Something in Between (4 page)

jasmindls: LOL are you sure?

royceb: Okay, okay, that was me. The pigs made me do it.

He's funny, I think as I type back.

jasmindls: Weekend's tough but I volunteer at the hospital on Mondays and Wednesdays.

royceb: okayyyy. Not quite what I was hoping.

royceb: But I do hear the hospital cafeteria is delightful.

That makes me giggle out loud.

jasmindls:

Glowing, I head to the kitchen. Everyone is gathered around the stove, spooning rice and adobo into their bowls. I slip the scholarship letter under a book on the counter and grab a bowl of adobo for myself.

Mom notices I filled the bowl only a little. “What? You don't like my cooking?”

Isko perks up. “Don't you know, Ma? Jasmine is on a
diet
,” he says. “So she won't get
taba
like you.”

“How can such a
little
boy have such a
big
personality?” Mom says, pretending to be annoyed that he called her fat, even if it's an endearment. Filipinos don't think being fat is the worst thing in the world, probably because it's a Third World country where many people are starving.

I pat Isko on the head, which I know he hates more than anything. Isn't that a big sister's job? To drive her little brothers crazy?

Danny doesn't say anything to back me up. He's at the table sketching some kind of magical beast. Dad doesn't even look up from his bowl
.

“Mommy, I told you, I have to watch what I eat during the season. Otherwise they won't be able to throw me up in the air.”

“I don't understand you girls and your diets. In the Philippines, I never had to watch what I ate and I stayed skinny as a stick. I guess you think our kind of food will make you fat, but look at the Filipinos you know. We're skinnier than Americans!”

Danny sighs.
“In the Philippines...”

Mom ignores him. “When I was growing up, all of the children played outside all the time. We made up outside games and ran around our compound and climbed trees. At least Jasmine dances,” she says to the boys. “You're always glued to the television.”

She always calls cheer “dancing” even though she knows better. I don't think she ever got over the fact that I stopped doing the traditional Filipino dance classes in junior high. But I had to drop something to be able to keep my other extracurricular activities and still get all my homework done.

She walks over to Danny and grabs his sketch pad. “
Tsk.
And
you
. No drawing at the table during dinner. You're as bad as your sister with her phone.”

I self-consciously check my pocket, to see if Royce has sent a new text, but he hasn't. The thought of seeing him at the hospital next Monday gives me serious butterflies. I've had crushes before, and I can already tell this is the worst one yet. I'm really into him and I've only known him for, like, five seconds.

Isko stuffs a pork chunk into his mouth. “I like hearing about the Philippines,” he says, nudging Dad with his elbow. “Tell us the story about how you and Tito Boy used to fight spiders!”

Dad puts down his empty bowl and leans back in his chair. He loves telling this story. Tito Boy died a few years ago at his construction job in Manila, so I think talking about him helps Daddy remember his brother.

“Tito Boy and I would stay up all night before spider-hunting season opened. As soon as the first light came up, we hunted for El Tigre spiders in the jungle. They're the best ones. We'd keep them in little boxes, any kind of small container, and let them out to crawl on our hands. Then we'd put them on long sticks, watch them crawl toward each other, knock each other off or fight to the death. We'd yell and scream for our favorite. Mine had only seven legs from a fight it survived. But let me tell you, that spider beat a hundred other spiders before I released it into a tree, retired to a new life. If only we could all escape this life with so few scars.”

By the time Dad is done with the story, Mom has brought over the turon for dessert. Danny and Isko swarm over the plate, grabbing two for each of them. Despite the warm sweet smell of burned caramel, I'm too excited about the scholarship to eat any dessert. I can't wait any longer.

“Mommy, Daddy, I want to show you something,” I say, standing up and walking over to the book on the counter. I slip the envelope from underneath and hand the letter to my father. I'm grinning ear to ear. I'm so proud of myself, of my parents, of my entire family right now.

I can't wait to hear them cry and scream and cheer when they read it.

I did it!
I want to shout.
I did it! I'm a National Scholar! And I couldn't have done it without you!

5

I take issue with many people's description of people being illegal immigrants. There aren't any illegal human beings as far as I'm concerned.

—DENNIS KUCINICH

DAD OPENS THE
envelope slowly. Mom leans over his shoulder. They are completely silent as they read the letter. I expected my father to jump up from the table and hug me, and my mother to scream and start calling all my aunties to brag about me. But neither of them say anything.

In fact, they look like they just received the worst kind of news instead of the best news ever.

Okay.

Maybe they're so happy they're shocked into silence?

“Isn't it amazing?” I reach over and pull the acceptance form from the envelope. “Don't worry, I can fill everything else out myself, but I need a copy of my green card. Mrs. Garcia will let me use the copier at school, but I have to get it done soon so they know I'm accepting the scholarship and going to D.C. for the reception.”

They look at each other with concern. I'm so confused by their silence. Isn't this the moment they've been waiting for my whole life?

What's going on?

“Danny, Isko. Out! We need to talk to Jasmine alone,” Mom says. “Take the
turon
with you.”

I feel a chill down the back of my neck. Something must really be wrong. Mom never allows the boys to eat in their room, let alone play games after dinner before their homework is done. I suddenly feel outnumbered. I want to call them back to stay with me.

What is it? Are they worried about the plane fare to D.C.? But the letter says the program will cover all hotel and transportation costs for the weekend trip. Oh, maybe they don't want to allow me to go to D.C. alone? Is that it?

Mom pushes the dishes to the side of the table, not meeting my gaze. “We have something to tell you,
neneng
, and you have to believe us when we say we've always wanted the best for you,” she says. “We've tried to do everything right.”

Dad just keeps staring at the letter like the words don't make any sense. I thought he would be the proudest of me, of what I've done for our family. With this opportunity, I'll be able to take care of my parents someday. I'll be able to give them the lives they wanted to give me.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“We should have told you sooner, but we didn't know how,” she says.

I sense a glimmer of what my mom is trying to tell me, and I feel a cold shock all over my body. This isn't just about letting me go to another city on my own.

“What are you saying?” I ask. “What do you mean
tried
?”

“I don't like your tone, young lady,” Mom says.

“Sorry, Mom, I just don't know what's going on. Aren't you happy for me?” I don't understand why she's reacting this way. Almost as if she's annoyed that I won this scholarship. She's the one who pushed me so hard—they both did—but the way they're reacting isn't making any sense.

“Are you mad that I didn't make the top-ten list?” The accompanying paperwork mentioned that the top ten scholars were invited to spend the summer interning at the White House. Maybe Mom is disappointed I wasn't one of them? “Nothing will ever be good enough for you,” I say, almost on the verge of tears. “It's not fair!”

“You don't know what fair is!” she retorts.

Dad doesn't want any of this. “Stop fighting! Right now.” His eyes have tears in them. “Jasmine, it's not about you not making the top ten. This is an amazing achievement. We're incredibly proud of you. You know that.”

“Okay,” I say.

“But there are things that are out of our control that we haven't told you about, and it's time we were honest with you,” he says. His face is grave, and so sad that I can't bear it.

I run through the reasons they might be acting so strangely. Did Dad lose his job? Is he sick? “You're scaring me, Daddy.”

“It's not what you think. I'm not sick and neither is your mom.”

He knows me so well. “So what's going on, then?” I ask, my breath catching in my throat. Whatever it is, it's bad.

“You can't accept this scholarship. I'm so sorry,” he says, putting his hand over mine to comfort me. Mom is about to say something but he hushes her.

“But why not?” I ask, stunned.

“Because you don't have a green card, Jasmine. None of us do. And that means you're not eligible for this award.”

“I don't have a green card? I don't understand. Of course I do. We all do, don't we?” It's like my dad is talking nonsense.

He puffs out his cheeks. “When we first moved here, we had work visas that allowed Mom and me to work for Tito Sonny's export business, remember that?”

I nod. We called him Uncle—
Tito
—even though we're not related. Tito Sonny is a friend of the family who gave my parents jobs working in his discount store, stocking shelves and keeping inventory. He imported Chinese and Filipino items and sold them to the expat community. The items were cheap knickknacks—velvet paintings of Jesus, cheesy 3-D paintings of waterfalls, ceramic Buddhas, that sort of thing.

“But that store closed years ago and Tito Sonny went back to the Philippines,” I say, remembering now.

“Exactly. When the store closed, our work visas expired. Tito Sonny thought he would be able to sponsor us for green cards, but he couldn't even sustain the business. We thought it would be easy to find other jobs and new visas, but that hasn't been the case.”

I vaguely remember a few years ago when my parents were always tense, right after the store closed. There were a few months when neither of them worked. I thought we were just worried about money back then. I didn't know they were also worried about being able to stay here legally.

“So what does that mean?” I ask, still stunned. “We really don't have green cards?” The news is starting to sink in.

“We never did, just temporary work visas. Right now we don't have any proof of legal residency. That's why we stopped visiting the Philippines. We didn't want to get trapped there. Not after building a new life here. We couldn't take away your home. We didn't think you would have to prove legal status for a college scholarship. We were hoping...”

“So wait. What are you saying? I'm not legal? We're not in America legally? Oh my God.”

Dad nods and looks like he's about to cry, which makes me want to cry too.

“But if I'm not legal, how could I go to school all these years? How can any of us go to school?”

“Ma and I didn't choose California only for the palm trees and sunshine. We came here because it's easier on immigrants generally. Schools can't report undocumented students, and they don't do a lot of workplace raids.”

“But how do you guys work?”

“We have fake papers. The hospital and the bus company don't sponsor work visas, not for the kind of jobs we do.” Unskilled jobs, they mean. Menial jobs.

“What...” I feel tears welling in my eyes. Why didn't they tell me earlier? Did they not trust me? “Please tell me you're joking.” I just can't accept this. This can't be the truth.

“No, we're not joking, Jasmine,” Dad says. “We thought a college scholarship would solve everything for you, for our kids. We didn't know most of the grants and loans are for citizens or green-card holders.”

So that's why the two of them had been sort of muted lately when I kept blabbing on about college and financial aid forms. I'd tried not to think about it too much, assuming they were just busy.

“We never wanted this for you. We're so sorry. But you're a smart girl,” Mom says, trying to touch my hand. “You'll find a way,
neneng.
”

I pull away. I know they tried their best, but their best isn't enough in this case. This is my future, what I've worked so hard for, and I'm furious. “No! I can't! There isn't any other way if I don't have a green card. Getting this scholarship
was
my way!”

“Stop!” Dad isn't crying anymore. He slams his open hand against the table. “You should consider yourself lucky. If someone finds out our papers are fake, our entire family could be deported. Your mother's already struggling with her supervisor asking questions at the hospital. If all of us aren't careful, our luck will run out.”

Deported? Oh my God. I didn't even think of that. It's not just about not being able to go to college. We might lose our entire life here. The cold that's settled around my body turns to ice. There's no way I can go back to live in the Philippines. I can barely speak Tagalog
.
My life is here. In America.

I grab the letter away from them and scan the application. “But why can't I accept the scholarship money? We have papers, you said. I'll just use the fake ones. I don't care.”

“No, absolutely not,” Dad says. “You'd be lying to the government. To the president of the United States.”

“I seriously doubt the president will
personally
be looking at my application...”

“It doesn't matter, Jas. We have to be careful. If you get caught, are you going to go back to Manila by yourself?”

“So what was the point of me studying so hard, then? If I'm not eligible for loans or a grant, I won't even be able to go to college. Everything I've worked for is totally wasted.” I've given up so much to be the best, to be number one. I've never had any fun outside of school. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed? I'm seventeen now.

Mom looks down at her lap. Her frustration has been replaced by a pained expression. It's a face that I've rarely seen on her. “We were hoping something would come through—the latest immigration reform bill maybe.” She puts her head in her hands. “Or maybe you can go to school in the Philippines.”

Anger keeps working up inside me until I can't stop the rush of words coming from my mouth. “No! No way! I don't want to go to the Philippines! It's
your
home. Not mine. You're always talking about taking advantage of opportunities here. But haven't you heard? There aren't any for illegal immigrants.”

Rage radiates from my chest near where I'd held the letter so close to my heart. I'm shaking. How could my parents hide this from me for so long? How could they bury their heads and just expect everything to turn out for the best? If they had told me earlier, I could have gotten help. I could have done
something
.

I'm
American
. We're
resourceful
, aren't we?

Mom has started weeping quietly. Dad seems shocked at my yelling. I know I've pushed it too far, but I can't help the words ripping from my tongue.

“Why didn't you tell me?” I yell. “I can't believe you guys kept this from us for so long!” My knees are locked too tight. I feel dizzy. I just talked back to my parents.

“Jasmine!” Dad stands from his chair and reaches to steady me.

It feels like there's no ground beneath me, like everything I've ever done has been a lie. Like Los Angeles has never really been my home. I'm breaking apart, shattering. Who am I? Where do I belong?

I'm not American. I'm not a legal resident. I don't even have a green card.

I'm nothing. Nobody.

Illegal.