Every spare moment I’m not at school, I’m online, trying to determine how we can fix the situation we’re in, how illegal aliens can become legal in this country. If the new reform bill doesn’t pass, the news is terrifyingly grim on that front. My family is breaking the law, and apart from leaving and trying to come back under proper work visas, there’s not much we can do. In my parents’ minds, they weren’t doing anything wrong but were trying to do the best for their children, to give them a new, American start in life. Do I blame them for that? I don’t know.
I can understand the other side too—that Americans who were born here, or were born to American parents, don’t think we deserve to be here. I get it. But it doesn’t make it any easier. I thought we were here legally, and to think that we’re as good as criminals in the eyes of the law...it’s stomach-churning. I feel so helpless.
But I can’t share any of that with my college counselor. “Regionals are coming up soon,” I tell Mrs. Garcia. “And we really want to win Nationals this year.”
“Of course, and senior year is a lot of pressure too,” Mrs. Garcia says. She’s across from me, and she reaches for my hand. “You know I’m here for you,” she says, giving me a squeeze. “Are you sure that isn’t all it is? You seem worried about something.”
“Uh...” I’m so overwhelmed I don’t even know where to begin. I thought this was going to be a happy moment, telling her about going to Washington, D.C., but now all of the stress of the last few weeks is bubbling up again.
I live in fear that the tiniest little thing—like going to a party and getting caught drinking underage—could get my family in trouble. What if I get caught jaywalking? Littering? I suddenly wonder about Mrs. Garcia. Is she an immigrant? Are her parents, or grandparents? Does she have to deal with people thinking she doesn’t belong here too? But everyone in America is from somewhere else, right?
So maybe we’re all aliens, like Dad was joking about during the news. He says if we were from the great beyond, we would have fewer problems because everyone would at least want our technology. Mom, of course, says that even space aliens would have trouble finding jobs in America.
“I’m sorry, Jasmine. I didn’t tell you about your teachers to stress you out more. That wasn’t my intention at all,” she says, leaning forward in her chair. “How’s everything else going? Did you turn in your UC app?”
“Not yet,” I say.
“Well, don’t delay, the deadline’s coming up and the sooner you apply, the better your chances.”
“I know, I know.”
“I know you’ll get it done,” she says. “And remember, if it becomes too much for you to handle, there are people who care about you. You don’t always have to rely on yourself. There’s an entire community here for you.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Garcia, but I’m okay.”
Mrs. Garcia squeezes my hand again. “You know where to come if you want to talk.”
“I do,” I say, thanking her.
Dad said schools are safe zones for illegal immigrants, but I’m not ready to tell her about my status. Not yet.
* * *
After school, I tell Coach Davis I have to go to D.C. to accept my award while the girls warm up. She’s excited for me, though she knows this is a minor bump for the team.
“It’s a difficult weekend to miss,” she says. “We’ve got a football game and pre-Regionals this weekend. We have a real shot at Nationals this year, but it’s up to you girls to get us there.”
“I know—I’m sorry. I’ll put in extra time in workouts and practices when I come back.”
“I know. But I need someone to lead the practices while you’re gone. And I’ll have to pull up a flyer from the JV team to take your spot. I’ll ask Courtney to be interim team captain when you’re in D.C.,” she says.
I get that she has to name a captain while I’m away because the team needs one. But I’m surprised that she’s chosen Courtney, a junior, to lead in my place.
“Why not Kayla?” I ask. “She’s got seniority. She puts in the time...”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Coach Davis says.
“She’ll be disappointed,” I add.
“Too bad,” Coach says. “Kayla hasn’t been on point lately and she’s even missed a few practices. The other girls won’t look up to her like they do you. What’s going on with her? Do you know?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Her parents split up.” And she’s got a new boyfriend, but I don’t mention that.
Coach nods. “That’s rough. I hope you’re there for her.”
“I am,” I say. Even though I haven’t seen her outside of school lately. She’s always with Dylan, but I know I’m just using that as an excuse. I’ve been avoiding her too. I want to tell her what’s going on with me, but I’m embarrassed. Of the two of us, I’ve always been the one who had her life together—the tighter family, the better grades. I can’t tell her I’m a mess, that it’s all a big lie. I have too much pride.
I don’t agree with Coach’s choice for captain. I think more responsibility might help pull Kayla back toward the team. Everyone likes her. They’ll listen to her, but Coach won’t change her mind. I hope Kayla doesn’t take the news too hard.
After Coach tells the team about my award and how I’ll be heading to D.C., all the girls come up to congratulate me and give me hugs.
“Don’t forget us when you’re rich and famous,” says Deandra.
“The little people,” agrees Emily.
Courtney, who’s almost six feet tall, laughs at that. The others beam—everyone’s so happy for me.
“I’d never forget you guys!” I tell them. “Otherwise you’ll throw me off the pyramid and won’t catch me!”
“Girl, you got that right,” they say and laugh.
They’re all here, except for Kayla. She doesn’t come up to hug me or congratulate me. And that’s how I know she’s mad.
* * *
After practice, I wait for Kayla to change out of her cheer clothes. Walking out of the bathroom stall, she brushes by me and opens her backpack on the locker room bench.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the scholarship?” She doesn’t look up from the floor. “I have to find out with everyone else?”
Right. I never told her about it. I’d meant to, but then with everything that happened, it just slipped my mind. I feel my cheeks burn. “I don’t know. The day I heard the news, I wanted to tell my family first, and then I sort of forgot...”
“But if you’re going to D.C. this weekend, haven’t you known for, like, almost a month already? Did you think I’d be jealous or something? That’s messed up.”
I walk over to her and sit down on the bench next to her backpack. “No, it’s not that. I’m sorry. Things have been weird. At home, I mean. I didn’t even know I was going to D.C. until a couple days ago.”
Finished stuffing clothes inside her backpack, Kayla zips up the sides. “Things are weird at home for you? At least your parents don’t hate each other.”
I gently grab her arm, turning her toward me. “There’s a lot going on that I haven’t told you about. First of all, my mom lost her job at the hospital.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh my God, Jas, I’m so sorry. Is she okay? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was embarrassed. I know I shouldn’t be, but I just... Ugh. And I’m so sorry I haven’t been there for you as much as I should have been. I told myself you were busy with Dylan and you didn’t need me. But I’m here now. Tell me what’s going on with you too.”
Kayla sighs. Tears are building up in her eyes. “I just thought you didn’t care. You’ve been totally MIA for the last few weeks. Things have gotten so bad at home. Dad’s gone, and Mom spends as much time out of the house as possible. And I’m stuck watching Brian on the weekends. I hate everything
. I just want my life to go back to normal.”
I feel the same way, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I hug Kayla until she’s done crying. Then I go to one of the stalls to get a wad of toilet paper so she can wipe her eyes and blow her nose.
“How’s Dylan?” I ask. Talking about boys always makes Kayla feel better. She instantly lights up.
“He’s good.” She sniffles. “I really like him. He’s not like any other guy I’ve dated. He’s really chill and easy to hang out with. I just...feel like I can totally be myself around him.”
“That’s amazing,” I say, feeling wistful. It’s not as if Royce and I have been in contact lately. We sort of lost the thread—okay, fine, I dropped it. I’ll probably never see him again.
“What are you going to do on your trip?” Kayla asks.
“There’s a tour of the Capitol, and there’s this fancy reception for the National Scholars. And I’m supposed to meet the president, I guess.”
“The president?” She wipes her nose, then throws the tissue away. “Wow, Jas, that’s huge. How fancy is this dinner? What are you going to wear?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about that yet.”
Kayla pulls me up from the bench. “We have to get out of here,” she says. “We’re going shopping!”
* * *
By Wednesday afternoon, I’ve got my bags completely packed. I stuffed a little blue glass bottle inside my suitcase so I can scoop up some dirt from the capital to add to my collection.
We’re on the way to the airport. My brothers stayed home with one of Mom’s friends. Dad and Lola Cherry are along for the ride. Lola Cherry is in her seventies, wearing large Jackie O glasses, and has the demeanor of someone who was quite the looker in her youth. She dyes her hair black and wears bright red lipstick, but like the typical Filipino matron, lives in comfortable housedresses and flip-flops.
I’ve been sort of dreading this moment when I leave them. It’s the first time I’ll be on my own anywhere, and I know how Mom can be. She’s worried and talking a hundred miles an hour. “You need to be careful out there. Washington, D.C., is filled with strange old men. You keep them away from you. Button up your blouse. And no makeup.”
“A chaperone is picking me up at the airport,” I say, nibbling my nails. “You’re overreacting.”
“I don’t know this chaperone,” Mom says.
“Me either,” Dad says. “He could be a space alien for all I know.”
“Daddy,” I say. “Just stop. You’re being silly. And it’s a girl.”
Lola Cherry sits in the backseat, snickering. “If you were smart, Jasmine, you would take me along,” she says.
“Why? So you can flirt with all the old congressmen?” Dad says.
Lola clicks her tongue. “I don’t flirt,” she says. “I don’t have to say a thing. They’ll come to me because of my beauty. They’ll take me to dinner on the town. I want to see this Washington, D.C., nightlife.”
I laugh. I should probably take Lola Cherry—she’d probably have more fun than me.
“Lola Cherry!” Mom says. “You’re not helping. These people have no scruples.”
“I know,” Lola says, winking at me.
I grin back.
“Ay,” Mom says. “I knew we shouldn’t have let you come with us.”
“So you can keep torturing your daughter on your own?”
“I’m not torturing her,” Mom says. “She needs to hear these things.”
“Mom,” I say. “I’ll be fine. It’s perfectly safe. This is a huge award. There’s a ton of security. Nothing will happen to me! Quit worrying. And you know what? That reform bill is going to pass the House. I can feel it. Everything will be okay.” My heart begins to beat faster, as I think about everything that’s at stake.
“That bill better pass,” Dad says. “Or the UFO is going to pick us up and take us away.”
“Dad, quit with the space alien jokes,” I sigh.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting tired of them already.”
Mom joins in. “We’re all getting tired of them.”
Finally, Dad pulls up to the drop-off area at the airport. We say our goodbyes and Mom actually cries, which makes me cry too. Lola gives me a hug and tells me to put in a good word to any congressmen or senators who look like movie stars.
“If any look like Elvis, get their phone number for me,” she says.
I hug her tightly. I love my crazy family. I wish my brothers were here. “I love you so much,” I tell Lola.
Mom complains right away. “What about me?”
“Stop,” I say, kissing her cheek. “You know how much I love you. We’re practically the same person. I’m going to be fine. I’m going to meet the president of the United States.” I kiss Dad goodbye too.
Lola’s eyes brighten. “You didn’t say you were going to meet the president! He’s the best-looking of all!”
“I told all of you,” I growl. “You just don’t listen! I’m going to be late for the plane. I love you!” I add, and run off into the terminal and to the security checkpoint.
10
There was nothing but land; not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.
—WILLA CATHER, MY ÁNTONIA
“MS. DE LOS SANTOS?” asks a young African American woman with straightened hair cut in a cute bob outside the terminal at Dulles International Airport. She’s holding a sign with my name on it.
“That’s me,” I say, with a big smile.
“Suzanne Roberts,” she says, shaking my hand. “National Scholarship Recognition Program Hostess and Department of Education Liaison. Right this way. You’ll be meeting some of the other students shortly.”
For being so young, Suzanne is all business. Her skirt and coat are a deep royal blue and her blouse is white. She’s perfectly put together. Not a wrinkle anywhere on her clothes or a hair out of place. There’s an insignia on her uniform for the program that looks like a blend with the presidential seal. I note the way she holds herself. The way she walks. She talks as if she graduated from some etiquette school in Switzerland where they teach you how to carry yourself with poise. She has a constant smile that seems real and not polished at all. She’s instantly likable. I want to be like her someday and tell her so.
“You’re sweet, thanks. I hear your essay and self-assessment was a particularly great read for the committee. Congratulations.”
“Thanks so much—it’s so nice to hear that. Are you on the selection committee?” I ask as we walk through the terminal.
Suzanne smiles. “No, those are all highly regarded scholars in the fields of education, law, medicine, the advanced arts, and other areas. Maybe one day. I was a previous scholarship recipient. I’m a congressional aide and for now, I’m just happy to assist the program’s candidates during their time here in Washington, D.C.”
“Cool,” I say, because it is. I can’t wait to meet everyone, to start making connections, to start being part of this great network that runs our country. For a moment, I feel like myself again, the person I was before I discovered the truth about our status.
* * *
I’m sitting in the backseat with two other students while Suzanne drives a black sedan toward the Ritz-Carlton on Twenty-second Street.
“This is Richard Morales,” Suzanne says, nodding toward the tall boy sitting in the front seat who has such large shoulders, he barely fits inside the car. “He’s from Arizona. And an incredible jazz musician, I hear.”
“What instruments do you play?” I ask.
Richard cranes his neck around to look at me. “A little of everything, I guess. But my favorite is the saxophone.” He curls his fingers and begins playing invisible notes. He’s already totally lost in his own imaginary world of music.
br /> The other boy sitting next to me extends his hand, which I shake. His pale fingers are bony and long. “I’m Simon Sebastian,” he says in a nasally voice. “Did you know the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial was made in China? And that the FDR Memorial has a statue of his dog?”
“No,” I say. “You know a lot about Washington, D.C....”
While Simon continues to rattle off random trivia, I peer out the window for a glimpse of anything recognizable. I have the window rolled down a little so I can see better, and I’m shocked by how much colder the fall weather is here. Wrapping my coat tighter around me, I imagine myself walking across the campus of George Washington University or Georgetown, watching the auburn leaves falling off the branches of the old trees. I could belong here.
The buildings are so stately and old-fashioned. I’ve seen all the buildings on television before, of course, but I’m amazed by their size and significance upon seeing them in in real life. But when we finally see the Capitol dome, lit up like an earthly moon, I feel a pang, like it’s not for me. I want so badly to feel like part of this country. It’s the only home I know.
The Ritz-Carlton is a collection of dark buildings and many windows. It feels like a beautiful fortress. The ceilings are tall and lovely inside the hotel. I want to just sit in a chair and take it all in, stare at everything and everyone. Instead, I follow Suzanne to check-in, where we are each given a room. I’m sharing mine with a few girls, but they’ve already been there all day. Suzanne tells us to hurry. We’re the last group of arrivals.
She hands each of us a small folder, “This is your itinerary. Inside you’ll find where you’re supposed to be. I will be your guide through most of your stay here. The first Honoree Reception is in about two hours. Get some rest and meet me in the lobby at five, and we’ll walk to the main ballroom together.”
I’m relieved to hear that Suzanne will be with us the entire way. It makes me feel secure as I find my way to my room, which is just as elegant as I hoped. They’ve given us a two-bedroom suite with heavy floral couches and tables that shine like someone has recently polished them. In vases set next to each bed there are bouquets of white roses, which fill the room with a flowery scent that reminds me of Mom’s garden.