Something in Between (19 page)

21

Those who deny freedom to others, deserve it not for themselves.

—ABRAHAM LINCOLN

WE MEET WITH
the lawyer for our consultation the week after Christmas. Freddie Alvarado is Latino, in his midfifties, and has a close-trimmed beard and mustache. When he greets us, he's holding a cup of green tea, which is my favorite drink. Dad, on the other hand, isn't impressed and scowls at everything.

The office is filled with all kinds of photos of labor leaders past and present, including a shot of Mr. Alvarado standing between Larry Itliong and Philip Vera Cruz. I know who the two Filipino men in the photo are because Dad spent some time in the fields. Most Filipinos his age have worked, or have family who worked, in the fields at one time or another.

I can tell by Dad's grimace that he thinks the picture is there to keep any potential Filipino clients happy.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. de los Santos,” Mr. Alvarado says.

“Very interesting office,” Dad says, looking up and down the bookcases.

“I take great pride in meeting some of the political figures I've admired.”

While Mom and I sit on the chairs, Dad remains standing. “How much are you charging for this consultation? I want to know we're getting a fair price.”

“Daddy,” I say, mortified. “We already know.”

Mom decides to speak up. “We would like to get started as soon as possible, Mr. Alvarado.”

“Of course,” he says. “You'll be happy to know I've already begun researching your case. I believe with your work records and your children's academic success, you have a good chance to prove you're worthy candidates for a green card that can then lead to American citizenship.”

“How much will that cost?” Dad asks.

Mom steps on his foot.

Dad changes his tone. “I mean, what's your well-counseled advice?”

Mom steps on his foot again. I make a mental note not to bring Dad next time. The way he's acting right now, Mr. Alvarado will probably pay
us
to leave the country.

Mr. Alvarado seems to expect this kind of behavior and ignores the foot-smashing on our side of the desk. “I'd like to press for a deportation trial,” he says. “Your family also hasn't committed any offenses, especially aggravated felonies.”

I'm a little nervous. The memory of running with Kayla through Lo's living room to avoid the police flashes in my mind. Even though there weren't any actual police, I still feel exposed.

“What exactly is a deportation trial?” Mom asks.

“It'll mean you'll be admitting fault that you have been living here without documentation,” says Mr. Alvarado. “But I'll be able to argue that you should be able to stay and receive some kind of documentation in the meantime.”

I sense my parents are already feeling overwhelmed, so I speak up. “That's a little scary, isn't it? If we lose, couldn't we be deported? Wouldn't it be difficult to get back into the US if that happens? And wouldn't my parents lose all their assets?”

Mr. Alvarado folds his hands. “You must have been researching this process, Ms. de los Santos.” I nod silently in agreement. Doing research seems to be my full-time hobby these days.

“That is a possibility...” Mr. Alvarado continues. “It's always risky, even for the most seasoned of deportation defense attorneys, to win these types of cases. That's also why I'm careful when I agree to take on a case. I've won about ninety percent of these types of hearings.”

“I can do simple math,” Dad says. “That leaves ten percent getting kicked out.”

“That's not always the case either,” Mr. Alvarado says. “In some cases, there are appeals that can be made to the Board of Immigration Appeals. There are also short extensions via temporary permission to live and work in the US that can result.”

“We don't want temporary visas,” Mom says. “What about just waiting for a new bill? We could get amnesty. Is there going to be another?”

“Laws are always changing, Mrs. de los Santos,” Mr. Alvarado says. He adjusts his bright green tie and buttons his suit jacket. “They depend on politics. And, as you know, politics are undependable. They can also take a very, very long time. In the meantime, any undocumented family runs the risk of deportation. And, of course, any infraction—even something as simple as a speeding ticket—while undocumented could put the entire family at risk of being housed in a detention center if you're all in the car when it happens.”

In disbelief, Mom covers her mouth. Dad sits up in his chair. “A detention center?” I ask.

“They do exist, unfortunately. The government calls them family detention centers in the name of keeping families together, but my understanding is that they're terrible, as one would assume, especially for children. I won't let that happen to you. Most of them are used for those caught at border crossings.” Mr. Alvarado continues. “In some ways you're lucky. The current administration recently passed laws to speed up the process of hearings. Just a few years ago, there was a backlog of more than 300,000 cases and a waiting time average of 1.5 years.”

“One and a half years!” Dad says. “All for a chance at eventual citizenship?”

“It's a quicker process now,” Mr. Alvarado says. “And I believe your case will get a speedy hearing. Your daughter's accomplishments and her meeting the president will really help your case. She's a model citizen, as are all the members of your family. It would be even better if you could somehow bring more public attention to your case.”

“You think we should go around telling everyone?” Dad asks.

“Your daughter has been named a National Scholar. Surely she must know someone who could publicize her case.”

The only person I can think of is Mr. Blakely. Royce offered to ask his dad for help, but I don't really see why the congressman would help us.

“Get the word out,” Mr. Alvarado continues. “The more political pressure, the better. The more support from the community. We can use help from all sides.”

“But we could still end up in a detention center or deported,” Mom says.

Mr. Alvarado looks each of us dead in the eye. “Like I said, there are risks. But you're already technically taking them now. If you win, however, you'll be deemed legal once and for all. You'll be eligible for naturalization in a few years. You'll all be United States citizens.”

22

Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim.

—NORA EPHRON

MOM AND DAD
have been arguing nonstop about whether to petition for a deportation hearing. As important as that is to all of us, Royce's return offers relief from the tension at my house. As soon as he gets back to Los Angeles, he picks me up in his father's sweet little German sports car, which impresses my brothers to no end. He's taking me out to dinner in Beverly Hills to celebrate our birthdays, like we'd originally planned.

I'm so excited to see him that I spent a longer time than usual doing my hair, fixing my makeup, trying and discarding every outfit until I found the perfect one.

He gets more handsome every time I see him. But today he looks even better than usual, because when he holds the car door open for me I notice he's wearing the tie I bought him for Christmas. It has the flag of the Philippines on one side and the US flag on the other. He's got it Philippines side out. The tie was one of those cheesy knickknacks my parents used to sell at Tito Sonny's store. I thought Royce would find it funny, and I was right.

That's what I love about him. Not that he's taking me to a fancy dinner, but that he's wearing the silly gift I gave him. He's a good sport.

He gives me a long wolf whistle when I take off my sweater before sliding into the seat. I didn't want my parents to see the dress I'm wearing, and I blush a little.

It's a tight-fitting, low-cut, red knee-length cocktail dress that I bought at an after-Christmas sale. Lipstick to match. I was worried I couldn't pull it off—I've never worn anything so outwardly sexy before—but he seems to like it. (Okay, he seems to like it a lot.)

“I didn't think you would actually wear that tie,” I tell him, as he settles into the driver's seat. It was just one of those whims. A self-pride moment. Okay, I admit it. I wanted the last laugh. I wanted him to go the extra mile for me, to be willing to be uncomfortable for my sake, to wear a funny tie to prove he cares for me. He's doing a great job.

He fidgets with the tie. “I really like how the flip side is the US flag. It's sort of like us.”

“Ha,” I say. “Have you thought about relocating to Manila?”

“I'll go if you do,” he says lightly. And with the roar of the engine, we're off.

* * *

When we're at Spago, I tell him I've never been to a restaurant this fancy, other than the time I was in D.C. for the award. I'm a bit intimidated, but I feel more confident as the night goes on, especially since Royce is so self-assured that we belong there.

The waiter takes our order and leaves, and for a moment we kind of just stare at each other. Then we both look down and laugh. But there's a slight distance between us now, and he's not reaching for my hand across the table the way he used to. He's all the way over there, and I'm all the way over here, and even though we're easy with each other, it's not quite the same.

“I'll start,” he says. “Aspen was a bore.”

“Liar,” I say.

“No. Seriously. I was bored out of my mind. Have you ever felt that way? I mean, gone someplace really fun, someplace you always look forward to going, then when you get there, there's sort of this big letdown?”

“Yeah, sort of, I guess.” I admit I'm kind of happy to hear this. If he'd had a great time I probably would have wanted to leave the table right then. “We haven't seen each other in a while, and I was looking forward to
this
. But are you disappointed now?” I ask, because I like to tease him.

“Right now I'm pretty much the farthest from disappointed anyone can be,” he says with a serious look on his face. “What about you?”

“Ditto,” I say.

He smiles. “It's good to know I'm not such a disappointment to other people like I am to my dad.”

“He's not disappointed in you!”

Royce shrugs. “He was when I told him I wanted to be a journalist.”

“Oh man, I'm sorry. If it helps, I'm always trying to please my parents too. It's a Filipino thing.”

“Then I'm Filipino too.” He grins, the shadow leaving his face. “I'm wearing the tie, aren't I?”

“Are your parents okay? You said they were fighting about Mason.”

He sighs. “Yeah, they just disagree on what to do about him. Mom thinks Dad should be harder on him, but Dad thinks Mason will shape up eventually. He wants him to transfer out of USC next year, but Mom thinks it's better if he's close to home.”

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“It's all right. Like I said, it's nothing new. They've been fighting about Mason for years now.”

The waiter comes over with our food and refills our waters. I thank him. Royce fidgets again, this time with his napkin.

“So your dad wasn't too happy about journalism, huh?” I ask.

“Nope. He keeps sending me links to all these articles about how it's a dying profession and all these ex-journalists now drive for Uber.”

I grimace. “Yikes.”

“Yeah, well. Dad wants me to major in political science, which means I'll probably have to intern for him at some point,” he says, getting that look on his face again.

“That bad, huh?”

“The worst.”

“Well, in other news, I turned in my Stanford application,” I tell him.

He raises his eyebrows and he talks all in a rush. “That's great! You said it's your first choice, right?” he says hopefully.

“Yeah.”

“That would be cool if we both ended up there,” he says. “We could probably room together or share an apartment if we wanted. I think they let you do that. Not freshman year, but later.”

“Are you asking me to move in with you already?” I tease.

He blushes. “Oops.”

“No, I like that you always make plans for us,” I tell him. I do like it. I like that he's so sure of me, of what he wants, and that he wants me. I indulge in a fantasy of the two of us at Stanford, walking the quad, going to the library. Sharing an apartment senior year maybe. How much fun it would be, to wake up in his arms—to be with him all the time. We've only been going out for a short time and already he's got us shacking up. What would my parents say about that?

We're Filipino, and we go to church every Sunday. They don't approve of premarital sex. My dad would probably insist we get married before we moved in together.
Shotgun shack-up
, I think with a laugh.

“What's so funny?” he asks.

I tell him about the image of my dad with a shotgun and he gets a strange, nervous look on his face, and I can't tell what he's thinking. “Don't worry, I won't let him shoot you,” I say.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Much,” I say, and then we're both laughing.

I tell him what's going on with Mr. Alvarado, about all the risks involved with a hearing, and how Mom and Dad have been arguing constantly about what to do next.

“I guess once you throw it out there, anything can happen. You get on the government's radar and that's a two-edged sword for sure,” he says, between bites.

“Yeah. Even though I'm dying to visit, I don't want to go to the Philippines to live. There's nothing there for me. My life is here.” I push my fish around on my plate, having lost my appetite a little.

“What are your chances?” Royce asks. “When it's said and done, if you don't have near-certain chances, your family shouldn't do it. It's too risky.”

“It's awful, isn't it? No one who's been in America as long as us should have to go through this. I've been here most of my life. I can barely remember the Philippines. I used to think I belonged equally to both cultures, but I'm not really Filipino, and now I'm not quite American either.”

“You're who you've always been, Jas. That doesn't change,” he says. “Like I said the other night, I really think we should ask my dad to help. He can do a lot, he knows so many people.”

“I still don't think that's a good idea,” I say. “I don't want to put you in the middle of all this. Do you even trust him to know about my status?” I ask nervously, the butterflies returning to my stomach.

“There has to be some way I can help,” Royce says. “Look, I know you think my dad's a bad guy, but he's not really. He would do this for me.”

“I don't need anything from you except to just be there for me,” I say. I want to reach across the table and touch him, but I don't. I'm still a bit shy after our sort-of-breakup.

“I am,” he says. “You know I am. But you need to tell more people what's going on.”

Suddenly, I recall someone else saying the same thing.

“What's up?” Royce asks.

“My friend Millie told me that recently. That I need to build a support group. I can't do it alone.”

“Great minds think alike,” he says. Royce hasn't met Millie, but he's heard all about her.

“You know what though? If I'm only going to be here for a little while longer, I want to make it count. Live it up a little,” I say, an idea dawning. Royce is back in LA, and we're back together. We're eighteen years old—what are we doing in this stuffy restaurant?

“Live it up? You? I can't believe what I'm hearing.” Now he's the one teasing me.

“Let's get out of here. Take me somewhere.” I lean over and look into his eyes. I reach for his hand and slowly scratch a nail under his palm in a seductive gesture I never realized I was capable of making. Maybe it's because I waited so long to kiss a boy, or maybe it's just because it's him. I think it's because it's him. Like Royce, I know what I want.

His face turns bright red, and he throws the napkin down on the table along with enough cash to cover the meal. No need for dessert.

Royce stands up. “Where do you want to go?”

“I don't know. How fast can you drive?”

* * *

Royce grins as I'm hanging on to the side of the car door for dear life. We're going top-down in the Carrera. I've never been more attracted to him. This is it, I tell myself. Speed. The edge. Roaring curves. Mulholland Drive. This is a metaphor for life, and I'm completely trusting Royce with mine.

I embrace every turn, every leap of my stomach. Royce tells me not to worry—he's had speed-driving lessons. I didn't even know you could get those, but apparently you can if you're rich enough.

“I can't believe you've never driven fast on Mulholland,” he says. “This is me taking it easy!”

“Don't take it easy,” I say, loving the wicked, dangerous thrill. “Go as fast as you can.”

“Oh, I will,” he says. I love the way he focuses. Eyes on the road. Carefully shifting and downshifting on the curves, then hitting the gears again so we're really soaring. We're going faster now. Faster. The car roars; it was made for this.

When he turns to me, his handsome face is full of joy. He's totally lost in the moment, not caring about anything but the speed, the ride, wind in his hair and the speakers blasting Kanye's “All of the Lights.” My heart is bursting for him. This is exactly what I wanted tonight.

The curves come faster, harder. If my parents were here, I'd never see Royce again. The car screeches on a turn and I scream at him to slow down. In my defense, I want to live.

He laughs and shakes his head. “No way! This is what you wanted!”

Damn, he's right. Through the howl of the wind, I manage to squeak out a few words. “The city is so beautiful from here!”

He laughs again. “You want me to watch the lights or the road?”

I laugh nervously and nearly throw up.

“You don't look scared enough!” he yells. “Maybe I should go faster!”

He'd better be joking, or I'll kill him before he kills me, but I stay quiet, gripping the edge of my seat, taking in the dangerous, iridescent beauty of Los Angeles. Below us are cascades of city lights like swirling jellyfish in a sea of bioluminescence. I'm above the darkness and the lights on the swells of this road. I'm a little carsick, but I don't tell Royce.

Somehow I know I need to feel scared. Somehow I know, that tonight, I need to feel everything.

* * *

He parks the car at a secluded spot, high on the hill, where we can see the whole city. We don't say a word to each other. We don't have to; we know exactly what we're about to do. He's breathing heavily and so am I, and as soon as he cuts the engine I literally leap into his arms, scooting over from my side of the seat to get nearer to his. With the top down on the car, I should be cold, but he's so warm, and pressed against him like this, so am I.

We're kissing now, our arms wrapped around each other, as if we can't get close enough to each other, and we want—we
need
to be closer. I tug at his shirt, run my hands underneath, so I can feel his skin, and I notice he's trembling.

“What?” I whisper.

“I want you so much,” he says.

“Let's do it,” I say, feeling so powerfully feminine at the moment, and my hand goes to his belt, and he tugs down on the straps of my dress, and I think, this is it, I want this. I want him. I want this
with him
.

Now he's lying on top of me, his body heavy on mine, and I like its weight, like having him on top of me. I start to unbuckle his belt, but suddenly, and with a drawn-out groan, he stops me. Puts his hand on mine.

“We shouldn't,” he says hoarsely. “Not like this, not here.”

I wiggle underneath him, and he catches his breath again. I can make him change his mind, I know I can. “But I want to.” I want to show him how much I feel for him, how much closer I want to be. Yet I'm a little nervous too, and maybe he senses that because he shakes his head.

“Jas,” he breathes. “We can't.”

“Why not?” I say, my heart pounding, my breath shallow, but feeling relief as well.