Something in Between

  Dad laughs. “If he were a cat, I’d throw him out. I may throw him out anyway!”

  Danny has already disappeared from the room. He’ll be buried in his manga in a minute.

  “I’m serious,” Dad adds.

  “I know, Daddy.”

  He’s still looking at me funny. “I’m serious that something is different about you. You keep smiling. What happened in Washington? Were you responsible? Did you meet a boy?”

  Eeek! How’d he know? Do my parents have some kind of guy radar? Am I really smiling that much? I kissed Royce a total of one, two—okay, maybe a few more—times. I already know what my dad is thinking. He’s so overprotective. “Daddy, I go to Washington, D.C., as an honored guest, and you want to give me a sex talk?”

  “I don’t trust those people,” he says. His voice is getting louder. “You see them in the movies. They’re worse than those sleazy Wall Street stockbrokers who hire ladies of the evening every night and snort God-knows-what into their tiny brains.”

  Oh my God, my parents and the way they talk! It’s too much. Ladies of the evening? Who says that? My Filipino parents, I guess.

  My parents have always had weird rules about dating. Filipinos are all about family. If you’re even thinking about dating a boy, they want to meet him. They’ve always threatened to send me on dates with a chaperone, like they had to have when they were teenagers, but I don’t think they would actually go through with it. Although, if they knew I’d been with Royce alone during the weekend, they’d probably have to start taking medicine for their blood pressure.

  “It was a weekend for high school honorees,” I say.

  He leans on my mother’s shoulder. “Why are you so happy, then?”

  “Am I not supposed to be happy?”

  Now he knows I’m covering up. I don’t know how he figures this stuff out. He’s always called me on the tiniest of lies. I should just shut my mouth, become a nun, take vows of celibacy and silence. If I let Dad get what he wanted, I’d be alone forever and never move out of his house.

  He trades looks with Mom. “All right. Out with it,” he says.

  I hold on to the thinnest shred of denial. “Out with what?”

  But that’s it. He’s calling in reinforcements.

  Dad stands up and gazes down at Mom. “Your daughter. She has a secret!”

  “All daughters have secrets,” Mom says. “If you’ve lost your interrogation skills then just leave her alone! She’s old enough to have a life outside of us.”

  I give Dad a wide smile. This is an unprecedented victory in our household.

  He points a finger at me, “We better meet him soon, whoever he is!” and leaves the room as I’m still beaming.

  * * *

  Later that night, after I’m already in bed in my heart-print pajamas, Mom comes into my room. She knocks so lightly, I almost don’t hear. I’m surprised she didn’t just do her usual barging in, talking at some sonic level. Something must be wrong. She sits on the edge of my bed, asking if I’m asleep yet.

  “Not yet,” I say. “What’s up?”

  “So, can you tell me anything more about your trip to D.C.?”

  Oh no. She’s going to ask if I did meet a boy. The whole day I was sort of glad she didn’t ask too many questions. I don’t think I can hide Royce from her like I did from Dad. She and I think so much alike.

  “I told you guys all about it already,” I say lightly. I showed them a few of my photos (although not the ones with Royce).

  She lies down on the bed next to me and starts stroking my hair. It makes me feel like a little girl again. Mom’s being so nice, I can tell she’s about to ask me something else. Something private. I sit up in bed, forcing her to stop touching my hair.

  “Did you make any friends while you were there, neneng?” she asks.

  I knew it. She’s playing the rare good cop. Mommy-Daddy role reversal. “I made several friends from around the country,” I say just to make a point. “Some from LA too.”

  “Really? What kind of ‘friends’?”

  “Mom. Come on. You know, with the other honorees. We had a chaperone. We ate together, we bonded. But since you’re playing detective, yes, I met ‘a boy.’” I can’t hide the smile on my face anymore. Mom will understand, and I do want to tell her about Royce. He’s too important to me not to tell her about. Especially if I want to be able to see him in LA.

  She sits up straight and turns on the lamp, blinding me. “You met a boy from the other side of the country?”

  “Sort of,” I hedge.

  She pauses for a moment, considers a thought, then crosses her arms. “Is he Filipino?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No, of course not.” Mom shrugs.

  I know my parents don’t care who I marry, but they do care that whoever I marry shares our values. They always talk about how Americans aren’t close to their families like Filipinos are.

  “Well,” Mom sighs. “I guess it’s okay. He still lives on the other side of the country.”

  I shift on the bed. “I never said that.”

  “Where does he live, then? Who is this boy?”

  “He lives in Bel-Air. He’s the son of Congressman Colin Blakely, the house majority leader.”

  I can tell Mom is shocked. She sort of leans back. I’m starting to fear that this is too much for her to take in. First the scholarship, then the trip to Washington, now there’s a boy—and not any boy, but a rich boy with a powerful father who’s practically the enemy. Mom shifts her weight, nearly falling off the bed. “You can’t mean the congressman who’s always on TV trying to kill the immigration bill that the Senate passed?”

  “Yeah, but he’s not like his dad,” I say defensively.

  “Are you sure it’s safe to know him?”

  “It’s not like I told him about us. But he’s not like that, Mom. I know he isn’t. He’s nice.”

  “Oh,” she says softly. “What’s his name?”

  “Royce.”

  It surprises me that even just the sound of his name coming out of my mouth makes me feel more hopeful, like everything is within my reach.

  “What kind of name is that?” she asks. “Like the car?”

  I giggle. “I know, right?”

  “So you like this boy?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I like him a lot.” I’ve never had a boyfriend, I’ve never been allowed to date. But I’m seventeen years old now, and I think it’s okay to admit I like a boy, isn’t it? I’m not just attracted to him—I really like him. He’s just like me, intense and sort of secretly nerdy. Most of all, I like how he looks into my eyes like he’s seeing past the image everyone else sees into who I really am beyond all the things that I do. And he thinks I’m beautiful.

  Mom stays quiet.

  “I want you guys to meet him,” I say. “Because I want to, um...hang out with him. Okay?”

  Mom doesn’t say a word.

  “Mom?”

  “We’ll see, I’ll have to talk to your dad about it.”

  My stomach twists. Whenever she has to talk to my dad about something, it just means no.

  16

  She cannot stay out of duty. The things one does,

  one should do out of love.

  —EDWIDGE DANTICAT, BREATH, EYES, MEMORY

  MONDAY, KAYLA AND I walk together to cheer practice. Our school is a typical California one—the hallways are outside, and people walk through the grassy courtyards to get across campus. Our town is in a valley, so we have a view of the mountains all around. A bunch of football players wave as we walk from the quad to the gym. Not just them. Being a cheerleader means pretty much everyone knows who you are. That’s one of my favorite things about it.

  We wave back to people we know. Kayla
and I aren’t in the same classes, so this is the first chance we’ve had to download since I got back.

  I was worried she’d still be mad that she found out about my scholarship at the same time the other girls did, but she seems to be over it. And she’s over Courtney being named captain while I was away as well. The squad qualified for Regionals, like we all expected we would. That competition is coming up in December, so we have practice almost every day now.

  She links her arms around mine. “So how was D.C.? Is the president cool?”

  “Yes but more importantly, you’ll never guess who was there,” I say.

  “Who!” Kayla can smell a good cute-boy story from one hint. She claps her hands and jumps up and down.

  “Remember that guy I met at the hospital? The one from Bel-Air?” I say.

  “Right, what’s his name again? Aston? Martin?” she teases.

  “It’s Royce!” I laugh.

  “That’s the one. You loooooove him!” she says. “He was there? Tell me everything!”

  “Yeah, he was there. He knew I would be there, so he went with his dad to the dinner.”

  “What!”

  “Yeah. So we, um... You know.”

  Kayla gives another squeal. “Oh my God, good-girl Jasmine de los Santos, you hooked up with a boy!”

  “We didn’t hook up hook up... We just made out...”

  She’s fully laughing now and gives me a squeeze. “You like him?”

  “A lot.” So much.

  “So when are you going to see him again?”

  “I don’t know. My parents are being weird about it.”

  “They won’t let you see him?”

  “I don’t know. They haven’t said yes or no.” I nervously switch my backpack to my other shoulder.

  “Well, that’s a start. Your parents always say no.”

  “It is, isn’t it? Maybe it means they’ll say yes.” They have to, I think. I won’t take no for an answer this time. I’m a senior in high school—I’m allowed to have a boyfriend by now, aren’t I? We don’t live in the Philippines, we live in America. At least, right now we do. Even in my happiness, the dark cloud of our problem hangs heavily. “So, what’s up with you? How are things at home?”

  “They suck. Let’s not talk about it. And I miss Dylan.”

  “I’m sorry, K. Is he on tour with the band or something?”

  “Yeah, Seattle now.”

  “When is he back?”

  “At the end of the month.”

  “You’ll survive,” I say. “You really think my parents will say yes? That I can see Royce?”

  “Why not? What are they going to do, lock you up in a tower?” She smirks.

  If they could, they would, I think.

  * * *

  My parents don’t say yes, and they don’t say no either. What they say when I ask for permission again later that week is “Up to you.” Usually, when my parents say things are up to me, it means they want me to make the right decision for myself, to prove I’m responsible and can be trusted. I know they think that I’ll decide that I don’t have to see him. But they’re wrong.

  “Okay, so if it’s up to me, I’m going to hang out with him on Saturday. He wants me to meet his family. I can’t drive, so he’s coming out here to pick me up and take me to meet them. Actually, just his mom, I already met his dad, but he’s back in D.C. right now. So is it okay if Royce picks me up?”

  Dad raises his eyebrows and looks at Mom. “Is he a safe driver?” he asks.

  “I’m sure he is.”

  “Pilar?”

  “We said it was up to her,” Mom says, getting up from the couch.

  “You really think this is the right decision?” asks Dad.

  “Yes.” I won’t budge on this. I’m tired of being treated like a child. It’s bad enough I can’t drive so I have to cadge rides all the time, and Royce is nice enough to offer to drive all the way out here to pick me up just to turn around and drive right back home. It’s a long way from the Valley to the Westside—people in LA would even joke that we have a long-distance relationship.

  “Besides, technically, I’ve already been on two dates with him in D.C.,” I say.

  Dad raises his eyes again and shifts uncomfortably in his chair. Mom just shrugs, like she’s tired of this conversation “It’s up to you,” she says again.

  My parents don’t say anything more, so it’s settled. On Saturday, Royce and I are hanging out. It’s a small step, but a huge victory where my social life is concerned.

  * * *

  Of course, when Saturday rolls around and Royce comes to pick me up, neither of my parents are at home. Mom is out cleaning a house for cash, a connection through a friend. Dad pulled a weekend shift. I tell Royce I’m sorry they’re not here to say hello.

  “It’s cool,” Royce says as we’re driving over the canyon.

  I couldn’t wait to see him again, and we had to pull over right after we left my house so that we could say hello properly. Here I go again, doing things I never thought I would, like making out in cars. But it’s just so much fun kissing him. I don’t feel nervous at all around him, like I thought I would be with my first boyfriend. I’m just happy and excited.

  He has one hand on the steering wheel and holds my hand with the other. Watching him drive his silver-gray Range Rover Sport, I think he seems much older than seventeen. He drives fast, changing lanes, maneuvering between cars like the native Angeleno he is.

  “I like to drive fast,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

  “I see that,” I say, amused.

  Royce laughs. “By the way, Dad’s still in Washington. You’ll meet my mom and little sister though. Mason is back at SC.”

  I wasn’t really fond of Mason when I met him in the Ritz-Carlton lobby but I keep my mouth shut. I’m glad he’s back at college for now. Mason is his brother, and in Filipino families we don’t talk about the relatives we don’t like until we’re part of the family. When you’re married, you can throw them under the bus every which way. But only after you’re married.

  There’s even a Filipino saying that to court the daughter, you have to court the mother too. I wonder what Royce would say about that, so I ask him.

  “Oh, I’ve got this! Your mom is going to love me, just wait.”

  “Confident, are you?”

  He grins. “If she’s anything like her daughter, she’s in love with me already.”

  I laugh but I don’t deny it.

  * * *

  We pull up to the house and get out of Royce’s car. The gravel driveway leads to a freshly manicured lawn with tasteful shrubs and white flowers. There are magnificent white pillars holding up a balcony over the front door, and two big white chimneys standing proudly over the gray slate roof. It’s stately and traditional—everything I would have imagined a congressman’s house would be.

  Though I try not to show Royce, I’m a little intimidated to meet Mrs. Blakely. It’s not because they have more money or a bigger house than my family. Okay, so maybe that’s part of it. But it’s also because rich people are often so sure of themselves that it’s hard to feel as confident in their presence.

  Royce’s mother probably went to a school that taught her how to do everything correctly. She’s beautiful, I know, and I’m sure she’s smart and well-read and most likely even knows how to flawlessly fold a fitted sheet. Not even Mom does that—she just sort of bundles them up and stuffs them inside the hall closet.

  A little girl who looks to be about eleven years old rushes by on a scooter. She nearly runs over Royce’s foot.

  “What the heck are you doing, Olivia?” he says.

  “Trying to run over your foot.”

  I can’t decide whether to be appalled or to laugh at her honesty. It se
ems like something Danny would say. She has to be Royce’s little sister.

  “I can see that,” Royce says as his sister heads away from us down the driveway. “Are you not aware that your scooter would actually hurt my foot? I feel pain, you know. Even though I’m your older brother, I do feel pain.”

  Olivia spins around on her scooter. She giggles the kind of laugh that means she knows what she’s doing. I never understood why younger siblings take satisfaction in the pain of their older brothers and sisters. Looks like we have something in common.

  “My brothers are like that too,” I say.

  “Olivia,” Royce calls after his sister. “This is Jasmine, my girlfriend.”

  Olivia rides closer. She stops right in front of me. I finally get a better look at her face. She has long, wavy brown hair with blond highlights, golden-caramel skin, and dark eyes that look exactly like Royce’s. She’s gorgeous and knows it.

  “Royce likes you,” she says with an evil little laugh.

  “I do like her,” he says. “So watch it, Liv.”

  “Hi, Olivia,” I say. “I like your scooter. Too bad you don’t have another one. I’d race you to the corner.”

  “You wouldn’t beat me,” she says.

  “But I’d try.”

  Olivia lets out a laugh. “We’ll see,” she says.

  She’s growing on me.

  “You’re really pretty. I like your hair,” she says.

  “Thanks, I like yours too.”

  “Do you like Royce?” she asks, with the same devilish giggle.

  “I do,” I say, smiling up at him. He winks back.

  “Okay, okay, get out of here, Liv,” Royce says. “Where’s Mom?”

  “In the house. Duh.” Olivia sticks her tongue out at him and speeds off.

  “This way,” Royce says. “Told you.”

  “I think she’s cute,” I say. “I was kind of hoping she would chase you around a little bit more with that scooter of hers.”

  “I don’t think so,” he says as I follow him through the front door.

  He gives me a whole tour of the place. The Blakely house is spacious. There are huge, vaulted ceilings so high I can’t imagine how they clean the cobwebs even though the rooms are spotless. The rooms are spread far apart between different wings, and the house sits on a landscaped hill partly covered with solar panels. Even though my house is smaller, I think it’s cozier. It’s definitely louder. His is much bigger, but I bet Mr. Blakely needs more room for parties and meetings. There’s a huge dining room. Massively amazing industrial kitchen. Paintings hang everywhere.