Something in Between (18 page)

Dad sits on the floor, messing with the train track for the toy train that runs around the base of the Christmas tree. “We need to keep looking for a lawyer,” he says. “This one's consultation fee is equal to a week's worth of groceries already. If we go to trial, it'll be even more...”

“I already made an appointment,” Mom says.

Dad looks up from the track. “So cancel it.”

“He's got good references.” Mom pauses. She stands up and turns on the radio to a station playing Christmas music. Little bell sounds tinkle from the speakers. “Anyway, Millie offered to pay the consultation fee.”

“Millie can't pay the consultation fee,” Dad says. He likes Millie, but he doesn't like accepting money. He's proud, like I am.

“Why not?” Mom says. “We can get a better lawyer this way. Do you want to be ripped off?”

“I'm feeling ripped off right now just having this conversation. Handouts from your boss? I don't want to be in debt to a rich old white woman. Or for you to be either. You shouldn't owe anyone anything. They'll take advantage of you.”

I side with Mom. “She's really nice and doesn't deserve that,” I say.

“
Neneng.
Butt out. This isn't your conversation.”

“This conversation belongs to all of us,” Mom says. “Jasmine wants to live in America too. And if you haven't noticed, your daughter is a National Scholar. More than I can say for you.”

“I work with my hands,” Dad says. “That means I know how this world runs—through hard work.” The train comes around the track and falls off onto the carpet.

“We need a good lawyer,” Mom says. “You can't fix legal situations like ours with your hands. You've been watching too many gangster movies.”

“Yeah, Daddy,” I say. “We need to put our best foot forward. If Millie wants to help, then let her. Hasn't she been on our side all along? Didn't she give Mom a job? Just think of it as a Christmas bonus.”

“Christmas bonus...?” Dad echoes. He returns the train to the track.

“Listen to yourself,” Mom says. “You sound like some kind of Scrooge.”

“I
am
some kind of Scrooge,” Dad mumbles.

* * *

After we're all done arguing—Mom and I insist we won, like always—I decide I'm going to stop waiting and text Royce. I can't blame him for his father's decisions. If he doesn't care that I'm an illegal alien, why should I care that he's the son of a conservative congressman?

I miss him something awful. The truth is, I'm not just his best friend—he's my best friend too. Just like Kayla is, but in a different way. He understands the part of me that no one else in my life completely does. Kayla's smart, but she's not into books and art like I am, and my parents don't like museums—when we went to the Getty, they stayed in the gift shop.

Sometimes Royce and I would just send emails with quotes to each other.

After we went to the beach once, he sent me:

royceb: Her fair hair had streamed out behind her like gold in the sun. TOWER OF IVORY. HOUSE OF GOLD. By thinking of things you could understand them.—James Joyce, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

I wrote back:

jasmindls: I am alive where your fingers are—Anne
Sexton, Love Poems

* * *

It's nearly Christmas. And isn't Christmas all about forgiveness and making peace with each other? All I can think about is him and when I'm going to see him again.

In the warmth of my bed, I pull my comforter over my head. The twinkly white lights decorating my room create a soft glow through the blankets. I think about what I should write. I try a few different sentences, but none of them seem quite right. I try to look for a quote, but nothing seems to fit.

Finally, I realize it's because there's only one thing to say.

jasmindls: I miss you.

He writes back right away.

royceb: what happened to waiting to talk till after xmas?

I smile. I can imagine him texting me under the table while he's at some fancy party with his parents.

jasmindls: Close enough. Merry Christmas Eve.

My skin tingles when I see his next text.

royceb: I miss you too.

I'm typing a reply when my phone rings. It's funny how we hardly talk to each other—our generation prefers sending messages for hours. But I'm glad he called. It's so much nicer to hear his actual voice.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey. Where are you?”

“Out on the terrace, getting away from everyone, watching the snow fall. I wish you were here to see it.”

I smile. He likes looking out at views. “I wish I was there too. I've never seen snow fall,” I say. “What's up with your family? Are they bugging you?”

“It's nothing, just the same old stuff. Mom and Dad are arguing about Mason again.”

“That sucks. I'm sorry.”

“It's nothing new,” he says. “Hey, I meant to tell you last time I saw you. I, uh, got into Stanford. Early Decisions were sent out.”

“Royce! That's awesome! Congratulations! Aren't you excited?” I say, and I'm happy for him, but the feeling is both joyous and bittersweet, hearing that he's gotten something I want so badly.

“Yeah, I am. Mostly I'm relieved. Probably helped that my dad knows the chancellor,” he says.

“You're just being modest, stop! You deserve this.” He really does; he works so hard. Maria told me, when I was over once, that he'd won some fancy writing award at his school. He never makes much of his accomplishments like I do mine.

So that's why he drove out to see me that day—he wanted to tell me his good news in person, and he never even got to. “I'm sorry you didn't get to tell me earlier.”

“It's okay,” he says, and I know he means it. “Hey, do you think your parents would let you come and visit?” he asks, hope in his voice. “We're here for another week. I know you don't know how to ski, but you'll pick it up quickly—you're so coordinated.”

“That's so sweet. But probably not. Filipino Christmases are sort of a big deal. We go to Midnight Mass and then we eat salty ham and drink hot chocolate—the thick Spanish kind.”

“Man, that sounds nice.”

“Yup.”

“Well, what about after Christmas? We're here till New Year's.”

“I wish I could, but I can't,” I whisper. “My parents aren't like yours. They're not going to let me stay with my boyfriend out of town somewhere.”

For a while, neither of us says anything.

Then, “Hey, Jas, I'm really sorry about what I said about the reform bill. You believe me, right?” His voice is low and sad.

I think about it. If I didn't believe he was sincere, I wouldn't be talking to him now. “I do.”

“I thought about it, about what it means that it didn't pass,” he says. “I never realized how much stuff like that affects people. To my family, it's just my dad's career. But it's your life.”

“Yeah.” I press the phone closer to my ear, blinking back tears. I can hear how much he cares about me, and I wish I'd told him earlier. I was so lonely without him to lean on.

“So what are you guys going to do now? You don't have to leave, do you? That would be crazy. You can't leave, even if you're illegal.”

“Undocumented,” I snap. “I hate that other word.” Even though I use it myself all the time, but for some reason, I want to correct him.

“Sorry, sorry. My bad.”

“It's okay. I'm sorry I'm so sensitive. Anyway, in answer to your question, we're going to meet with a lawyer, see what our options are.”

“I want to help,” he says. “Anything I can do, just ask, okay? I can even talk to my dad. He might know how to help. He knows a lot of people.”

I inhale sharply. Wasn't this exactly what I was afraid of?

“He wouldn't report you, if that's what you're worried about. You're my friend,” he says, trying not to sound too defensive.

“I know, I believe you, but I think we should keep him out of it for now, okay?” I say.

“Okay.” He can tell I don't want to talk about it anymore. “I hate skiing anyway, did I ever tell you?” He doesn't wait for me to answer. “It's too cold and Mason always beats me down the hill.”

I laugh, thinking of Royce trying to catch up to his older brother.

“So we're good now?” he asks softly.

“We're good. Come home,” I say, and my voice betrays the yearning I feel inside.

“I'll be there as fast as I can,” he promises.

20

I look forward to an America which will not be afraid of grace and beauty.

—JOHN F. KENNEDY

DAD GIVES ME
a ride to Royce's house in Bel-Air on Christmas afternoon so that I can drop off his present. I know the drive is far, and I had to beg my dad to take me, but I really want it to be there for him when he gets back instead of giving it to him when I see him. There's just something I hate about giving gifts late. I'd rather it sit at his house for a week than for him to think I'm some kind of last-minute shopper—which I am.

I hadn't planned on buying him a gift, since we were fighting, but I couldn't help myself. It's in my Filipino blood. We
love
giving gifts. It doesn't even matter if we're upset at the person getting the gift.

“Where is this boy's house?” Dad asks.

“Just around the next corner,” I say, pointing to the street.

The whole neighborhood is decorated for Christmas. The big, classic houses are absolutely gorgeous. Lights are wrapped around the pillars and roofs. Even the palm trees look like they're covered with icicles.

I wish Royce were around to celebrate with my family. We'd show him a real Filipino Christmas. Mom would give him warm ginger tea and a thick yellow rice cake for breakfast. Isko and Danny would force him to play video games, and Dad would torture Royce by trying to teach him traditional Tagalog holiday songs. I'm lucky that my whole family gets along with him. The boys are constantly bothering me to ask him over to the house.

Dad lets out a long whistle. “His family can afford to live around here?”

“His grandfather founded some big steel company. And his dad's a congressman,” I say. “I've told you that.”

“Congressman, huh. They should have to live on minimum wage,” Dad says.

“Dad. Please stop. They do a lot of hard work too. Maybe I'll be a congresswoman someday. There's no law against it if we ever become citizens! You never know.” I think of what Royce said to me once, how I should be the one to go into politics since I'm so passionate about issues he believes I can sway people to follow my lead.

“If you become a congresswoman, I'll be the first one to move in!” he says, pointing through the window at the houses.

I laugh. “I think you better work on becoming an American first.”

When Dad parks on the street, I run up to the door and ring the bell. Royce told me Maria would be there for part of the day. Sure enough, she answers the door. When she sees it's me, she doesn't smile.

“Hello?” she says, a little coldly.

“Oh hi, Maria, I hope it's okay—I wanted to drop off a gift for Royce,” I say, trying to sound casual and as if I drop by his house all the time.

“Royce is not here,” she says shortly.

“I know—that's why I wanted to drop off his present.”

“You have a Christmas gift for Royce?” she asks, almost as if she didn't hear me the first time.

“Yes,” I say.

“Did you two get back together?” she asks out of the blue.

Now I realize why she's being so unfriendly. It's obvious she's wary because of what happened between us.

“Oh, did he tell you about it?” I say, trying not to blush.

She doesn't respond, but it's clear that he did.

“Yes, but, um, we're together again,” I say.

Suddenly, she breaks into a huge smile. “How nice. Come inside, come inside.”

I'd planned to just hand over the gift, but now it feels like I have to say yes to be polite.

“Is that your dad? Would he like to come too? I can make some tea.”

I gesture to Dad to get out of the car, but he waves me off. He's too busy eyeing all of the houses.

I enter the house and hand Maria the gift, which she sets on a table in the foyer. She doesn't bring up my and Royce's relationship again, and we make small talk standing there. Because she was so protective of Royce earlier, I don't feel that uncomfortable around her anymore. It's clear she cares for him, and since I do too, now we have something in common other than being Filipino. “What are you doing for the holiday?” I ask.

“I'm going to see some of my cousins tonight,” she tells me. “That's very sweet of you to bring Royce a gift.”

“Thanks,” I say. “He's sweet to me too.”

Just then the front door opens. I jump a little, especially when I realize it's Royce's mother. She doesn't see me right away.

“Maria, is that one of your relatives outside?” she says as a driver follows her inside and places two suitcases against the wall. “I thought you were staying until five this afternoon?”

Why does Maria have to work on Christmas? And why is Mrs. Blakely home? It's Christmas Day. Why isn't she in Aspen with Royce and Mr. Blakely? What about Mason and Olivia?

“I am staying until then, Mrs. Blakely,” Maria says. “Shall I bring up your bags?”

When Mrs. Blakely looks up, she sees me and raises an eyebrow. “Jasmine? Dear, I wasn't expecting you. Merry Christmas. You and Maria must have a lot to talk about.”

I'm not sure what she means, other than maybe she thinks, because we're both Filipino, we'd have a lot to talk about no matter what. It makes me squirm, but I ignore her raised eyebrow and smile. “Thank you. Merry Christmas. I was just dropping off a gift for Royce,” I say, pointing to the package on the table. “I hope you had a nice time in Aspen.”

“I
dread
Aspen every year. Thank God it's over for now,” she says. “I can't stand all the cold and being cooped up inside, and I'm not much of a skier. I'm guessing you've never been to the snow though. Is that your father outside?”

“It is,” I say, slightly hurt by her comment. Sure, I've never seen snow fall, but I went tobogganing with friends at Big Bear in eighth grade. It was one of the greatest times of my life, but I decide it's better to play the innocent young (and poor) girlfriend of her son. “Yes. I shouldn't keep Dad waiting,” I say, thinking how funny it would be if I said we still had to go catch and pluck chickens for our Christmas dinner (which we don't; it's a joke but I'm sure she'd believe me). “I hope you have a good rest of your holiday.”

“Please,” she says, “don't be a stranger.” She turns to Maria. “Be a darling and help me with my bags, then you can have the rest of the day off. I need to deal with this mess Mason has made of his finals. We just got notice that USC has put him on academic probation again. Apparently he hasn't been going to his classes for weeks.”

Mrs. Blakely heads up the grand stairway that curves gracefully up from the foyer. Maria picks up both bags. “Just give me a minute, Jasmine, then I'll take you up to Royce's room. You can put the gift there yourself,” Maria says. “That way Mason won't open it.”

Why would his older brother open a present that's clearly not meant for him?

“I can help you with the bags,” I offer.

“No. That's all right. I'll be right back.”

Maria drags the suitcases up the stairs and disappears for a few minutes.

I stay where I am, feeling a bit awkward to be alone in Royce's house without him. The house is lavishly and perfectly decorated for the holidays—I count no less than three Christmas trees, one in the living room, one in the other living room, one by the dining area. It looks as perfect as a magazine spread...and just as impersonal.

“The house looks so pretty,” I tell Maria when she returns. “All white and gold.”

“Mrs. Blakely has it decorated every year, although they're almost never here for the holiday,” Maria explains.

“Meanwhile my house looks like a
parol
exploded,” I tell her, meaning the typical Filipino Christmas star lantern that we usually hang in the window. My parents tend to decorate in the typical red and green. Our house is so full of tinsel, you can't leave without being covered in it.

We laugh. “Do you like working here?” I can't help but ask. I'm most likely overstepping, but I'm curious.

“Oh yes, they're very good to me. But Mr. Blakely is gone a lot. Mrs. Blakely has her work. Mason is...” Maria pauses, thinking of what to say. “Mason is Mason. I worry about Royce and Olivia. They seem to be the ones keeping this family together.”

“Why would Mrs. Blakely leave her children on Christmas Day? Are Mason's grades
that
important? What's she going to be able to do about it on Christmas?”

“I don't think that's the only reason she came home,” Maria says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Mrs. and Mr. Blakely haven't had the easiest time since he became house majority leader. They almost never see each other. They probably had a fight,” she whispers.

Right. Royce mentioned his parents were fighting about Mason, but I hadn't thought to ask him more. I wish I had now.

Maria looks like she's regretting saying anything. She gestures to me to follow her. “Come on. Bring your present.” She leads me down a great hall on the second landing to Royce's room. I've only been inside once before. Royce likes to come over to my house. It's easier, since he can drive and I don't have a license.

I walk in and look around. His room is fairly clean for a boy. Well, compared to Danny and Isko's room. There's a wrinkled suit hanging over his desk chair and lots of pairs of dress and athletic shoes that have been kicked onto the ground. On his bedside tables are stacks of books about the military and the history of wars and spy novels, all in various states of being read. I riffle through the pages of a book, stroking its pages, thinking of him absorbed in them.

I walk over to his desk to leave the gift while Maria stands near the doorway. On the desk, I see a picture of him and Mason from when they were little boys, horsing around on the beach. Mason seems to have Royce in some kind of choke hold, but the two of them are laughing. Mason's only a couple years older, but based on what Royce has said about his brother, they seem so far apart now.

I pick up the picture frame and turn to Maria. “They used to be close, huh?”

“Very,” Maria says.

“But not anymore, right?”

Maria considers this. “I think both of the boys want their father's approval, but they show it in very different ways. Mason rebels. Royce tries to follow in his father's footsteps. As much as he can anyway.”

“I don't know why he does,” I say, putting the picture back down on the desk. “He's nothing like his father.”

Maria crosses her arms. “You know Mr. Blakely, then?”

“No. Not really. I'm sorry,” I say, realizing how horribly judgmental I just sounded.

“Royce is a good boy,” Maria says. “You be good to him.” She's serious.

I look her in the eye and nod. Turns out I'm not the only one with a Filipino mother. “I'll do my best,” I tell her, setting Royce's gift on his desk. “Will you make sure he opens this as soon as he gets home?”

* * *

When I get to the car, Dad's still being a Scrooge. “Filipino maid, huh,” he says.

“Maria is really nice,” I say, closing the door.

Dad gives the home one last glance as we drive off. “I hope he's not just dating you so you can be his maid,” he says.

“Daddy, why do you always do this? No, I'm not going to be the help. Why would he think that? You're being rude. Maria is nice, though I think Mrs. Blakely thinks I was there just to pry some kind of information out of her. She was surprised to see me.”

“This is getting good,” Dad teases. “Now you and the Mrs. are cat-fighting.”

“I didn't say that! See? This is why I never tell you anything.”

“Aha!” Dad says. “So you admit you're keeping secrets! No Christmas dinner for you!”

I lean my head on Dad's shoulder while he drives.

He instantly pretends he feels sorry for me. “Okay, you can have bread and water.”

“I love you, Daddy,” I say.

“I love you too,
neneng.
Everything's going to be all right.”