Something in Between

  “You only have ten blocks to drive,” he says. “It’s nothing. Then I’ll sit in the car and sober up. You don’t even have to wait with me. I won’t drive until I feel totally fine.”

  “No way, you can sleep on the couch and drive in the morning. I’ll tell my parents we all just crashed.”

  I guess I really do have to drive, then. The dashboard lights are on. Headlights too. I haven’t even gotten my learner’s permit. I’m not so scared about driving the car as I am about getting caught without a license. If I get caught, will I get deported even sooner? I really don’t want to drive, but there’s no way out of this. I’m definitely not calling any of our parents.

  “Did I already start the car?” I ask.

  “You already started the car,” Royce says, trying not to laugh at me. “You just need to drive.”

  “Okay. Yeah. I can do this,” I say, taking a deep breath.

  “Just drive,” Kayla says. “You’ll do fine. It’s only how far? Thirty miles?”

  “It’s like a mile,” I say. “Maybe two.”

  I start to think that maybe I should just make them walk to my house, but there’s no way Kayla will make it. Her eyes are half-closed.

  “Oh yeah. By the way, what happened with Dylan?” Kayla asks. “Did he and I get back together?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “But he was very nice to you.”

  “Oh good,” Kayla says. “I should text him.”

  I snatch Kayla’s phone from her. “Not right now. You don’t want to say something stupid. And I need you to help me pay attention.”

  Royce knows I’m stalling. “Will you drive already?”

  I take a breath. “Yes, Mr. Blakely.” I turn the wheel, give it some gas. My hands are trembling. Why am I so afraid? Everyone knows how to drive except for me. If there’s ever anything I’m a big baby about, it’s this, but Royce has been a patient teacher. He always points out we’re not doing anything wrong, since I practice in a parking lot and I’m not driving on the road.

  “You can go faster,” Royce says. “You’re not even going ten miles an hour.”

  “That’s scary,” I say. “What if I lose control?”

  “Oh my God. You’re not the drunk one,” he says. “You really don’t want us to drive.”

  Still, I make the car crawl along. I do not want to crash a car that can be associated with Congressman Blakely. Knowing my luck, the whole awful thing would end up on the morning news.

  “This could take hours,” Royce growls. “You can’t go this slow, Jas.”

  “I’m not going to go any faster,” I say. “I wasn’t expecting this to be driver’s education with a drunk instructor.”

  “You should have your license already,” Royce complains.

  “Well, I can’t fix that at two in the morning. So help me out!”

  Royce leans back in his seat. “I’ll teach you some more this summer,” he says, forgetting or in denial that I have to leave after graduation, which is two months away.

  “Why don’t you just navigate,” I say.

  Right then I look at the rearview mirror and see a police car flashing its lights at us. I slam on the brakes, terrified, my heart in my throat.

  “What the hell?” Royce says. “He must be checking on Lo’s party.”

  I knew this was going to happen. Just like the last time.

  Bye-bye, America. Bye-bye, life.

  “Goddamn it! I told you I was going to screw up!” I’m terrified.

  “Chill out, calm down. Pull over,” Royce says as the police cruiser makes a loud bw-w-wip. “You weren’t drinking. You’re fine.”

  “I’m fine?” I say, pulling over. “I don’t have a driver’s license! My family could end up in a detention center. Who knows if I’ll ever see you again?! Oh my God. Oh my God.”

  “Maybe I should do th’ talking,” Kayla slurs.

  “Shut up, Kayla,” Royce and I both say. Royce looks like he’s sobering up, especially when he realizes what’s at stake.

  It feels like an eternity as the officer gets out of his car and walks up to the window. He knocks on it and I roll it down.

  “Good evening,” he says, eyeing all of us.

  I swallow my nerves. This can’t be harder than performing in front of thousands at Nationals. “How are you, Officer? Busy night?”

  “I’m fine,” he says cheerfully. “But your friends there don’t look so hot.”

  “They’re not,” I say.

  “How come? You all been drinking at that party down the street?”

  Did the officer bust Lo’s house? Is everyone at the party in trouble too?

  “That’s what they were doing,” I say. “I just stopped by to get them.”

  “So you weren’t drinking? Just your underage pals?” He looks at me closely. “Why, pray tell, were you driving so slow, then? You were twenty miles under the speed limit. You could have caused an accident.”

  Just then Royce opens the door and throws up in the gutter. He hacks so hard I think it’s going to wake up the entire neighborhood. This couldn’t get any worse.

  The police officer gets a whiff. He wrinkles up his nose.

  “That’s why,” I say. “I have three blocks to make it to the safe zone. Any false move, as you can see, will be a catastrophe to this leather interior, which will then be a catastrophe to my life. Look at this car. If anything happens to it, I’m dead meat.”

  The officer takes a closer look. “You know, kids, I could take the two of you in for underage drinking.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kayla and Royce say.

  I can’t imagine what Mr. and Mrs. Blakely would do when they found out their good son was in the drunk tank for the night. Kayla’s parents wouldn’t be too happy either, and mine would skin me alive just for being an accessory.

  “You know you’re lucky to have a friend like her,” the officer says, motioning to me. He holds up a finger. “You get one shot at life. Just one. And when you mess up, you need to think, ‘Am I taking advantage of my friends for my own selfish pleasure?’”

  I can’t believe he’s not asking for my license or registration.

  Royce is looking especially pale again. “Yes, Officer,” he gurgles.

  “Looks like you need to go,” the officer says. “He’s not looking so good. Get straight home. And for goodness’ sakes, drive safely. This is a nice car.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

  The officer shakes his head and gets back in his car and drives away. Finally, I pull away from the curb.

  Royce puts a comforting hand on my leg. “I’m sorry, Jas. I wasn’t thinking.”

  I shake my head. I’m still so scared that my heart is thumping. What does it matter anyway? We’re being deported.

  “It won’t happen again,” he says. “I promise.”

  It can’t. It’s too scary. I can’t take any more risks like this. I don’t think my heart can take it.

  42

  For unlike my mother, I did not believe I could be anything I wanted to be. I could only be me.

  —AMY TAN, THE JOY LUCK CLUB

  IT’S FINALLY APRIL 1. D-Day. Acceptance day, when all the colleges send emails telling us our fates. I’ve been admitted to two colleges so far: Northwestern and Pomona. But neither can offer me financial aid because of my legal status. So every time I click on an email and read that I’ve been accepted into a school, I don’t jump around joyously, since not one of them has determined that I’m eligible for any kind of tuition assistance.

  That doesn’t mean I don’t feel some kind of momentary exhilaration. I feel proud of myself for getting this far. But it already feels like I’m missing out, like these acceptances aren’t meant for me, but for someone else worthy
of attending those colleges. Some other person with my name.

  I’m starting to feel like I’m not the real Jasmine de los Santos. I’m her doppelgänger. The one who isn’t American, the one who didn’t become a National Scholar.

  Then I see the one I’ve been waiting for. The one I want. An email from Stanford’s Admissions office. This is heavy. Even more important to me than the National Scholarship letter.

  I click on the email and it opens.

  Oh my God.

  I don’t believe it. “I got into Stanford!” I yell. The letter says they will be sending financial aid information in the next mailing, which brings me a crazy burst of hope, but who knows what that means exactly. Maybe they’re just sending me the forms to fill out. The letter doesn’t mention that I’ve been awarded any financial aid.

  Mom has been packing boxes. She gives me a sad sort of hug and is very subdued in her response. “I’m very proud of you. I only wish I could say that you would definitely be able to go in the fall.”

  “If we could only stay... This would be a great opportunity. Best of all of them.” And Royce is going to Stanford too, I can’t help but think. We could be together like we’ve been talking about.

  “Let me see that,” Dad says. He’s just come in to grab another box. He’s been stacking them in the garage.

  I show him the letter, waiting while he reads for himself.

  Dear Jasmine:

  I take great pleasure in offering you admission to Stanford University. Congratulations! We know that you will bring something original and extraordinary to the intellectual community of our campus. We look forward to having you as a part of Stanford. We hope you accept!

  You clearly have the intellectual energy, discipline and imagination to flourish at Stanford. Your distinguished academic and extracurricular achievements captured our attention as we read through nearly 20,000 applications.

  Tell your family and friends and take the time to learn more about us as you make your decision. Please thank those teachers and counselors who have been your allies, who recommended you. They are in your cheering section and have played a part in this good news.

  Our warmest wishes,

  Joseph M. Bellow

  Dean of Admissions

  Dad hands it back. “Great, Jas. Is there a college you didn’t get into?”

  “Lots, Daddy, but only because I didn’t apply to them,” I say happily. My heart is beating hard. I want to go to Stanford so bad. More than anything, I mean, aside from staying in America, this is what I want. “But I want to go here. This is my dream.”

  “I know, sweetheart, I wish I could tell you that you can,” he says, waiting for Mom to tape a box. He says to her, “You going to take all day? I could take a nap while I wait.”

  “Maybe you should,” Mom says. “You’re too cranky.”

  Dad grumbles.

  All I can think of is going to Stanford and everything it means, all the doors that are going to be open for me. This is everything I’ve been dreaming of since I first thought about going to college. What if I wasn’t deported? What could I do then? What would my life look like? My stomach hurts with the possibilities.

  Dad shakes his head at Mom for getting the tape tangled.

  “But we don’t have to leave yet,” I say stubbornly. “Can’t we wait to see if Mr. Alvarado finds anything from the judge about our visa extension?”

  “Neneng,” he says. “We’re selling the house. We’ll have to be out of here no matter what. There will be nowhere for us to live.”

  “But even if we sell the house we can move somewhere else. We can all live in Oakland or something. You can be closer to me.”

  Danny and Isko are passing through. “The A’s are cool,” Danny says. “And the Raiders.”

  “Since when did you get so interested in football?” Dad asks, shrugging his shoulders. “Forget about sports. Use your brain, like your sister.” He taps the letter, which I’m still holding. “Why are you so in denial?”

  My comeback is fiery. “Why do you give up so easily?”

  “We’ve had this discussion,” Dad says. “Besides, how can we afford it?”

  “Stanford is supposed to be need-blind even to international students,” I say, smacking Danny in the head with the letter for still smirking at me. “I’m going to fill out the financial aid forms when they arrive.”

  “You’ll be wasting your time,” Dad says.

  “You’re so negative, Daddy,” I say. “This is why you should watch sports. It’s not over until time is out. I still have hope. If not for all of us, at least for me.”

  Dad seems a little hurt by my comment, but Danny is suddenly excited. He starts jabbering about an NHL game he was watching on television. “I’ve seen the Los Angeles Kings down two goals come back and score three in the last minute to win.”

  Dad gives Danny a look. “Why don’t you go finish packing your room?”

  I pat Danny on the head. “Thanks, Dan,” I say. This is one of the rare moments he’s come to my defense. My brothers may be quiet about deportation and show a kind of excitement for the adventure, but I know they would be happier staying here. That’s how cool they are. They may act selfish, but really they just want to please Mom and Dad. It’s just in our genes.

  * * *

  Millie is almost as happy for me as Royce is. She’s glowing as she reads the letter. I’ve propped her up on a bunch of her pillows so she can breathe better. It doesn’t sound like she’s improved that much, but she doesn’t have to breathe with the oxygen supplement all the time.

  “This is the most beautiful news,” she says. “A lifelong dream is being fulfilled with one letter. Isn’t that amazing, how that happens?”

  “I’m excited,” I admit. “I keep having this feeling that I can actually go. But so much has to happen for it to become a reality. Every day, I wake up thinking about how, if the money doesn’t come, I can still hide out somewhere and secretly attend all my classes. I’m such a nerd. I love going to school that much.”

  Millie laughs. “That would certainly be adventurous. But to be homeless on top of everything else would be far too difficult.”

  “I guess,” I say, giving up the fantasy.

  “But it doesn’t mean you don’t keep fighting, Jasmine. We experience certain things that change us for a reason. It’s not what happens to us that matters. What matters is how we react to it.”

  43

  Hope is a waking dream.

  —ARISTOTLE

  LOS ANGELES PRIVATE schools have their proms later than public schools, so a week later, Royce picks me up to take me to his prom. Spring has come in full bloom in the city. The purple jacaranda trees are bursting with color, and the smell of orange blossoms fills the air. A few days before, we went to my prom, hanging out with the cheer team and triple-dating with Kayla and Dylan, Lo and Julian. It was fun and low-key, at the ballroom of the local Hyatt. We all went to Denny’s after. I know Royce’s prom is going to be a much bigger deal.

  The Eastlake Prep prom has a 1920s Jazz Age theme, à la The Great Gatsby. Royce showed me the dance bids when they arrived earlier. The gilded invitations are gorgeous, with black backgrounds, gold art deco designs, and bold white lettering. The thing is, though, that the location is secret. We’re supposed to meet at his school, then they’ll let us know where to go for the prom.

  I’m expecting big yellow school buses to be lined up in front of Eastlake Prep to take us to the secret location, but instead there are rows of limousines and smaller, older luxury cars that are taking students and driving away.

  For an early graduation present, Millie said she would buy my prom dress. She took Mom, Kayla, and me all over Beverly Hills in search of the perfect dress. I don’t even think looking for my wedding dress someday will be such a bi
g deal. It took hours, but finally I found the perfect gown.

  Now I’m looking at my reflection in the tinted window of a posh black Bentley that’s about to take Royce and I to the dance. The dress’s white beaded bodice and sequins sparkle under the streetlights. I shift a little to check the asymmetrical hemline, which is just long enough to feel formal but short enough to show a little leg. I feel like a jazz-age Cinderella.

  “You look very beautiful tonight, Jas,” Royce says, a serious look on his face. His hands are shaking a bit when he slips the corsage over my wrist.

  I want to make fun of him for being so formal, but I take pity on the boy and just say thank-you. “You don’t look too bad either,” I tell him with a smile.

  In his black tux with gold cuff links, he’s the picture of dashing, and it reminds me of the National Scholar dinner, which already seems like a lifetime ago. He opens the door and helps me inside the Bentley, and the driver follows some of the other cars onto the freeway toward downtown Los Angeles.

  * * *

  Royce and I are standing on the rooftop of the Standard Hotel and looking over the gorgeous, twinkling city lights in the distance. We’re taking a break from dancing. I’ve met a bunch of people he’s friendly with, who seem nice enough, and seemed happy to meet me. I wonder if he just doesn’t give anyone a chance to be his friend. He’s drinking punch, but I’m sipping a glass of water. That’s the only downside of a white gown. You have to be careful when you eat or drink anything, and you have to be super careful about sitting down anywhere.

  “Remember the night in D.C.?” Royce asks.

  “Of course I do,” I say, smiling. “I wasn’t so sure about you then.”

  “What? You didn’t fall in love with me immediately?” He puts hands to his chest as if I’m giving him a heart attack. “Wasn’t I the best-looking guy there?”

  He’s a little peacocky about his looks, which is endearing. “Perhaps,” I say airily. “But it took me a long time to fall in love with you—a whole night.” One of the best nights of my life.

  Royce takes my hand and I know he’s remembering too. “Sometimes I think about who I should thank that we met. God? Destiny? My uncle for getting in a car accident on Topanga?”