Isabelle can't believe it. He is breaking records, making history, and topping popularity charts. Neymar da Silva Santos Junior, the youngest football superstar to ever rock the country. Young women love him, young men adore him, the older crowd count on him. Best of all, he is Isabelle's best friend. He is four years her senior, but age doesn't matter to them. A friendship spanning a decade, they have the fondest of memories. Even with his long term absences, her art university courses, and conflicting families, the two are still the best of friends.
He is coming back next week, and it has been quite awhile since his last visit. After Neymar's permanent move to Barcelona, Isabelle misses him dearly. Anticipation and excitement cannot describe what Isabelle is feeling now. Everyday she texts, messages, and sends photos to him, updating Neymar on life in Sao Paulo. Sure, she may have annoyed him on several occasions, but who is to stop her? She misses him, and he knows it.
“I don't know what you think of him, he looks so arrogant.”
The ball that has been bouncing off the walls now sits still on the ground. Isabelle looks at the young man beside her, creasing her eyebrows slightly. “Alex, you have been saying that ever since we left the neighborhood. What's up?”
Alex Carneiro is Isabelle's classmate and football partner. They are not particularly close, but enough to keep each other company. “I just said so, Neymar looks like an arrogant nincompoop.”
Isabelle rolls her eyes. “Did we come here to play football or for you to complain about my choices?”
“I don't trust him.”
“You don't even know him.”
No it's Alex's turn to roll his eyes. “Like you know him any better.”
Right, Alex doesn't know. “Come on, Alex. He has a son he adores, can't you see how sweet Neymar really is?”
“If he's sweet than he wouldn't make his ex-girlfriend pregnant in the first place,” Alex replies sharply.
Isabelle winces. “No matter what you say, Neymar's my favorite player.”
“He can't beat Messi, the football legend.”
“Neymar's in the same club as Messi.”
“Whatever, your boyfriend doesn't even come close.”
Isabelle's head snaps up. “He's not my boyfriend.”
“The way you talk about him, it's like he's your lover or something.”
“Alex, I swear I'm going to kill you.”
“I'm serious, Isabelle, you have some major issues.”
Isabelle rolls her eyes for the thousandth time. “Just help me with my football skills and forget this conversation ever happened.”
“You're a lost cause, though.”
“Why can't you talk to me without using an insult?”
Football is one of the only things that keep Isabelle and Neymar together. She watches all his games and interviews, knowing all his signature moves and playing style. She tries to learn how to play the sport but fails miserably, often earning snickers and giggles from the child prodigy himself. That doesn't stop them from discussing their favorite soccer players and watching matches on the rickety TV in the neighborhood. If they aren't outside playing pranks on the neighbors or running around the city, the two were probably indoors buried in football merchandise.
“It's a lot fun insulting you.”
“How is it fun?!”
“It just is.”
“Okay, smartypants, how should I control the ball?”
“You kick with the side of your foot, like this.” Alex easily kicks the ball to the point on the wall. “You'll get the hang of it pretty quickly.”
It is easier said than done. By the end of the session Isabelle has two hits in the face and endless amounts of playing “chase the ball”. It is sunset by the time Isabelle returns home, and her mom isn't very happy. Lately it seems like nothing can impress her. “Where have you been, young lady?”
Isabelle sighs in annoyance. “I was just at the lot two blocks away, didn't you get my note?”
There isn't any note, and both of them know it. “You could have died! What if you were raped?”
“mom, I'm eighteen now, not a litle girl.”
“You're naive and innocent. You know nothing about the real world.”
Another sigh escapes Isabelle's lips. “I'm going to take a shower.”
“Put on some real clothes, you look like a slut.”
Isabelle glances down at her t-shirt and shorts. “It's hot out.”
“You think you look cool? Well, you don't.”
Isabelle answers with the slam of her bedroom door. Not even an hour and she feels like she is suffocating. Her mother is not the boss of her. She is eighteen and perfectly capable of taking care of herself. No one can control her. Her eyes glance at the desk beside her, a painting of Neymar's football achievements laying on top of it. His signature smile beams at her, reassuring that everything will be alright. Hopefully.
She doesn't belong here, Isabelle knows that much. She belongs somewhere else, far from here. Maybe she'll become a famous artist, or living a better life than the one right now. Either way, everything else is better than this hellhole. She sometimes imagines what life will be like outside of Sao Paulo. Where will she be if she moved to the USA with her father? Or Barcelona with Neymar? She will probably never know.
The smartphone in Isabelle's pocket vibrates. She checks it, a message from Neymar blinking on the screen. A photo of him and a messily put together suitcase flashes into her eyes. Packing two months worth of clothes and goodies is seriously tiring me out. Isabelle giggles slightly and types a reply. Typical Neymar. Wait until he sees his surprise welcome present.
