Something in Between (16 page)

I sigh and glance down at my phone. It's Royce again.

royceb: Hey, did you get my text?

royceb: Are you at practice or something?

royceb: Why aren't you picking up your phone?

royceb: I don't get it. Are we fighting over politics?

royceb: Or did I do something wrong?

I shove the phone deep into my purse.

“Out with it,” Kayla says.

I'm finding it difficult to get any words out. It's like there's this awful lump in my throat paralyzing my neck muscles.

“Jasmine?” Kayla says. “What's really wrong? Is it Royce? Did something happen?”

“Yes. But it's not just Royce.” I have to start at the beginning. “I can trust you, right?”

“Of course you can. Duh!”

“Okay, okay, I know. But this is hard for me to say. You know the day Mrs. Garcia came to the gym during cheer?”

Kayla nods, waiting patiently.

“She gave me a letter telling me about the National Scholarship. But when I went home and told my parents, I found out that our visas expired years ago. That's why I didn't tell you about the scholarship at first—I didn't know what to say. We've been living here without documentation the whole time I've been in high school. That's why my Dad wouldn't let me get my driver's permit. That's why we don't go back to the Philippines to visit family anymore. I'm not an American, Kayla. I'm not here legally.”

Her face pales.

“But that's not all. Royce's dad is Congressman Blakely, the house majority leader. He hates illegal aliens and just killed the big reform bill that would have let my family stay in the US.”

Kayla is now so pale that she's the same shade as the napkin.

“I saved the best for last. Royce has no idea I'm undocumented.” I don't like the term
illegal
; it feels too much like a brand, like a pejorative, like a sneer, whereas
undocumented
just states the fact of our situation without prejudice.

She gets up from the table. For a second, I'm afraid she doesn't want to talk to me anymore.

“Where're you going?” I say. “Don't leave.”

“I'm not leaving,” she says. “I'm buying more doughnuts.”

18

You can waste your lives drawing lines. Or you can live your life crossing them.

—SHONDA RHIMES

KAYLA TOLD ME
yesterday that I shouldn't be embarrassed by our legal situation, that I should tell more people what's going on with me. There's no shame in what happened, it wasn't my fault, and I should let people know so that they can support me, at least. She says I owe Royce the truth as well. I know she's right about everything, but I'm not ready to deal with him just yet.

But being with her reminds me that I do have friends who care about me, and that I haven't asked for any help, even from those who've offered it.

I pick up my phone and scroll through my contacts.

Because there is someone I can call. Someone who might be able to help with one thing.

I dial Millie's number. After a few rings, she answers the phone. She's excited to hear from me. “Jasmine! I was starting to think you weren't going to call.” I can hear Millie shake ice in a glass and picture her sitting there, drinking her scotch.

I feel a burst of happiness at hearing her raspy voice again. I've missed my friend and I tell her so. “I'm sorry. Things here—”

Before I can finish my sentence, Isko flings open my door and runs inside the room, then slams the door behind him. Panting, he attempts to hold it shut while Danny pushes on the other side.

I pull the phone away from my mouth. “
Ack!
Get out of here! I'm on the phone...”

Danny finally succeeds in pushing the door open and pulling Isko out into the hallway. As they wrestle with each other, I get up and slam the door.

“I'm so sorry, Millie. My little brothers are being super annoying.”

Millie laughs.

I tell her about my trip to D.C., and I thank her for encouraging me to go. We talk about the defeat of the immigration reform bill. She tells me she's so sorry it didn't pass—she knows how much I was counting on it.

“I can't even turn on Facebook,” I say. “I hate seeing all the political rants and people hating on families like mine. If people only knew that people they talk to every day are probably illegal immigrants...” I pause, considering my sentence. “Maybe they would be nicer. Or maybe not. Maybe they really think we don't belong here.”

“Maybe you should tell them the truth of your situation,” she says. “Don't be afraid. Maybe when they see it happening to someone they know, they'll have a change of heart.”

I shake my head. “I don't know.”

“What about your friends at least? Have you told them? I think you should. If you give them a chance, I think people will surprise you with their kindness.”

How can Millie believe in the goodness of people when so many spend so much time hating on each other? She comes from a different time. The news used to be more balanced. People couldn't just get on social media and say whatever's on their mind without looking people in the face. Although it's an easy way of telling where people stand, I guess.

“I'm just not ready to tell everyone about it,” I say. “I know my family isn't. My little brothers don't even understand what's going on. They're in denial most of all. All of their identity is as Americans. To think of themselves as anything else is alien to them.”

“Your brothers may not understand for years,” she says. “Listen, your story is incredibly moving. It will inspire others if you share it. I was listening to a report last night on the News Hour about the difference between those who have been undocumented immigrants and those who have not. Who's more compassionate on average? Those who have been undocumented, they said. Who experiences more joy in life? The undocumented. Who is better at establishing community? The undocumented. They band together. They support each other.”

“You know that, Millie, but other people don't—they think undocumented immigrants are criminals and liars. That they're the leeches of the American economy.”

I hear the clink of Millie setting down her glass. “Show them, then,” she says defiantly. “Show them the truth of who you—and your family—really are. Shine light on their ignorance.”

I think about Millie's words. How can I get the word out? Identifying ourselves could put us at risk.

“I just feel like I'm in a kind of limbo,” I say. “Mom is contacting immigration lawyers to see what our options are, but more and more it looks like we're going to either have to hide our status, which will change our whole lives and limit what we can and can't do. Or we have to risk being deported to try to get documentation.”

“I really wish you didn't have to go through this. I wish there was some way I could help.”

Before I lose my nerve, I get to the point of why I called. “Actually that's why I'm calling,” I say. I explain that my mom still hasn't found another job, and that I recall that when we were kicked out of the hospital, Millie had offered to help her.

“Yes, of course! I'm so glad you asked. She can come to work for me. Or my son, I mean. I don't have a personal office anymore, but I think we can find her a place in the company.”

“Are you sure? You'll be breaking the law.” I'm so happy I could cry.

“Oh, I don't care about her status. There are ways of getting around the papers. I want good workers, people who care about other people. That's your mother. That's you. I knew as soon as I met you in the hospital.”

“What kind of job is it? Are you sure she can do it?”

“Of course she can,” Millie says. “You underestimate your mother. It'll be mostly administrative office work. She'll be fine.”

“I'll tell her to call you,” I say. “But I'm not sure she will.”

Millie sighs. “Can you give her a message for me, then?”

I promise I will.

“Tell her I'm not offering her a job because I feel bad for her, or because I want to feel good about myself. She's a smart woman, and her job at the hospital didn't let her use her skills. Believe it or not, I've been there before. I want to help her out.”

I thank her, and hope I can convince my mom to take this opportunity.

* * *

It's our last day of cheer practice before winter break. Kayla and I are stretching outside next to each other. Practicing for Regionals has made us so in tune with one another that we do our stretches in unison without even thinking about it.

“I can't believe you still haven't told him,” Kayla says.

“I don't know what to say,” I say. “What's the use anyway?” It's been almost an entire week now and I haven't answered Royce's texts or calls. I can't even listen to his voice mail messages, even though I miss his voice so badly.

“Oh man, don't ghost him. That's so not your style.”

“I know,” I say. I don't know what to do, I want to see him, but I'm angry too.
It was an important victory for my dad
. It turns my stomach. “His family hates families like mine. I can't be with someone like that.”

Kayla bends her arm over her head. “You're being unfair. What if someone judged you on what your family believes? You don't agree with them on everything. You need to tell him. Give him a chance.”

“How can I? What if he accidentally tells his dad? My whole family could be deported.” I don't believe it would come to that, but the thought that it could scares me too much. I'd like to think Royce would protect us, but do I really know him?

I lunge with my right leg, feeling the soreness of my muscles. Even though I practice every day—and on the weekends too—the pain never fully goes away. I think I'm going to take a yearlong nap after Nationals.

Kayla lunges with her left leg, mirroring me. “Is he still texting you?”

“Only about ten times a day.” I want to delete his messages, but I don't have the heart. I can't read them either though. It's too painful.

“What did you say he looks like again? Dark hair? Tan? Tall?” Kayla starts humming. She sits spread-legged on the grass and reaches for her toes. “He's cute, right?”

“You wouldn't think so. He wears suits all the time.”

Suddenly, I hear Royce's voice from over my shoulder. “Not always.”

I whip around with a gasp. I'm shocked to see him, but I also want to laugh a little. He's wearing a navy blue blazer and jeans. No tie. His “casual” look. I'm elated to see him but scared to death too. I'm not ready to face him. My heart hammers in my throat even as my stomach drops.

Apparently I have no choice but to be ready as Kayla gets to her feet while I stand there gaping. “I'll tell Coach you'll be a couple minutes late,” she says.

“You don't have to,” I say. “I'll be there.”

Kayla starts walking to the front of the gym as I turn to Royce. “What are you doing here?” I ask, in a rush, already feeling a little high from just the sight of him.

Royce steps toward me. “I wanted to see you. You haven't returned any of my texts or called me back since Sunday night. I would have come over earlier but with my tutoring schedule for finals I couldn't get away until now. Why are you ignoring me?”

“Well, you've seen me,” I say, choking on the words and taking a step away from him. “Feel better?” I know I'm being cruel to him, but it's better this way. I can't be with someone like him and he shouldn't be with someone like me. I'm practically doing him a favor.

“Come on, Jasmine. What's going on? What did I do to piss you off?”

“You didn't do anything to piss me off. I'm just moving on,” I say, shrugging as if I'm so bored of this conversation.

His face turns red. “Moving
on
? What's that supposed to mean? Everything was going fine and then you just disappear? What the—
Why
? You owe me an explanation at least.”

“I don't owe you anything. Not everyone owes you something, Royce,” I snap, even though it hurts me to hurt him like this. The jagged twist in my stomach makes me feel so nauseous, I could vomit. But I don't see how we can work things out. Whether Royce believes in what his father does or not doesn't matter anymore. It's too dangerous for me to be with him.

He runs his fingers through his hair. “Look, if you hate my guts that's fine. But it's not like you to not say what's on your mind. You're not that kind of person. I know it.”

“That's where you're wrong. You've never known who I really am,” I say.
And whose fault is that?
A million thoughts race across my mind. I should have told him. Or once I knew who his dad was and what he believed in, I should've stayed far, far away from him. I should have never gone to meet him after the dinner. I shouldn't have let him kiss me.

“Why are you saying this? I know you, Jasmine. You know me. Why can't you tell me what's wrong?” he asks, looking as stricken as I feel.

But I have to do this. It's better this way. Safer for me, and easier for him. He'll forget about me, find someone else to read his favorite passages from the books he likes to, some other girl to lend quotes to.

“Look, I'm going to be late for practice. I have to go,” I say, my voice deliberately cold.

“Your friend just said she'd tell your coach you'd be late.”

“Like you know who my friends are. You've never met any of them!” I yell, which makes me realize I've never seen his school, never met any of
his
friends either. Our entire world is made up only of each other. I never noticed before, because we never needed anyone else. I just wanted to be with him, and he with me. But now it bothers me. Was he hiding me or something?

“I'd love to meet your friends. But you've never introduced me to any,” he says. He's right. I haven't, even when he spends the weekend hanging out with me in the Valley.

“Well, I haven't met any of your friends either!” I scowl.

“That's because I don't have friends.”

“Oh please.” My arms are crossed now and I'm fuming. He has tons of friends, and so many followers on Snapchat (six hundred and two to be exact).

“I mean, yeah, I know a lot of guys, but we're not close. I don't have any close friends, okay? Satisfied?” His jaw is a stern line.

“But you know everybody in D.C....all those kids...Carrie's crew...” I'm convinced I'm right about this.

“Yeah, I might
know
a lot of people, but that's not the same as having
friends
. Jesus, do I have to go into detail as to how big a loser I am?”

“You're not a loser,” I say, because I hate when he puts himself down.

“And you're not just my girlfriend, Jasmine. You're my best friend. The first real friend I've had. When you stopped talking to me, I just, I can't...” He growls in annoyance and stuffs his hands back in in pockets. “Whatever! Forget it! Forget I said anything!” He pivots away, obviously embarrassed.

Now he's walking away and I'm the one running after him.

“Royce!”

When I catch up to him, his cheeks are red and his eyes are as glassy as mine.

“Royce, I'm sorry,” I say, because I am. Because I suck, because I should have been honest with him from the start. I pride myself on being forthright, and yet I've been unable to tell this guy I really care about something fundamental about me.

I was so worried about getting hurt, but now I know it hurts so much more to be the one causing pain.

“About what?” he asks. “What are you sorry about?” His face is terrible, gray and angry.

“I should have told you the truth about me, when we first met,” I say slowly.

“What? Do you have a boyfriend? I should have known.” He looks like he wants to punch something.

I laugh, it's so absurd. “No!” I want to hug him. “I told you, you're the only one.” The only one I've ever fallen for, the only one who makes me feel the way I do. He's the only one for me, which is why it hurts so much that we can't, that we shouldn't, be together.