Something in Between (26 page)

32

The Guide says there is an art to flying...or rather a knack. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself to the ground and miss.

—DOUGLAS ADAMS

“WHAT DID I
tell you about the lawyer?” Dad says as we all pile into the car. He's the only one talking. Mom probably can't say anything because she'll break down in tears.

“Did you hear how he and the judge talked?” Dad asks himself. “They were golf buddies. I knew it soon as I walked into his office. Alvarado didn't even
try
...”

“It wasn't his fault,” I say.

Dad isn't finished yet. “And who was that other man in the room? A lawyer? Or a hit man? Do we have to watch our backs now until we board the plane?”

Mom wipes her eyes. I'm crying too. Everything I've known is gone. Everything. This life has been an illusion. Something I thought I knew. I thought I understood how life works. School. Cheer. Boys. Family. Life. Right? No. Life gets pulled out from under you like some kind of slow death. I can't even think about Royce and I being separated from each other. Not now. Not after everything we've been through.

That's really what this is. Torture. I know I belong here, but the government doesn't think I do. I may look like I belong in the Philippines, but they'll know I'm a fraud too. I can't even speak Tagalog or Ilocano. Neither country will want me.

“I don't understand,” says Danny. His bruises are barely visible now. “Do we have to leave right now? Where are we going? We haven't packed our games.”

“I don't know,” I say to him. “We haven't talked about it.”

Dad pulls into traffic. “We'll figure it out. We have family all over the Philippines. Someone will know of a place we can buy or rent. And there are bus driver jobs everywhere. I have a lot of experience. You'll have a good education there. The colleges are good. You boys will like the schools.”

“We'll get beat up for talking American,” Isko cries. “I don't want to get beat up like Danny.”

“Shut up,” Danny says. “They like Americans over there. And when they find out cheerleaders kiss me, I'll be the coolest kid at school.”

“But no cheerleaders kissed me,” Isko cries. “They'll pick on me and cover me with spiders!”

“Will you boys quit?” Dad says.

Mom's still not saying a word. I worry about her. I know that she'll feel guilty for everything. Not telling me about our expired visas. Pushing to have a deportation hearing. Giving me false hope for college. America turns out to be a hopeless, wasted dream. I'm not a National Scholar, because I'm not a
national.

It's not just my future that I've lost. My past and present are about to get ripped away too. I'll have to completely start over again.

“They're just scared we might have to leave right away,” Mom says.

“It will be a few months before we have to go,” Dad says to the boys. “Our useless lawyer negotiated that we don't have to leave until Jasmine graduates high school.” He turns to Mom. “I'm telling you, she'll get into a top university in Manila, maybe even Ateneo. And you boys will really like it over there.”

I finally text Royce. I didn't want to share the bad news until I had time to process it. Since we made up, we've been so solid.

But now I have to tell him.

jasmindls: We lost. We have to leave the country.

He texts back immediately.

royceb: no ducking way! DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK

royceb: DUCKING autocorrect i don't mean DUCK!!!

royceb: i thought your case was a sure thing!!!

royceb: i'm coming over right now. There has to be something we can do.

* * *

Royce is leaning against his car when we arrive home. I jump out and run into his arms. “I don't want to go,” I say. I'm scared to cry again. Crying means defeat, and I'm not giving up.

“You're not going anywhere,” he says. I've never heard him curse as much as he has today. “I can't believe it. They'd turn you away because of some expired visa? What is that about? After everything you've done? You didn't do anything wrong!”

“The law says we did,” I say shakily. “You should have seen the judge.”

My family crosses the lawn to go into the house. Mom and Dad wave at Royce. He acknowledges them. My brothers are joking around.

“You think I can get the cheerleaders to kiss me before we go?” asks Isko.

“I don't know,” Danny says. “You have a monkey face.”

“Your brothers don't seem to be taking it too bad,” Royce says.

“They don't understand,” I say, leaning into his chest. “To them, everything's a big adventure.”

Royce runs his hands up and down my arms. “It will be,” he says.

“No, it will be horrible.”

He squeezes my arms. “You can't leave. There's got to be something I can do.” He keeps saying that. He's said for months that he can help me, but I won't let him.

“The judge asked us if we knew anyone important in government,” I finally confess.

“He did?”

“Yeah.”

It's like I lit a fire underneath him. “Okay. We need to move fast, then. Let's go talk to my mom.”

“Your mom?” I ask. “Why?”

Royce is obviously surprised by this comment. He pulls away. “Because you're my girlfriend. I thought we were over this thing you have with my family.”

“I didn't mean it that way,” I say, but I guess I did. I think about the day I dropped off his Christmas gift. I left his house feeling like I could never impress her.

“But isn't your dad the one we have to talk to? He's the congressman.”

Royce smiles ruefully. “He definitely is. Except we have to win over Mom first. It's just the way things work in my family.”

“Okay,” I say. I'm desperate, and he's offering.

“Great, she's in town. Let's go.”

* * *

When Royce and I enter the Blakely house, Maria greets me. “Nice to see you, Jasmine,” she says. “I've been wondering where you've been lately.”

“Where's Mom?” Royce asks.

“She's in the kitchen,” Maria says. “Is something wrong?”

Royce nods. He looks more determined than I've ever seen him. “It's a long story. I'll catch you up later.”

We hurry to the kitchen. Even though my family doesn't have to leave the country right away, everything seems to have taken on a feeling of urgency. It's like a timer has been set, and every ticking second means we're closer to deportation.

“Mom. I need to talk to you,” Royce says as we enter the kitchen.

Mrs. Blakely is rinsing out a coffee cup. “I have a hair appointment in thirty minutes, Royce,” she says, smiling at me. “Hello, Jasmine. Congratulations on your cheerleading championship. Royce told me a few weeks ago.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

“Did I tell you I was a cheerleader at UCLA? Go Bruins! Unfortunately, I was never the captain. But look at you. Smart. Driven. I'm so proud of you.”

Is this the same woman I saw at Christmas? She's not looking at me the way she did that day, like something Royce dragged inside from the street onto her spotless white carpet. She's friendlier. Sweeter. She really does seem to like me. Was it all in my head, then? It must have been. I told Royce when I apologized that I was projecting my own insecurity onto her, and this is more proof of it.

“Thank you, Mrs. Blakely,” I say. “That's really nice of you to say.”

“You can call me Debra,” she says, putting the cup away. “We all need to have dinner soon. Anyway, I'm off.”

“It's important, Mom,” Royce says. “I need you.”

Debra stops in her tracks. “Okay. What is it?” She sets down her purse, waiting for Royce to continue.

He gets right to the point.

“Jasmine and her family are going to be deported. We have to help.”

33

There is no exercise better for the heart than reaching down and lifting people up.

—JOHN HOLMES

“WHEN MARIA'S VISA EXPIRED,
” Mrs. Blakely says, “we had to help her get an extension, which is much harder to do once the date has passed. The government tends to frown on that, but we were able to make it happen.”

I'm at a coffeehouse with Royce and his mom. She's meeting with us after her hair appointment. Her hair looks perfect. She's listened to my story quietly and without judgment. For the first time, I feel a glimmer of hope, although there's still more than a hint of desperation mixed with it.

She stirs some sugar substitute into her coffee. “These things can be a real headache, but in Maria's case we were able to extend her stay for another five years.”

“Only five years?” Royce says, alarmed. “That's not enough time for Jasmine to get a degree and go to grad school too. There has to be a solution that wouldn't mean she'd need to get approvals through the immigration and American court system for the rest of her life.”

“And I can't stay here without my family,” I say. “We all need to be able to stay.” I'm adamant about that point.

“Wait, Maria's leaving after five years?” Royce asks.

Mrs. Blakely nods. “She wants to move back to the Philippines and be with her family.” She takes a drink. “Your father had to pull some strings to get her a new work visa.” She looks at me. “In your case though, you need something to stall the deportation. To file some kind of appeal. And you'll need a judge on your side for that. I think it's called a stay of deportation. After that, you'll need to somehow be eligible to apply for green cards so you can become permanent residents. But I just can't believe the judge wouldn't look at your academic excellence as a reason to keep you and your family here in America.”

“It was a nightmare,” I say, feeling brave enough to speak my mind after hearing her supportive words. “He was definitely not on our side. He thought winning Nationals at cheer was silly. He made some comment about how America had enough cheerleaders.”

“I'm not surprised,” Mrs. Blakely says. “Some of these people think a woman's place truly is in the gutter. They've spent years at the top and believe their power gives them the right to decide people's fates. That they
deserve
the power to say who stays and goes.”

“Like Dad?” Royce says.

Mrs. Blakely laughs. “Your dad wouldn't get anything done without me.”

Royce elbows me. “What did I tell you? Maria wouldn't be here without Mom pushing Dad to help.”

“He was glad to help,” Mrs. Blakely says. “It's just that he has so much going on. He would have never known if I hadn't pushed the issue. He probably would have just hired another housekeeper. But I like Maria, and she asked if I had any solutions. So here we are.”

“Do you have any solutions for Jasmine?” Royce asked.

“Not yet,” Mrs. Blakely says. “First, we need to take this to your father. He'll know what to do. There are so many loopholes and ways of doing things. We might have to do a little research. Ask around Washington.”

“Dad will do it, right?” Royce asks. “Even if his politics are very conservative.”

“Just because someone is conservative doesn't mean they don't help people, Royce,” his mother chides. “You know that. Besides, this is your Jasmine we're talking about. Her track record alone means that this is a special case, don't you think? Let me talk to him first, and when Dad gets back in town this week, you and Jasmine should schedule some time to talk to him as well.”

* * *

A few days later, I've gotten out early from school and Royce and I are sitting in the waiting area of Congressman Blakely's office. It strikes me as funny that Royce had to be penciled in to the appointment book like any other constituent, but I guess his dad's schedule is that tight. Every moment is accounted for, even time with his son.

Mr. Blakely's office is a testament to all he's done in his political career. There are photos of him with two US presidents, senators, foreign dignitaries, celebrities, and of course of him in the House of Representatives, speaking on the floor. There are paintings too, probably commissioned by Mrs. Blakely. There's one of him hanging next to a case that has all kinds of awards of recognition he's received over the years from around the world. Behind him are the US and California flags.

“He's ready for you,” says his assistant, a serious-looking guy in his twenties wearing a crisp suit. “Go on in.”

As Royce and I enter his office, Mr. Blakely stands, comes out from around his desk, and clasps Royce around the shoulder. He has Royce's broad shoulders and classic features, but Royce has his mother's eyes.

He tells us to sit, and instead of returning behind his desk, he takes a seat on the chair opposite the couch where we're sitting.

“How's work?” he asks Royce. “I'm told you're quite an asset to the team. That press release you wrote about the water initiative was picked up almost word for word by the press.”

“Thanks, Dad,” he says, blushing.

I look at him admiringly. I'm so proud.

“Your mother told me what's going on,” his dad says. “This is tough business we're talking about. Jasmine is in the process of being deported?”

“Yes, sir,” says Royce.

“My entire family actually,” I say. “We tried to go through the appropriate process, but we lost the trial.”

“And we didn't know who else to talk to,” Royce adds. “Mom said to come to you.”

“You came to the right place,” Congressman Blakely says. He studies me. “How are you doing, Jasmine?” he asks.

“I'm all right, sir.”

“I'm sorry about all this. Royce tells me that because of your status, you're not eligible for the National Scholarship anymore.”

“Yes, sir.” I flush. I hope he doesn't think I was some kind of fraud for having gone to the reception in D.C.

“That's a terrible shame,” he says. He doesn't seem to think so. I breathe a little easier.

“Thank you, sir,” I say.

“Call me Colin, please. I've told you before, let's not be so formal,” he says. “I've been thinking about what we can do about your documentation status since Debra told me about it. Here's my solution. I want to offer you a special chance at something. Have you ever heard of a private bill?”

“No, I haven't,” I admit, hope rising in my chest.

Royce, who's holding my hand, squeezes it.

“Several years ago, there was a young man from Uganda who had birth defects to his heart that had never been repaired,” Congressman Blakely says. “He was a walking time bomb. Doctors said he could die anytime. How he lived to sixteen, no one knew. But there was nothing they could do. They didn't have the expertise to treat him. The boy was in an orphanage and had no money to travel for health care. He was discovered by Doctors Without Borders. They referred him to one of the programs in the US that was training medical students at a university here. And so they treated him. He recovered.”

Mr. Blakely returns to his desk chair and motions for Royce and I to move to the chairs before him. He continues with his story. “Then guess what happened? Over the next few years, he took a bunch of college classes. He wanted to study medicine. Only, he needed to have residency in the US to enter the program. So, Representative Bill Turner from Wisconsin drafted a private bill. Included in that were letters from high-ranking officials from the university and the US government. The bill passed the House and the Senate. No problems. Then the president signed off on it. Just like that, the young man became a green-card holder and then a US citizen. In his case, the private bill only encompassed one man.”

I feel light-headed with hope. “So you're saying one of these bills could work for my entire family? You would do that for us?” It's mind-boggling to think it could be this easy, that just because I know Royce, my family could find ourselves moved to the front of the immigration line, the VIP pass to citizenship.

Mr. Blakely nods. “Exactly, Jasmine. We'd center the bill around you—an accomplished young student and her support system. What do you think?”

“I think it's amazing,” I say. Wow. This is more than I expected. A private bill. Just for us. For my family. I exchange a hopeful glance with Royce. So this is what he meant when he said he could help me. He could make this happen, because of who his father is.

“It's definitely worth a shot,” Royce says with a broad smile.

“I have to say, it sounds good on paper. But it will be tricky,” Mr. Blakely says. “First I have to talk to the judge who presided over the case, see if I can get him to have a change of heart and grant some kind of temporary visa for you all. We don't want you to be deported while we're trying to make this happen. That might simply result in another hearing, which means waiting all over again. It could be a lengthy process.”

“So she would have to wait for two things?” Royce says. “A hearing to see if she could stay temporarily, and then to see if the private bill passes?”

“Yes,” Congressman Blakely says. “In the meantime, there will be a lot of information to gather. I'll have to call the judge. Letters have to be written. Then the bill will have to be drafted. We can try to fast-track this, but that might not work. It could still take six months to a year, and there are no guarantees it will pass. It's an exceptional case. Then again, you and your family, Jasmine, are exceptional. We have to find a way to tug on the heartstrings of my fellow congressmen, senators, and the president. I'd say you have a good chance, but you've probably heard that before.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blakely,” I say. I can't call him Colin, just like I can't call his wife Debra. Not yet. Maybe one day. I'm floored that he's helping us. I know it's not for me, that he's doing this for his son and because his wife asked him to help. He's doing it for his family, and maybe that means Royce's family really isn't that different from mine.

“Wait a minute. Before you go...” Congressman Blakely lifts his hand to stop Royce and I from leaving the room. “I'd appreciate if you kept what I'm doing quiet, Jasmine. It is very much against my party line. If certain people find out, they could take advantage of your situation to hurt me. And that would do neither of us any favors.”

* * *

“Wow, your dad is a superhero. Your mom too,” I say to Royce as we walk hand in hand on the Santa Monica Pier after meeting with his father. The pier is one of Royce's favorite places in LA. He says it reminds him of his childhood, so we go there often. We're next to the balloon-popping game at the carnival.

This is the closest I've ever felt to him. Not only because he's helping me but because his family knows me, the real me. They know me and want to help me.

“I told you they could help,” he says simply.

“Thank you,” I say. “I'll never be able to thank you guys enough.”

“There's no need to thank me. I'm doing it for myself, you know. I'm very selfish,” he jokes. “And you know I don't have any other friends.”

I still can't believe it. Just one meeting with his father and all our problems have vanished. It's magic.

“Look at you lovers,” one of the carnies says. He holds up a black teddy bear cradling a heart. “Why don't you do the girl a favor and win her something she'll never forget?”

Royce looks at me. “Think I have good enough aim?”

“I don't know,” I say. “I kind of want to go tell my parents the good news.”

“Live a little,” the carnie says. “No one has all the time in the world. Your time for winning is now.”

“He's a good salesman, don't you think?” Royce says.

“Not good enough,” I say. I don't feel like playing games right now.

“Sorry, buddy,” Royce says to the man.

We continue walking down the boardwalk. The breeze is cool and soft on my skin. Everywhere there are kids chasing each other around, laughing at the games. Several seagulls hover overhead. One lands on a railing. The Ferris wheel turns close by. A few kids scream from their seats as the ride rotates.

Royce had offered to help with my situation from the beginning, and I kept turning away his help. I thought I was being practical, that I didn't want to burden him with my problems when really I was too proud to accept his help. Too self-absorbed to accept his love, because love means letting other people love you too.

While I'm happy for myself, I think about the many millions of people in my situation who don't have the same resources, the same connections, and don't have a voice in the system.
There, but for the grace of God go I
. I'd never really understood what that meant before, but I do now. What if we were locked away in a detention center for years? How would my brothers grow up? What would I be like when I got out? Would my parents' hair be gray?

I'd been thinking about what I want to do with my life, in case everything worked out, and now I think I know. I want to help these people in some way, to be an advocate for those who don't have one.

“You okay?” he asks, putting an arm around my shoulder.

“What if I'd kept saying no? What if I didn't accept your help?” I ask.

“I'd have probably done the same thing anyway,” he says. “I should have done it earlier.”

“We didn't know it could be this easy,” I say. “And it's not your fault. I'm really lucky.”

“I'm lucky too,” he says simply.

My mind turns back to the millions of illegal immigrants in this country, waiting and hiding. Trying to stay in America is a game of cat and mouse, a life of working under the table, for less than minimum wage, with no way to report workplace abuses and transgressions. What happens when they get sick? What happens if they're hurt? The sacrifice they're making is enormous.