Something in Between

  * * *

  On the way home, I think of the other good thing in my life that I wrecked. When I first met Royce, I thought he was a total player. He was so confident when we met, and no one that rich and handsome isn’t a player, right?

  But when he told me about Carrie, he also told me about other girls. Sure, he’s had a number of girlfriends. (Six. But who’s counting? Me.) But he claimed that four of them were girls who walked home with him between grades two through seven. He said they only held hands. No kisses. No actual dates. Because each one walked with him at least twice, he counted them as girlfriends.

  That one made me laugh.

  The fifth one was a “real” girlfriend, but they only went out for a month.

  So I guess he didn’t have as much experience with girls as I thought.

  It’s Christmas vacation, and I can’t get him out of my mind as I go between reading trashy novels, trying to get over losing at Regionals, and helping Mom with her work. She started working at Millie’s old firm the other day.

  I told Royce I needed time to figure out my own life, but all I can do is think of him in Aspen. He’s probably at some ski resort with those beautiful European girls who know how to snowboard down giant mountains. He probably won’t be lonely for long.

  He hasn’t texted or called, but maybe that’s because he’s keeping his promise. It’s still early during winter break, and I’m hoping he’ll break down and text me. I’m stubborn. I don’t want to be the one to break down first. So I help Mom, babysit my brothers, and decorate the house for Christmas. Kayla tries to cheer me up, and we spend afternoons baking cookies and shopping for presents.

  I miss him though. I miss telling him about my life and hearing about his.

  Instead, I fill out my Stanford application, and I send them the same essay I wrote for the National Scholarship but tweaked a little to answer their question. Maybe I’m delusional, but I want to hold on to some kind of hope that the future I want is still out there and within reach. I can’t lose my focus like I did at Regionals. I have to stay in the game.

  Mom’s started working for Millie, and while she was nervous at first, she’s much more confident now. They have her working data entry, and she practices her typing skills when she’s not at the office. At least we’re not as worried about money anymore.

  * * *

  I turn eighteen in the middle of Christmas break. Both Royce and I have birthdays within a week of each other, and now we won’t be celebrating together like we’d planned. I end up deciding to just have a quiet birthday celebration with my family.

  I should have known I wouldn’t get away with that. The night before my actual birthday, Kayla and the team surprise me and take me out to CPK, where we get large barbecue pizzas and Chinese chicken salads. They put candles on the molten chocolate cake and sing “Happy Birthday” really loudly. It’s a fun night, and I’m glad I have my friends. For a while, I’m able to forget my problems.

  At home on the day, Mom decorates the house with party favors in silver and white, my favorite colors, and Dad lets me blast my favorite music over the TV’s sound system. I sit next to Lola Cherry at the kitchen table, watching Mom put the finishing touches on lunch. I’ve specially requested lumpia and pancit. It’s my birthday, and I figure I can eat what I want.

  “What did you get me for my birthday?” I ask Lola Cherry.

  “Same as last year,” Lola says like she’s bored.

  “You’re going to hit my brothers with your cane?”

  “No. Though they need it.”

  “Hey!” Danny yells. “I didn’t do anything!”

  Lola whacks him on the tush with her cane faster than a bolt from the blue. “Don’t yell at your Lola,” she says.

  “I wasn’t.” Danny rubs his rear, then steps into the safe zone, one cane’s length away. I laugh, feeling warm all over.

  “Where’s your brother?” she asks.

  “Why?” Danny says.

  “Because he needs one now. It should always be even.”

  “Isko!” Danny yells in mad laughter.

  I laugh as I go answer the door. It’s Millie. She hugs me and hands me a present. “Happy birthday,” she says. “It’s just a little something.”

  I open the gift to find a leather-bound picture album with gold filigree. “It’s gorgeous—thank you so much! Come meet some of my family.”

  I take her elbow and lead her into the kitchen to meet Lola, but there’s no introduction needed. It’s as if they’re continuing a conversation from another life. How do old women do this? Put them into a room, and they’re like sisters.

  “I can’t believe these knuckleheads,” Lola says to her. “They’re just like my grandchildren in Manila. Always causing trouble.” Then she looks at me, though my brothers are laughing and dancing just out of cane’s reach. “Especially this one.”

  “What did I do?” I laugh.

  “I understand.” Millie sits down. “Who keeps this younger generation in line if not us? I always keep something close, just to threaten them.”

  My brothers laugh. They’re still dancing out of Lola’s reach.

  “Here,” Lola starts to hand her cane to Millie, though we all know she’s pretending.

  Millie is clearly an expert at this and holds out her hand as if about to take Lola’s cane. “You want me to take a swat at ’em?”

  “My hand’s getting tired,” Lola says, and just like that both women are laughing hysterically.

  “You know, when I was your age,” Millie says to me, “I had a relative like Lola Cherry.”

  “Was she as beautiful?” Lola says.

  Both women start laughing again.

  “No,” Millie says, “and it was a he. Uncle George resembled a potato, but he could snap your rear hide faster than a buffalo stampede.”

  “I like him,” Lola says. “Does he have a girlfriend?”

  Millie bursts into laughter and holds out her hand as if she’s going to address that in a moment. “The thing is,” she says through her giggles, “he was blind!”

  Both women roar. As they do, I set the table and Mom puts the lumpia and pancit in the center along with plates of boiled pork and vegetables.

  “That’s good aim for a blind man,” Lola says in amazement.

  “It was,” Millie says. “And he did have a brother. He was blind too. They had contests to see how many of us they could whack on birthdays and holidays.”

  Just when I think both women are done laughing, Lola says, “I changed my mind. I don’t want either of them for a boyfriend. I need a man to see all of my beauty.”

  Mom hands me a hot plate as the two women howl. “Millie should come keep Lola Cherry company more often,” she says with a smile.

  Royce never even had the chance to meet Millie or Lola Cherry, I realize, and I bet he’d like both of them. I kept him separate from my friends, my family, not only because I wanted to be alone with him, but also because I was worried about him getting to know everything about me. I was keeping him at arm’s length. But I wish now that I’d been much more open from the beginning.

  I like you, Jas. I don’t care what you are. I just want to be with you.

  If he doesn’t care where I’m from or what I am, why can’t I do the same for him?

  * * *

  It’s Christmas Eve when my parents finally hear back from an immigration lawyer. Dad thinks the fees will be too expensive, and even though I was able to get a few fee waivers for my college applications, I still cost my parents more money this month than I normally would. No one told me how expensive applying to colleges would be. It’s crazy how everyone expects you to go to the best colleges but then no one tells you how to get there.

  Dad sits on the floor, messing with the train track for the toy train that run
s around the base of the Christmas tree. “We need to keep looking for a lawyer,” he says. “This one’s consultation fee is equal to a week’s worth of groceries already. If we go to trial, it’ll be even more...”

  “I already made an appointment,” Mom says.

  Dad looks up from the track. “So cancel it.”

  “He’s got good references.” Mom pauses. She stands up and turns on the radio to a station playing Christmas music. Little bell sounds tinkle from the speakers. “Anyway, Millie offered to pay the consultation fee.”

  “Millie can’t pay the consultation fee,” Dad says. He likes Millie, but he doesn’t like accepting money. He’s proud, like I am.

  “Why not?” Mom says. “We can get a better lawyer this way. Do you want to be ripped off?”

  “I’m feeling ripped off right now just having this conversation. Handouts from your boss? I don’t want to be in debt to a rich old white woman. Or for you to be either. You shouldn’t owe anyone anything. They’ll take advantage of you.”

  I side with Mom. “She’s really nice and doesn’t deserve that,” I say.

  “Neneng. Butt out. This isn’t your conversation.”

  “This conversation belongs to all of us,” Mom says. “Jasmine wants to live in America too. And if you haven’t noticed, your daughter is a National Scholar. More than I can say for you.”

  “I work with my hands,” Dad says. “That means I know how this world runs—through hard work.” The train comes around the track and falls off onto the carpet.

  “We need a good lawyer,” Mom says. “You can’t fix legal situations like ours with your hands. You’ve been watching too many gangster movies.”

  “Yeah, Daddy,” I say. “We need to put our best foot forward. If Millie wants to help, then let her. Hasn’t she been on our side all along? Didn’t she give Mom a job? Just think of it as a Christmas bonus.”

  “Christmas bonus...?” Dad echoes. He returns the train to the track.

  “Listen to yourself,” Mom says. “You sound like some kind of Scrooge.”

  “I am some kind of Scrooge,” Dad mumbles.

  * * *

  After we’re all done arguing—Mom and I insist we won, like always—I decide I’m going to stop waiting and text Royce. I can’t blame him for his father’s decisions. If he doesn’t care that I’m an illegal alien, why should I care that he’s the son of a conservative congressman?

  I miss him something awful. The truth is, I’m not just his best friend—he’s my best friend too. Just like Kayla is, but in a different way. He understands the part of me that no one else in my life completely does. Kayla’s smart, but she’s not into books and art like I am, and my parents don’t like museums—when we went to the Getty, they stayed in the gift shop.

  Sometimes Royce and I would just send emails with quotes to each other.

  After we went to the beach once, he sent me:

  royceb: Her fair hair had streamed out behind her like gold in the sun. TOWER OF IVORY. HOUSE OF GOLD. By thinking of things you could understand them.—James Joyce, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

  I wrote back:

  jasmindls: I am alive where your fingers are—Anne

  Sexton, Love Poems

  * * *

  It’s nearly Christmas. And isn’t Christmas all about forgiveness and making peace with each other? All I can think about is him and when I’m going to see him again.

  In the warmth of my bed, I pull my comforter over my head. The twinkly white lights decorating my room create a soft glow through the blankets. I think about what I should write. I try a few different sentences, but none of them seem quite right. I try to look for a quote, but nothing seems to fit.

  Finally, I realize it’s because there’s only one thing to say.

  jasmindls: I miss you.

  He writes back right away.

  royceb: what happened to waiting to talk till after xmas?

  I smile. I can imagine him texting me under the table while he’s at some fancy party with his parents.

  jasmindls: Close enough. Merry Christmas Eve.

  My skin tingles when I see his next text.

  royceb: I miss you too.

  I’m typing a reply when my phone rings. It’s funny how we hardly talk to each other—our generation prefers sending messages for hours. But I’m glad he called. It’s so much nicer to hear his actual voice.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey. Where are you?”

  “Out on the terrace, getting away from everyone, watching the snow fall. I wish you were here to see it.”

  I smile. He likes looking out at views. “I wish I was there too. I’ve never seen snow fall,” I say. “What’s up with your family? Are they bugging you?”

  “It’s nothing, just the same old stuff. Mom and Dad are arguing about Mason again.”

  “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s nothing new,” he says. “Hey, I meant to tell you last time I saw you. I, uh, got into Stanford. Early Decisions were sent out.”

  “Royce! That’s awesome! Congratulations! Aren’t you excited?” I say, and I’m happy for him, but the feeling is both joyous and bittersweet, hearing that he’s gotten something I want so badly.

  “Yeah, I am. Mostly I’m relieved. Probably helped that my dad knows the chancellor,” he says.

  “You’re just being modest, stop! You deserve this.” He really does; he works so hard. Maria told me, when I was over once, that he’d won some fancy writing award at his school. He never makes much of his accomplishments like I do mine.

  So that’s why he drove out to see me that day—he wanted to tell me his good news in person, and he never even got to. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to tell me earlier.”

  “It’s okay,” he says, and I know he means it. “Hey, do you think your parents would let you come and visit?” he asks, hope in his voice. “We’re here for another week. I know you don’t know how to ski, but you’ll pick it up quickly—you’re so coordinated.”

  “That’s so sweet. But probably not. Filipino Christmases are sort of a big deal. We go to Midnight Mass and then we eat salty ham and drink hot chocolate—the thick Spanish kind.”

  “Man, that sounds nice.”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, what about after Christmas? We’re here till New Year’s.”

  “I wish I could, but I can’t,” I whisper. “My parents aren’t like yours. They’re not going to let me stay with my boyfriend out of town somewhere.”

  For a while, neither of us says anything.

  Then, “Hey, Jas, I’m really sorry about what I said about the reform bill. You believe me, right?” His voice is low and sad.

  I think about it. If I didn’t believe he was sincere, I wouldn’t be talking to him now. “I do.”

  “I thought about it, about what it means that it didn’t pass,” he says. “I never realized how much stuff like that affects people. To my family, it’s just my dad’s career. But it’s your life.”

  “Yeah.” I press the phone closer to my ear, blinking back tears. I can hear how much he cares about me, and I wish I’d told him earlier. I was so lonely without him to lean on.

  “So what are you guys going to do now? You don’t have to leave, do you? That would be crazy. You can’t leave, even if you’re illegal.”

  “Undocumented,” I snap. “I hate that other word.” Even though I use it myself all the time, but for some reason, I want to correct him.

  “Sorry, sorry. My bad.”

  “It’s okay. I’m sorry I’m so sensitive. Anyway, in answer to your question, we’re going to meet with a lawyer, see what our options are.”

  “I want to help,” he says. “Anything I can do, just ask, okay? I can even talk to my dad. He might
know how to help. He knows a lot of people.”

  I inhale sharply. Wasn’t this exactly what I was afraid of?

  “He wouldn’t report you, if that’s what you’re worried about. You’re my friend,” he says, trying not to sound too defensive.

  “I know, I believe you, but I think we should keep him out of it for now, okay?” I say.

  “Okay.” He can tell I don’t want to talk about it anymore. “I hate skiing anyway, did I ever tell you?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “It’s too cold and Mason always beats me down the hill.”

  I laugh, thinking of Royce trying to catch up to his older brother.

  “So we’re good now?” he asks softly.

  “We’re good. Come home,” I say, and my voice betrays the yearning I feel inside.

  “I’ll be there as fast as I can,” he promises.

  20

  I look forward to an America which will not be afraid of grace and beauty.

  —JOHN F. KENNEDY

  DAD GIVES ME a ride to Royce’s house in Bel-Air on Christmas afternoon so that I can drop off his present. I know the drive is far, and I had to beg my dad to take me, but I really want it to be there for him when he gets back instead of giving it to him when I see him. There’s just something I hate about giving gifts late. I’d rather it sit at his house for a week than for him to think I’m some kind of last-minute shopper—which I am.

  I hadn’t planned on buying him a gift, since we were fighting, but I couldn’t help myself. It’s in my Filipino blood. We love giving gifts. It doesn’t even matter if we’re upset at the person getting the gift.

  “Where is this boy’s house?” Dad asks.

  “Just around the next corner,” I say, pointing to the street.

  The whole neighborhood is decorated for Christmas. The big, classic houses are absolutely gorgeous. Lights are wrapped around the pillars and roofs. Even the palm trees look like they’re covered with icicles.

  I wish Royce were around to celebrate with my family. We’d show him a real Filipino Christmas. Mom would give him warm ginger tea and a thick yellow rice cake for breakfast. Isko and Danny would force him to play video games, and Dad would torture Royce by trying to teach him traditional Tagalog holiday songs. I’m lucky that my whole family gets along with him. The boys are constantly bothering me to ask him over to the house.