Something in Between (2 page)

2

It was my father who taught us that an immigrant must work twice as hard as anybody else, that he must never give up.

—ZINEDINE ZIDANE

“WHAT WAS THAT
all about?” Kayla asks when Mrs. Garcia leaves. She raises her eyebrows and waits expectantly.

I can't hide my elation, but I want to tell my parents first. The news is too precious, too hard-earned to share with even my best friend right now. It's not that she won't be happy for me; she'll be ecstatic. But Mom and Dad deserve to be the first ones to hear.

“Just some good news about college apps,” I tell her. “She thinks I'm eligible for a Regent's at the UC schools.” The Regent's Scholarships are California's answer to the National Scholarship Program. They cover thousands of dollars of tuition a year for the top percentage of applicants, and I'd known I've been eligible for a while as UC applications are due at the end of November.

“Well, duh, I could have told you that,” she says, as I pull the scholarship letter out of my sports bra and slip it into the front pocket of my backpack.

When practice is over, we run into Lorraine Schiana leaning against her car with a couple of boys in the parking lot. She's twisting her dark red hair around one of her fingers. Lo is drop-dead gorgeous but never looks as if she's trying. You know the type. Glamorous. Bohemian. Like a rock star's famous girlfriend. She's a total scene queen, always dating a different hot musician at least a year or two older, and dyeing her hair these
amazing
unnatural colors—pink, blue, lavender, and silver. Right now she's wearing her hair au naturel, as she told me all that dye was drying out the ends too much. We've been friends since junior high, but Lo started running in different groups once we got to high school and my class load meant I didn't have as much free time as I'd like. Even though we're not as close anymore, I still love her. Her world always seems so much bigger than mine. She knows so many people and has so many fun things going on that it makes me feel a little jealous sometimes.

As I pass by, I give her a little wave, not wanting to interrupt her conversation.

Kayla leans over and whispers, “Who are those guys? Dibs on the one in the Bob Marley shirt.”

It's like the boys can sense she's talking about them because they train their eyes on us, which makes Lorraine look over too. “Hey, Jas,” she says. “What up, girl? Haven't seen you in a long time.”

“The usual,” I say, smiling back. “What's up with you?”

“Hanging out with these losers.” Lorraine gestures to the guys at her side. “This is my boyfriend, Julian. That's Dylan. They play in a band together,” she says.

Julian is African American, incredibly good-looking, with cappuccino-colored skin and dreadlocks. He's wearing a red beanie and has tattoos all over his forearms. Kayla smiles at Dylan, the surfer-type boy with messy blond hair wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses and a T-shirt with Bob Marley's face on the front. I can tell she's already developed a massive crush on him.

“Cheerleaders, huh?” Dylan asks.

I sigh a little. “Good guess. How can you tell?”

It's not like we're wearing our uniforms or anything, and I don't like the way he said
cheerleaders
, as if we're just chicks who shake their pom-poms. Our squad won Regionals last year. We're just as much athletes as the guys in helmets we supposedly “cheer” for. (They lose every year. Our squad has a better winning percentage. Burn.)

Dylan smirks. “Dorky white tennis shoes are pretty much a dead giveaway.”

“Leave her alone, Dylan. She's a friend of mine,” Lo says.

“My older sister was a cheerleader,” he says somewhat apologetically.

“It's okay,” says Kayla, who's practically drooling over him even though she's trying to appear disinterested. “Where do you guys go to school?”

“We graduated last year. Dylan's at Valley College. I'm taking some time off and focusing on music,” Julian says. “I might go back to become a sound engineer. I'm still figuring things out.”

Lo tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Want to come over on Friday?” she asks. “I'm having a few people over for a kick back. It'll be chill. My parents are out of town.”

“I don't know,” I say, hesitating to commit, even as I feel Kayla's intense stare on me. “Midterms are coming up and you know what my parents are like. And Kayla and I already have plans that night.” To sit at home and bake chocolate-chip cookies, but I don't mention that.

“We can change them!” Kayla chirps.

“Yeah, come on, Jas,” Lorraine says. “It'll be fun. Hang out for a change.”

“Fine. Maybe. Message me the details?” I hate letting people down and I do miss Lo.

“Will do,” Lorraine says. “See you guys then. Bye, Jas. Bye, Kayla.”

Kayla seems shocked Lorraine even knows her name but recovers quickly. “Cool, thanks, Lo.” She looks at the boys. “Are you guys going to be there?”

Julian seems amused. He exchanges glances with Dylan. I'm not sure what they're trying to say to each other. Boys. I can never read them.

“Yeah, we'll be there,” says Julian, and Dylan nods.

“Excellent,” says Kayla.

* * *

Kayla and I walk to her brand-new pearly-white Dodge Charger, which her parents bought her for her seventeenth birthday. We throw our backpacks onto the backseat and plop into the front seats, overheated and exhausted, although I can tell Kayla's in a good mood from the party invitation and meeting those guys.

I'm catching a ride to the hospital where my mom works. I don't know how to drive yet, and it's kind of embarrassing, especially since I live in LA (okay, Chatsworth, but no one ever wants to admit they live in the Valley).

Daddy always promises to teach me how to drive, but there hasn't been any time in either of our schedules, especially since I've been training so hard at cheer. Right now I don't really have time to go anywhere besides school and practice, so I don't mind too much.

Kayla turns on the ignition and rolls the windows down. “He was cute, right? Did he seem into me? Dylan?”

“Who can tell behind those aviator shades?” I say, teasing her on her “bad boy” taste. As she drives out of the lot and down the highway next to the school, I change the subject. Once Kayla gets going on boy-talk, she'll never stop, and I want to bring up something more important. “Hey, your tumbling is looking really good,” I say.

Kayla rolls her eyes. “Thanks, but I don't need false compliments.”

I search Kayla's face for a hint of sarcasm, but I don't see any. “I wasn't being fake with you,” I say.

“It's not about whether I can do the movements,” she says.

“Of course not. You've always been one of the best on the team.”

Idling at a stoplight, Kayla turns to me. “I don't need you to make me feel better about myself, Jas. You could just ask what's been going on with me. I feel like you barely exist outside of practice anymore.”

“I'm sorry,” I say, and I really am. I know Kayla's needed me and I've neglected her. “I'm a terrible friend.”

“You're not. I know how important being the best is for you, so I understand that you need to work so hard. But don't forget that I'm here for you too.”

I lean my head on Kayla's shoulder. “Thanks, K. So what's been going on with you? Are you still going out with that guy? What was his name? Jason?”

“Girl, we really do need to catch up. I only went on, like, two dates with him. If you can even count them as dates... On the last one, he took me to an arcade, then expected me to
watch
him play video games. I said I was going to the bathroom and ditched him to play mini golf next door with one of the guys who works at the arcade.”

We both start laughing at her story, and I know that Kayla has forgiven me for being so absent lately. “I know you've noticed that I've been missing my marks more than normal,” she continues. “But it's not because of boys.”

I stay silent. I know Kayla well enough to understand that she's not going to quit talking until she's said everything she needs to get out. Talking is her way of processing things, while I tend to keep things bottled up inside until something's bothering me so bad that I finally explode in tears.

“My parents are separating. Dad moved out last week. He's living in his own apartment in Simi Valley.” She takes a deep breath and her upper lip quivers.

“Oh my God. What happened?” I ask, feeling the bottom drop out of my stomach. I knew things were bad at home, but not this bad. No matter how old you are, your parents getting divorced is still every kid's nightmare. I feel awful for her.

Kayla shakes her head. “I don't know. I think Dad had an affair, but they're not saying anything. I guess Mom doesn't want Brian and me to hate him for forever.” Her little brother is Danny's age.

“Of course not. But that's terrible.” I lean over and give Kayla as much of a hug as I can while she's driving. “I'm so sorry, K. I don't know what to say.” I feel my eyes watering.

Kayla gives me a little side hug back and wipes her eyes too. “It's okay. I'm glad I told you.”

“Do you want to have movie night at my house instead? You can get away from your place for a while,” I suggest.

“You mean on Friday? I thought we were hitting Lo's party after the game...”

“Ugh, I don't know,” I say. “It's not a party anyway. It's a
kick back
.”

“You know a kick back is just a code name for a total rager. Right? I can't go without you.”

“Yes, you can,” I say. “You don't need me.”

“We're going to that party,” she says determinedly. “It's senior year, Jas. It's about time you had a little fun.”

Dylan has no idea what's coming at him. What Kayla wants, Kayla gets. Especially when it comes to boys. Then she drops them like flies and they leave sad comments online, asking why she never texts them back. I wish I had her confidence in that arena. It's not that I'm shy around guys, but with my parents being so strict along with my tough academic slate and all my extracurrriculars, I've never really had the time or opportunity to have a boyfriend.

Kayla whips around the corner into the parking lot of the hospital. “You
have
to come. I need you to be my wing-woman. Just tell your parents you're staying at my house. It'll be the truth. I'll drive us back after the party.”

“I don't know,” I say. “You know them. My mom will call while we're supposed to be at your house, asking to talk to your mom, trying to pretend that she's not checking up on me.”

I want to go to Lo's. I do. But I also don't want to lie to my parents, no matter how much we disagree. I know everyone thinks I'm one of the good girls, but I can't afford to mess up like other kids. I'm an immigrant in this country. My dad always told me we have to work
twice
as hard as anyone else just to get to the same place, which is why I work four times as hard—because I want to succeed.

“What's Lo going to say?” Kayla asks. “You told her you'd be there.”

I stare out the window at the palm trees lining the edge of the parking lot. Why do I feel guilty for just
thinking
about doing things most teenagers do? “No, I said
maybe.
”

“Why do I even bother?” Kayla says, clearly annoyed. “Your
maybe
always means
no
.”

Fair enough, but if I didn't always say no to things, I might not be getting the biggest yes of my life now—the golden ticket in my backpack. The one that will bring me straight to the top of the heap, where I belong.

3

The land flourished because it was fed from so many sources—because it was nourished by so many cultures and traditions and peoples.

—LYNDON B. JOHNSON

I SAY BYE
to Kayla and hope she's not too irritated with me, and promise I'll think about going to Lo's party, then I head into the hospital. My mom has been working there for a few years now. She's what they call an environmental service worker, which basically means she's a glorified janitor. She has to do everything from mopping the hallways to washing dirty sheets. I feel bad for her, especially this year. Her job is already hard, but the hospital administration changed a few months ago and they started laying off some of Mom's coworkers, which means she's doing double the work she used to do. I know she's worried about losing her job too.

I started volunteering at the hospital in the gift shop when I was a freshman, then I assisted the nurses, but a year ago I started interviewing patients for a storytelling project. It's part of a research study to see how connections and being heard can affect the healing process, especially for elderly patients. Apparently patients need personal interactions, especially during recovery, and these moments can even alleviate physical symptoms. Hearing my mom talk about how sad it was that so many of the people at the hospital never had anyone visit made me excited to help out. I wrote about my experiences for my essay for the National Scholarship too. Patients need to know that people care about them, that someone is listening to what they have to say. For many of them, that someone is me.

Trying to shake off disappointing Kayla, I head through the doors to the ER lobby. Gladys, an older woman with curly white hair that she wears in ringlets close to her scalp, sits behind the counter where new patients fill out their paperwork. She's talking to an older gentleman wearing a fancy navy blue suit standing next to a tall boy who looks like he's around my age. They look like father and son, except the son has dark, chestnut-colored hair and his dad's is more wheat-colored.

While the boy listens to his father, I sneak a peek at him. He's tan, although maybe not so much tan as a natural golden-brown color. He must be mixed. Caucasian dad, Latina mom maybe? I can tell because I'm pretty mixed myself. Filipinos are a little of everything. (I'm Filipino Chinese Hawaiian French.) This guy has deep brown eyes and cut-glass cheekbones, and he's wearing a navy suit with a green tie and brown dress shoes. Although his clothes are perfectly put together, his hair looks like he's been running his hands through it too much. When he smiles at something his father says, I notice a dimple on one cheek. He glances over and catches me staring, and I blush, because he's really cute. My heart rate immediately goes up and I'm lucky I'm not hooked up to a machine right now.

His father shakes Gladys's hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Robertson. I appreciate your help.” He walks toward the elevator but the son lingers behind. “Go ahead, Dad. I forgot something.”

I say hi to Gladys and she hands me the folder with the list of today's patients who've signed up to be part of the project. The boy is still standing next to me. When Gladys gets up from her chair, she raises an eyebrow in my direction, then makes herself look busy at the filing cabinet.

I can feel him looking at me, but he doesn't say anything, so I finally do. “What did you forget?” I blurt.

“I forgot to get your number,” he says, his voice low and rich.

My blush deepens, and when our eyes meet, I feel a spark inside, like I'm all lit up from within. He smiles at me from under his long, floppy bangs. It makes me want to run my own hands through his hair, which looks so thick and glossy and inviting. I've never felt so attracted to anyone before, and I'm a little shocked at how much I want to touch him—a shoulder, an elbow.

Somehow I find myself digging for my phone. I don't know why, but I can't remember my number, let alone my name right now.

Gladys yells from the window. “Jazzy baby!” she calls. “I've got another patient for you!”

I'm mortified, but the boy's smile grows wider. He takes my phone from my hand. I didn't even realize I was holding it.

“Tell you what. Why don't you text me? That way it's up to you. I can tell your mother taught you never to talk to strangers.” He punches in his number, takes a quick, goofy selfie to go with his contact info and hands it back to me. His fingers are warm, but dry. My hand feels electric.

I pocket my phone, trying to look as cool as he does. I shrug, as if I could care less.

When he's gone, Gladys comes back to the window with an amused expression and a slip of paper with another name for me. “What did he want? Although I can guess,” she teases.

“Who is he?” I ask, ignoring the teasing.

“Congressman Blakely's son. His dad represents our district. They were here visiting a relative.”

I take a surreptitious look at my phone, at the mug shot he just took. He's smiling like a doofus. A very handsome doofus who does things like take a girl's phone on a whim.
ROYCE BLAKELY
, it reads. Royce? What kind of ridiculous name is Royce?

Gladys smirks. “Cute, isn't he?”

I roll my eyes. “He'd be even cuter if he didn't wear a suit. Who wears a suit in LA?”

“Be careful what you say,” Gladys says, tapping the counter with a pen. “When you're older, you'll want your man to dress better. Some can get pretty lazy. After enough years together, you could find yourself begging him not to wear sweatpants to the Christmas party. Like I know I'll have to do with Bob again this year.”

I laugh and say goodbye to her, then take the elevator up to the floor where they keep the people who have chronic illnesses or have to stay at the hospital for long periods of time. Mom makes friends with a lot of these patients, since she cleans their rooms every day. When she comes home quieter than normal, I know she's lost one of them.

Most of our family still lives in the Philippines, so I understand what it's like to be away from people you love. But at least I know they're still alive. I can't even imagine what I would do if I knew I would never be able to visit them again. It's been a few years since we were back in Manila, and I miss it. I miss my grandparents' huge house in the province, where at any time of day you can find neighbors, friends and relatives gathered at the courtyard tables playing mah-jongg or cards. Their house is like the community center for the village, always open and welcome to all.

I look down at my phone again. His name is Royce. Seriously? Am I supposed to call him that?
Why don't you text me? That way it
'
s up to you
, he said. He's not a stranger. He's a congressman's son. I mean, you're supposed to know your congressman, right? I can be a good citizen.

jasmindls: Hey it's me
, I send.

I get a text back immediately.

royceb: jazzy baby?

jasmindls: The one and the same, Rolls Royce.

royceb: original.

jasmindls: Is that your real name or did your parents just really want a car?

royceb: if you must know, I'm named after my uncle who died.

jasmindls: Oh god! Sorry. My bad.

royceb: no, it's mine. my uncle's alive.

jasmindls:
You're evil!!!

royceb: actually he just got in a car accident, that's why we were at the hospital.

royceb: so you have a problem with my name huh?

jasmindls: I dunno I kind of like fancy cars.

royceb: cool.
so should I call you Jazzy for short?

royceb: or do you prefer Baby?

jasmindls: It's Jasmine, thank you very much.

royceb: nice to meet you Jasmine.

jasmindls: U too GTG TTYL
, I type as I reach my floor.

royceb:

The nurses are chatting around their workstation as an employee pushes a food cart down the hall past me for the early bird dinners. Usually, I try to snag a Jell-O cup for myself. I'd never admit it, but I actually
like
the hospital food. But this time, I leave it. I was starving earlier, yet for some reason, I'm not hungry anymore. I'm excited and queasy-feeling, and I suspect it may have something to do with the boy who's texting me.

I see my mother rounding the corner in her dark blue scrubs, dragging a bucket full of water and a mop behind her tiny frame.

“Mommy!” I say, skipping toward her. I never call her that except when I want to make her happy. It's sort of a Filipino thing, and right now I'm bursting with news about the scholarship. “Guess what!”

But before I can say anything else she sets down the mop and leans against the handle. “Are you busy?” she asks. “I need you.”

I shake my head, disappointed not to have her full attention, and my good mood dampens a bit. She seems stressed. “What's up?” I ask.

“Can you come help me with a mess? You don't have to touch anything. I just need you to make sure no one walks on it.”