Something in Between (14 page)

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 seems 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.

We walk back to the hallway between the entryway and the family room, where I see a large painting of a ballerina wearing a flowing red dress that looks like flames engulfing her body. She's standing on her pointe shoes and reaching out toward something beyond the painting. The painting's passion surprises me, especially because everything else seems to be decorated with neutral colors. I vaguely remember Royce telling me his mother was a dancer when she was younger.

I decide not to be afraid of his mother. She can't be that different than me. We both understand the pain of training and caring for and punishing your body to find grace and beauty. If she was a dancer, she knows what passion means—what wanting something so much you think you might die of want feels like.

Royce leads me to the doorway of the family room, where Mrs. Blakely is cradling a phone between her shoulder and her ear as she sits on a leather chair, watching the stock ticker on the television.

“She's working,” Royce whispers, turning around. “We should leave her alone. Let's go sit in our other family room. She'll come around when she's ready.”

“You have another family room?” I say.

When he takes me there, I see that it's more of a library. Books line shelves from floor to ceiling. There are couches and chairs. Coffee tables. Odd artifacts in cases. Statues, mostly. Busts of important political figures and old documents framed on the walls. “Mom started collecting these when dad first started getting into politics.” He points to a case. “Here's a statue of Theodore Roosevelt she bought off a collector just last year.”

He sits on the couch, clearly expecting me to sit next to him. I do, but not too close. Not like we were in the car earlier. I don't want Mrs. Blakely to get the wrong idea about me, and I don't want to mess anything up, especially with his parents.

Suddenly I hear, “May I interest you in something to drink?” I look up to see a housekeeper wearing pressed slacks and a tasteful purple sweater waiting for our reply.

I know immediately that she's Filipino, and she looks like she's in her early fifties. She smiles shyly. I wonder where her family is from. I want to ask, but I worry that it would be weird. A lot of Filipino immigrants work as housekeepers; some of my mom's friends do. My own mother is cleaning someone's house right now, I remember uncomfortably.

“I'm okay, Maria,” Royce says. “Our guest might be thirsty though. Jas?”

He motions to me. I'm uncomfortable, but I try not to let my feelings show. It's not fair, but the sight of Maria is unnerving. If I don't go to college, what if I have to work a job like this for the rest of my life? Then I realize that I'm being a jerk. Who am I to judge this woman I've barely met?

Maria comes closer. She has a sort of sparkle in her eye, like she's watching me and not the other way around. This time she smiles more bravely and I like that. I smile in return. Filipinos sometimes do this with each other. It's like we're communicating telepathically. Still, I'm too embarrassed to ask for anything. I'm not used to being served.