Something in Between

  “It’s definitely worth a shot,” Royce says with a broad smile.

  “I have to say, it sounds good on paper. But it will be tricky,” Mr. Blakely says. “First I have to talk to the judge who presided over the case, see if I can get him to have a change of heart and grant some kind of temporary visa for you all. We don’t want you to be deported while we’re trying to make this happen. That might simply result in another hearing, which means waiting all over again. It could be a lengthy process.”

  “So she would have to wait for two things?” Royce says. “A hearing to see if she could stay temporarily, and then to see if the private bill passes?”

  “Yes,” Congressman Blakely says. “In the meantime, there will be a lot of information to gather. I’ll have to call the judge. Letters have to be written. Then the bill will have to be drafted. We can try to fast-track this, but that might not work. It could still take six months to a year, and there are no guarantees it will pass. It’s an exceptional case. Then again, you and your family, Jasmine, are exceptional. We have to find a way to tug on the heartstrings of my fellow congressmen, senators, and the president. I’d say you have a good chance, but you’ve probably heard that before.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Blakely,” I say. I can’t call him Colin, just like I can’t call his wife Debra. Not yet. Maybe one day. I’m floored that he’s helping us. I know it’s not for me, that he’s doing this for his son and because his wife asked him to help. He’s doing it for his family, and maybe that means Royce’s family really isn’t that different from mine.

  “Wait a minute. Before you go...” Congressman Blakely lifts his hand to stop Royce and I from leaving the room. “I’d appreciate if you kept what I’m doing quiet, Jasmine. It is very much against my party line. If certain people find out, they could take advantage of your situation to hurt me. And that would do neither of us any favors.”

  * * *

  “Wow, your dad is a superhero. Your mom too,” I say to Royce as we walk hand in hand on the Santa Monica Pier after meeting with his father. The pier is one of Royce’s favorite places in LA. He says it reminds him of his childhood, so we go there often. We’re next to the balloon-popping game at the carnival.

  This is the closest I’ve ever felt to him. Not only because he’s helping me but because his family knows me, the real me. They know me and want to help me.

  “I told you they could help,” he says simply.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’ll never be able to thank you guys enough.”

  “There’s no need to thank me. I’m doing it for myself, you know. I’m very selfish,” he jokes. “And you know I don’t have any other friends.”

  I still can’t believe it. Just one meeting with his father and all our problems have vanished. It’s magic.

  “Look at you lovers,” one of the carnies says. He holds up a black teddy bear cradling a heart. “Why don’t you do the girl a favor and win her something she’ll never forget?”

  Royce looks at me. “Think I have good enough aim?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I kind of want to go tell my parents the good news.”

  “Live a little,” the carnie says. “No one has all the time in the world. Your time for winning is now.”

  “He’s a good salesman, don’t you think?” Royce says.

  “Not good enough,” I say. I don’t feel like playing games right now.

  “Sorry, buddy,” Royce says to the man.

  We continue walking down the boardwalk. The breeze is cool and soft on my skin. Everywhere there are kids chasing each other around, laughing at the games. Several seagulls hover overhead. One lands on a railing. The Ferris wheel turns close by. A few kids scream from their seats as the ride rotates.

  Royce had offered to help with my situation from the beginning, and I kept turning away his help. I thought I was being practical, that I didn’t want to burden him with my problems when really I was too proud to accept his help. Too self-absorbed to accept his love, because love means letting other people love you too.

  While I’m happy for myself, I think about the many millions of people in my situation who don’t have the same resources, the same connections, and don’t have a voice in the system. There, but for the grace of God go I. I’d never really understood what that meant before, but I do now. What if we were locked away in a detention center for years? How would my brothers grow up? What would I be like when I got out? Would my parents’ hair be gray?

  I’d been thinking about what I want to do with my life, in case everything worked out, and now I think I know. I want to help these people in some way, to be an advocate for those who don’t have one.

  “You okay?” he asks, putting an arm around my shoulder.

  “What if I’d kept saying no? What if I didn’t accept your help?” I ask.

  “I’d have probably done the same thing anyway,” he says. “I should have done it earlier.”

  “We didn’t know it could be this easy,” I say. “And it’s not your fault. I’m really lucky.”

  “I’m lucky too,” he says simply.

  My mind turns back to the millions of illegal immigrants in this country, waiting and hiding. Trying to stay in America is a game of cat and mouse, a life of working under the table, for less than minimum wage, with no way to report workplace abuses and transgressions. What happens when they get sick? What happens if they’re hurt? The sacrifice they’re making is enormous.

  My story is only one of many.

  I feel connected to everyone who has ever tried to move to the United States in search of a better life. Those who have sacrificed so much for the dream of a future they won’t get to enjoy—only their children will.

  I feel tears welling up in my eyes, and I pledge that I will be worthy of that sacrifice.

  34

  The main thing is to remain oneself, under any circumstances; that was and is our common purpose.

  —MADELEINE ALBRIGHT

  AT SCHOOL, EVERYONE is shocked when they hear the results of the trial. Mrs. Garcia shakes her head. Coach Davis is angry. My teammates are livid. Mrs. Lopez, the school principal, pulls me aside and looks at me with sad eyes. “Deported?” she says in disbelief.

  Everyone says the same thing. But you’re a National Scholar. You’re a part of the fabric of this school, this city, this country. I want to tell them that the fabric is torn. A hole has been ripped through this country. People like me pour out of it, spilling back over the borders because of the way we are all criminalized, instead of only the few who are criminals. But I keep my mouth shut about the private bill for now.

  I wait a day to tell my family about my conversation with Congressman Blakely. Dad’s already contacting family members in the Philippines, planning our arrival. He looks like he has a gun to his back. We all do. We’re feeling like outsiders in our own community, in our own house.

  “What’s it going to be like over there?” Isko asks. “Will it smell different?”

  We’re eating dinner together. Mom has made fried rice with shrimp and chicken. I drown mine in chili sauce. Isko and Danny stuff their faces with food.

  “Everything will be different,” Mom says. “You won’t be the minority anymore.”

  “What does that mean?” Isko asks.

  “It means everyone will be Filipino like you,” Dad says.

  “But I’m American,” Isko says. “I’ll be the one talking funny.”

  “You’ll look exactly like them, and for your information, Filipinos can speak English. You just don’t remember.”

  Isko pouts.

  Danny gives his little brother a look, the one that means all the cheerleaders will love him and not his little brother. I’m glad Danny seems to be getting out of his funk.

  “Shut up,” Isko says.

  Da
nny feigns surprise. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You’re doing it again,” Isko says.

  “Will you stop?” Mom says to Danny. “No one wants to kiss you.”

  Danny laughs while looking at Isko. “Oh yes, they do.”

  I speak up. “I met with Royce’s dad.”

  “He was finally in town?” Dad says, taking a last bite.

  Mom clears the plates from the table. Danny helps, but he still teases Isko by winking when he picks up Isko’s plate. Isko growls at him. Mom gives them both the look.

  “I asked him if he could help us.” I push around the last shrimp on my plate but don’t have the stomach to finish, I’m too nervous to share my news.

  “And?” Dad says. “Did he give you a lecture and a nice send-off? ‘Bon voyage! Thanks for dating my son!’”

  “No, Daddy,” I say patiently. “We had a nice conversation. He wants to try to help. He wants to write a private bill.”

  I tell Dad and Mom about how Congressman Blakely is going to get the judge to agree to a stay of deportation and issue a temporary visa or something while congress drafts us a private bill. I tell them how it will work.

  “The US Congress is going to pass a bill just for us?” Dad asks, his eyes bulging. “And the president will sign it?”

  “Yes.”

  Neither of them looks excited at the news. I don’t understand.

  “Jasmine, it sounds too good to be true, and here’s the thing—when it’s too good to be true, it usually is. Think about it. This bill would have to pass the House and the Senate, and the president’s desk? That’s a lot of what-ifs. Don’t you remember that he and his party oppose immigration reform?”

  “It will work if we get a lot of lawmakers on our side.” I explain the stories about other private bills. I’ve done some research as well. “They’re so rare that I don’t see why we would be denied. This is what we were missing in the deportation hearing, remember? Having high-ranking officials on our side. Remember how the judge asked if there were any letters from politicians? It’s too bad we didn’t tell our lawyer we knew Royce’s dad. Apparently it’s how this sort of thing works. If you get enough politicians on your side you can get what you need—”

  “That’s the problem,” Dad says. “Politicians are the last people to be trusted. And if you depend on them, you find out you’re just a pawn in some bigger game of theirs.”

  “It’s not like that,” I say. “He’s really trying to help. They helped their Filipino housekeeper, Maria—”

  “Oh great. Now we’re just like the help,” Dad says. “They’re going to want us to clean their house next?”

  Once he makes up his mind about people, I can never get Dad to listen. It’s so frustrating. I get up from the table. “Why do you have to be so difficult?”

  Mom is surprisingly quiet as she dries a dish and puts it away.

  My brothers have long disappeared to another room, disinterested or too scared to follow this conversation.

  “I’m not being difficult,” Dad says. “I’m a realist. If our deportation is stayed, and this private bill passes, I’ll be the first one to celebrate. But we need to be prepared for the worst. Mom and I are putting this house on the market, and making plans for what will happen when we do have to move back to the Philippines. We can’t depend on the imaginary games of politicians. We have to have a concrete plan. We can’t live like ostriches with our heads stuck deep into the sand.”

  “But we don’t have to give up so easily either,” I say. “Don’t you want to stay?”

  “Of course I’d rather stay. But sometimes I wish I’d never suggested moving us to this damn country,” Dad says. He gets up from the table. “It’s made me break all my promises to my children.”

  * * *

  There’s no cheer practice after school. Just a brief team meeting to say goodbye to the seniors and to let the returning girls know when practices will start up again during the summer. The meeting is already over. Coach Davis left in a hurry. I thought that our send-off would be a bigger deal, but no one really wants to linger. Everyone must feel the coming spring break in the air.

  Most of the girls eagerly scatter. Kayla doesn’t. She comes up to me. “Hey, Jas, want a ride home?”

  We haven’t spoken much since the movie-theater incident. I have no idea if she’s still dating Mason or not. I’m not mad at her for keeping it from me, but I am annoyed that she asked Royce to do so, and I’m still mad about what her little brother did to mine. I haven’t told her how Royce and I are doing, and what he’s doing for my family.

  “No, thanks, I’ll walk,” I say.

  “Please? We can get a coffee,” she says.

  Even I can’t hold a grudge forever. “All right,” I say.

  At the coffeehouse, we sit at a corner table and sip Americanos. The caffeine from the espresso wakes me up. I feel like I could go on a five-mile run or a shopping binge in Beverly Hills.

  “Have you talked to Lo lately?” Kayla asks.

  I already know where this is going. “If you want to know how Dylan is doing, why don’t you just ask him?”

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  “How’s Mason?”

  “That’s over,” she says. “I don’t even know why I dated that jerk.”

  “Yeah, seriously.”

  “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Mason. I went out with him because he kept calling, and I was tired of waiting around while Dylan toured with his band. You know how bored I get,” she says, putting her hands around her mug.

  “Try long-distance when you have to go to the Philippines.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I guess that relationship is over.”

  Meaning Royce and me.

  “No, we’re not over,” I say, offended.

  “Oh. I just assumed that since the Philippines is so far away...”

  “You shouldn’t assume,” I say. “Look, Kayla. Why are we here? What do you want?”

  Kayla takes a breath. “I want my friend back. I wanted to tell you I’m so sorry about what happened with our brothers. Brian’s been acting out since our parents split, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I really thought he was just joking. I was horrified when it happened, and I was so embarrassed. I couldn’t face you.”

  I understand how that feels.

  “I miss you, Jas. You’re my oldest friend,” she says, her eyes watery.

  “I miss you too, K,” I say, close to tears as well. It’s been such an emotional year.

  Because no matter how mad she and I get at each other, we bounce back. I can forgive Brian for what he did to Danny, I guess. And we’re not going to let an idiot like Mason get in the way. But next time she wants to hook up with a guy, I’m going to make her screen him through me first, and I tell her so.

  “I don’t want to meet another guy,” she says. “I miss Dylan. I made such a huge mistake. Do you think he’ll ever talk to me again?”

  “Why not?” I say, thinking of everything Royce and I have been through, and how no relationship is perfect all the time. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

  35

  The most difficult thing is the decision to act, the rest is merely tenacity.

  —AMELIA EARHART

  IT’S MID-MARCH AND we don’t hear anything about a new visa, or about the private bill other than Royce telling me that his father’s staff is working on it. Except for our relationship, which is growing deeper every day, everything else seems to be up in the air. I’m starting to think maybe Dad was right for not being optimistic about the process. If we do end up having to move back to Manila, Dad says his cousins have a house we can rent-to-own.

  Mom starts organizing every room. We all help. A lot of our things will be sold at a yard sale to
help raise travel expenses. We just can’t afford to move all our things. Mom says we’ll get new furniture in the Philippines. We’ll truly start over. She’s already window-shopping online, setting placeholders for the furniture she’s going to buy. She’s not as sad when she does this. Somehow I think there’s a kind of peace, a calm in the storm when she confronts Dad on the budget for all the furniture. Of course he’s more concerned with our house and if and when it sells.

  Although immersing themselves in the business of moving helps my parents get their minds off the deportation, I get sad when they talk about selling the house. It’s the only place I can remember living. When I think of home, I don’t think of the Philippines or even America. I think of our house.

  * * *

  Even if my whole family is readying for the worst, I still have hope for the bill. I try not to constantly pester Congressman Blakely about the process. One night, at a dinner with Royce’s mother and father at a restaurant in Beverly Hills near Tiffany’s, I ask, “Are these things hard to draft?”

  “No harder than any other bill,” he says, looking around. “But let’s not talk about that here.”

  His wife gives him a look. I don’t know what it means, other than we change the subject to both Royce’s acceptance and my interest in attending Stanford. I won’t find out whether I’m in until April. I try not to think about it too much. Even if I can stay and Stanford does admit me—two really big ifs—I’ll still have to figure out a way to pay my tuition. Stanford says it’s need-blind even when it comes to international students, but who knows if that’s really true? As my dad says, you never know. I can’t depend on anything.

  “So you applied there too,” Mrs. Blakely says. “What are you hoping to study?”

  “Political science, I think,” I say. “I’ve been thinking I might go to law school.”

  Mr. Blakely beams. “An excellent choice!”