how the wind had tangled his hair by the river, that look in his eyes when he’d called me his girl and given me the flowers. But the images curdled, stained by my father’s implications.

I implored La Difunta for her protection again, but I had done nothing for her.

Tentatively, he walked back to my room and sat next to me as I dragged my dresser in front of the broken door, conscious that I was scratching the floor, that I was probably waking up the neighbors.

“My dad was the odd Leproso in Arroyito,” she said, “but he didn’t mind the rabid Central fans and players who teased him relentlessly. But he hated your dad..."

It took me a fraction of a second to get my bearings.

He’d been Central’s most promising player until he tore his meniscus.

“Chill, Roxana! You almost gave me a heart attack,” I said.
“Diego posted a picture of you, and you dropped off the face of the earth. I’m the one who’s been apoplectic,” Roxana hissed as she followed me inside.

If Roxana was getting this riled up about an innocent message, I didn’t even want to imagine what she’d think of my date with Diego or the kiss.

A smattering of freckles covered her white skin.

After wiping my sweaty hands on my skirt, I took a seat next to Karen and tried to emulate appropriate teacher behavior.

The neatness of her handwriting, the correctness of her grammar, and the breadth of her vocabulary rendered me speechless.

Javier’s dark face was mottled with embarrassment, and I exhaled to calm myself down.

The boys tried to stifle their laughter, but Karen’s face hardened.

Mad at myself for not being more observant or more tactful, I ran to her.

I let Roxana cry, and when her fury was spent, leaving only disappointment and despondency, she asked, “How do we get her back?”

Roxana had parents who loved each other and doted on her.