Something in Between (10 page)

How could I have not put two and two together? Congressman
Blakely
was the speaker. Duh. Royce's dad. Mr. Anti-immigration. How did I not recognize his face? It's not like I haven't seen him all over the news since I first spotted him at the hospital.

And there's
Royce.
Looking incredibly handsome in a crisp black tuxedo. He scans the room and our eyes meet. It's like I'm zapped by lightning—everything in me is on fire when he looks at me.

I have to look away. It's too much. I feel almost ill from excitement.

My phone buzzes immediately. It's a text from him.
I need to go all the way to D.C. to see you?

Oh, hey, fancy seeing you here
,
I send, trying to seem casual.

My heart is racing. The shock of seeing him takes my breath away. I don't know whether to stare a hole into the tablecloth or check out Royce again, but my decision is made up for me when the host announces that dinner is coming to a close and Suzanne comes to the table to sweep the group up for the next event on the itinerary. We're scheduled for another meet and greet with more dignitaries for dessert. I follow Suzanne to an area where there are many black couches, chairs and small tables. Caterers come around with bottles of water and trays of tarts and tiny little cakes. I decline. I surreptitiously look for Royce but don't see him anywhere. My hands are trembling and I tell myself to calm down. Why does he affect me so much?

I peek at my phone. Why not? Other honorees are. There's a message from Kayla:
I'm not the team captain while you're gone? I feel like quitting.

Oh no. She can't! I type back.
I'm so sorry. I tried to tell coach it was the wrong choice. Don't quit. We need you.

She doesn't text back.

I send her another text and another, but she's gone radio silent. I text her that I'll call her when the reception is over.

I stuff the phone back in my purse. When I look up, Royce is standing in front of me, holding two glasses of champagne.

Oh.

My.

God.

He's so incredibly handsome, and even more so in that tux. The sharp black lines of the jacket and his crisp white shirt look good with his dark hair, which he's slicked back from his forehead. His brown eyes are warm and shining, and I forgot about that dimple on his cheek, which softens the striking edges of his face and makes him look like a mischievous boy. I remember the goofy selfie he took that's still on my phone, and the Snapchats he sent of himself belly flopping into his pool and falling off a surfboard. He may look like the star of a teen soap opera, but he's a goofball, like he doesn't take anything too seriously.

The butterflies in my stomach relax. Being near him is enough to calm me down, it seems. It was the wait, the anticipation that was killing me. Still, it's hard to breathe.

“For me?” I ask, taking the proffered flute with a smile, relieved that my voice sounds even. “Is this allowed?”

“If I say so,” he says. We clink glasses.

I take a small sip. It's sweet and tart. I take a bigger sip.

Royce is looking at me so intensely, I feel nervous again. I'm not sure what to say to him. This is the problem when you text a lot but don't see each other in real life. We met only once, so it's weird. And there's the whole thing with his dad thinking illegal immigrants are ruining this country—what if Royce thinks the same way? I really, really hope he doesn't think the same way.

“How come you never mentioned that you're a National Scholar?” he teases, a glint in his eye. “Congrats by the way.”

“Thanks. You too!” I say, assuming he's here for the same reason I am.

He flushes, and I worry I've said the wrong thing—and it turns out I have.

“Oh, I'm not one of you guys. I'm just here with my dad.”

“Um, okay. That's cool,” I say, to make up for my faux pas. I look down at my shoes.

But Royce seems nonplussed and just shrugs. “Yeah, it was a last-minute thing. My dad wanted me to go.” His smile disappears.

I look back up at him. “He forced you, huh?” I tease. “Hard life.”

He rolls his eyes. “You've heard one of my dad's speeches you've heard them all. Plus the food is always awful.”

I groan. “It really was. That chicken was disgusting.”

“Of course I still ate the whole thing,” he says with a grin.

“So did I!”

We laugh, and he puts me so at ease that I almost snort when I giggle.

“I'm glad I'm here though, I was beginning to think I'd never see you again,” he says, a serious look on his face.

“Oh,” I say, blushing furiously, not knowing quite what to say. I feel bad he thought I was avoiding him, which I was, but not for the reason he might think.

I try to find my composure and change the subject. “Your dad made a good speech though.”

“You really think so?”

“Yeah.” I do. I don't agree with the congressman's politics, but I agree with what he said about education and striving.

“Hey, you want to meet him?” Royce asks suddenly, as if to make up for acting so jaded before.

“Your dad? Sure,” I say, even though I'm a little scared. What if Congressman Blakely can tell that I don't have papers? That I'm practically the enemy? Of course this is an irrational, paranoid thought, but I have it anyway. Then I tell myself I
should
meet his dad, because once I have, maybe I can go out on a date with Royce without my dad getting upset that he didn't meet Royce first. As if meeting one parent counts somehow?

Am I getting ahead of myself? Why do I think Royce and I are going to date? Royce whisks away our champagne glasses and before I can think more on it, we're next to Congressman Blakely, who's deep in conversation with another important-looking person.

“Dad,” Royce says, touching his arm.

The congressman doesn't seem to hear his son.

Royce bounces on his heels a few times. He shoves his hands in his pockets and leans toward me. “He does this sometimes,” he says. “Watch this.” He turns back toward his dad. “Congressman Blakely, Majority Leader, may I present Jasmine...”

“De los Santos,” I say.

The congressman turns now, all smiles, as if a light switch automatically flips as soon as a stranger is present. He takes a split second to survey me. “Pleasure to meet you, Jasmine. You're one of our honorees from California, aren't you?”

I'm amazed at his knowledge. There are three hundred of us. “Yes, the Los Angeles area,” I say. “Pleased to meet you, Congressman.”

“The honor is all mine. May I introduce you to Senator Lauren Silverton from Wisconsin?”

I shake the senator's hand, which is soft and perfectly manicured. She's one of the few women in the Senate, and I'm ecstatic to meet her. “It's an honor,” I tell her.

“We're so proud of you,” she tells me with a warm smile. “You and all the honorees are the bright lights of our country.”

The two of them beam at me. Royce's dad says, “I heard you wrote a great essay. We need more students like you making America great.”

“Thank you both. It's wonderful to be here,” I say, noticing Royce smirking.

“Dad, Senator, if you'll excuse us,” Royce says.

They nod and smile. “Yes, lovely meeting you,” the congressman says, turning away.

And that's it—nothing scary about him. It's odd though, I thought I was meeting Royce's dad, but it turned out I was just meeting the congressman. I'm not sure my dad would think this counts as a meet-the-parents moment, it was so impersonal.

Royce hands me a new champagne glass once we're far enough away from his dad. “So, here you are.”

“Here you are,” I say, taking a sip.

“IRL,” he says.

I raise my glass. “We're not blue bubbles on our phones anymore!”

He smiles, and when his cheeks flush, he looks even more handsome. It's almost painful. My stomach is doing that thing again, and for a moment we're just standing there, smiling at each other, as if we're the only two people in the room. Everything else recedes and goes out of focus. There's only him and my beating heart.

Royce finishes his drink and sets it on the nearest table. “So,” he says expectantly. “What are you doing after this?”

11

The most courageous act is still to think for yourself. Aloud.

—COCO CHANEL

ROYCE HAS TO
do a little glad-handing for his parents but promises to meet me in the hotel lobby after the event, so I go back to find Suzanne. She introduces me to the person she's talking to, who turns out to be the dean of students at Stanford University.

The dean is one of the more youngish bigwigs here, and he's not wearing a tux, just a black jacket and no tie. He has a slightly disheveled, casual California air that makes me feel right at home. When he asks me about my academic interests, I tell him about the storytelling project I was working on at the hospital, and how I'm drawn to both law and medicine but haven't made a choice just yet. I don't mention that the project is over; I still plan to put that book together and get it to the patients somehow.

“Have you thought about where you're going for college?” he asks.

“Actually, my first choice is Stanford,” I tell him, feeling shy.

He raises his glass. “Good girl. We'd be lucky to have you.” He reaches in his pocket and hands me his card. “If you have any questions about the school, let me know. Happy to answer them.”

I'm so giddy, I almost stutter my goodbye, and when he leaves, Suzanne tells me he was her professor, and one of the youngest deans at Stanford. “He's brilliant—he could have made millions in Silicon Valley, but he'd rather teach and mentor students,” she says. “Not enough of those kind of people out there.”

I think deeply on what she says. For the longest time, I've thought of success as something that means financial wealth and social status. Something that I needed to earn for myself, and for my family. But here was someone who had chosen another path. Albeit, a prestigious one, but far less lucrative. Suzanne introduces me to a few more people, then the party begins to die down, and people head out of the ballroom.

“There's usually an after-party for honorees somewhere,” Suzanne says. “It's practically tradition. One of the local kids always hosts it. I'm sure you can ask around.”

“Thanks. I'm meeting someone in the lobby. Maybe we'll end up there.”

“Great! Have fun—see you tomorrow,” she says with a cheerful wave.

I follow the crowd to the lobby, keeping an eye out for Royce.

Gorgeous oversize paintings of bright flowers hang on the shiny, deep red wood walls. A huge chandelier hangs over a mahogany baby grand piano being played by an older gentleman wearing a navy suit. He plays with so much passion and tenderness, it's like he's the only one in the room. He deserves to be playing in a concert hall, not a hotel lobby where everyone is treating his music like background noise.

I check my texts while I wait, then realize I'm just like everyone else who's taking the music for granted.

Kayla still hasn't responded. I call her. She doesn't pick up, so I leave a voice mail. I really hope she's okay. She can't quit the team, I won't let her.

Mom has texted a few times. I know she wants me to call, but I text her instead and say that the other girls in my room are going to sleep and I don't want to bother them. I tell her I'll call her tomorrow.

I don't want to think of anyone but Royce right now. It's hard to breathe again, just thinking of him. I've never been affected by someone's presence so much, although he's not even here and he's making me feel this way. What is it about him?

Okay, so I
have
kissed boys. On the cheek. I played “I never” in sixth grade a couple of times, and I “went out” with Jarred Agovino for a month in junior high. We held hands. But ever since high school, I haven't had time for boys and I've never had a
real
boyfriend. My parents used to say I couldn't date until I was sixteen, but there wasn't even a reason to
forbid
me to date. Nevertheless, Mom doesn't need to know about Royce right now. No one needs to know about him. There's nothing to know anyway. We're just friends.
Let's see where this goes
, I tell myself, trying for deep, calming breaths.

Royce finally arrives, and there's a group of boys trailing him. They're rambunctious, slapping each other on the back and laughing a little too loudly. The pianist gives them a sideways glance, then returns to caressing the keys.

When Royce sees me he walks right over and I swear his eyes light up. I can feel my heart pounding so hard in my chest.
I get it now
, I think.
I get it
. What all those sappy love songs and romantic movies are trying to say about love, trying to capture this kind of moment, this kind of feeling. I didn't really understand before. No one's ever made me feel this way. It's like lightning, like everything is suddenly wonderful, like the world is actually the great place that Louis Armstrong sings about and life isn't just a drudge of chores and routine.

Life can be magical.

When he's standing in front of me, I have to crane my neck a little to look at him directly. I hadn't realized how tall he was. I barely come up to his shoulders.

“Hey,” he says, shyly.

“Hey.” I smile. “Are these your friends?” I say, turning to look at the group.

“Nope,” he says tersely, his expression changing. He tries to move us away from them. “Come on, let's get out of here.”

Somehow, the magic of the moment is gone, and everything goes back to black-and-white after being in Technicolor. Because one of the boys with the group, the one with his bow tie untied and his collar open, giving him a bit of a rakish air, the one who looks a little like Royce, except he's handsome in a too-pretty kind of way, like his lips are too full and his hair is too bouncy—you feel me?—isn't happy that Royce is trying to leave. He laughs and slaps Royce on the back. “This is the girl? You surprise me, Roycey. She's not your usual type.”

My cheeks start to burn. What does that mean, I'm not his usual type? I'm not Caucasian? Blonde? Rich?

“Shut up, Mason. She's one of the honorees. You're probably not half as smart as her—and we all know you're definitely not as good-looking,” says Royce, in a teasing voice, although his eyes are stormy.

The other boys clap and hiss at Mason, mussing up his hair and pushing him around. “He told you,” one of them says, letting out a low whistle.

I stand there awkwardly, annoyed and humiliated. Maybe I should just excuse myself and go upstairs to my room. It's going to be a busy weekend anyway. I don't want to miss the tour of the Capitol in the morning. I have more self-respect than to spend one of the most important nights of my life being insulted by some spoiled rich kids. This is exactly why I didn't want to meet up with Royce in LA. I didn't want to see how truly different he was from me, and I didn't want to meet his friends in case they were like this.

“Don't you guys have an after-party to crash?” Royce asks, looking bored.

“All right, all right. I get the picture. You want us to leave you alone. Although you still haven't introduced us,” the rude boy says.

Royce's voice is steely. “Jasmine, this is my brother, Mason. Mason, this is Jasmine.”

His brother!
Great, just great. But I hold out my hand to Mason. I'll be the bigger person. “Nice to meet you.”

Mason takes my hand, and his palm is sweaty. Ick. “My little brother doesn't usually go after the smart girls. Hey, if you get bored of him, give me a call, will you?” he says, winking at Royce and patting him on the shoulder again. “I'll see you in the morning, dude. Breakfast with Mom and Dad. That is, if you don't have too late a night, huh?” He leers.

The guys follow Mason, laughing and joking boisterously as they leave the hotel. Royce looks down at his shoes. “I'm sorry about that.”

I shrug. “Like you said, they're not
your
friends.”

He looks up at me and smiles. It's like we understand each other. “I thought about taking you to dinner, but then I realized I met you at dinner and we both ate
all
of our chicken. So...”

I smile. “What do you have in mind?”

Royce seems nervous all of a sudden. He shakes out the sleeves on his jacket so they cover his wrists. “It probably doesn't sound very fun, especially since it's your first night in Washington, but I thought maybe we could just hang out on the roof. There's a great view up there.”

I hesitate, feeling shy again. Then I think about what Kayla would do, how confident she is with boys. I try to emulate it. “Sure. That sounds cool.” Really, he could ask me to watch boring old C-SPAN and I would gladly leap at the chance.

“Yeah?”

I look over at the pianist. He's playing a slow, meandering song—a moonlight song. “Yeah,” I say. “I can come up for a little while.”

“Great,” Royce says, clapping his hands together, a big grin on his face, like a little kid excited to show off a new toy.

I wonder what's so cool about the roof. Also, what are the five hundred different ways my mother would kill me if she knew what I was doing right now—going somewhere alone with a boy?

Royce takes us up to the roof. There's a heated, glassed-in terrace where we can see the whole city. We sit on a bench and look out at this amazing view. Everything is sparkling and pretty—the monuments are lit up, and it feels like the world is at our feet, like we can do anything, be anything. It's corny, but precious all the same. I'm glad he took me up here. It's so quiet, I can hear us both breathing.

“Nice, right?” he asks. “Not everyone knows about the terrace. It's my favorite place in D.C., because no one is ever around. I come here all the time when we're in town, to get away from my family. My dad prefers to stay in a hotel rather than rent a house when congress is in session. He's a little spoiled that way.”

“It's beautiful up here.” We both stare at the lights and the view for a long time, just enjoying the silence. “I can't remember the last time I felt this relaxed,” I tell him.

“You award kids are all type A, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say. “There are only twenty-four hours in a day and I already feel like I'm using twenty-seven.”

Royce loosens his tie so that the ends hang down, and he undoes the top button of his shirt. I can see a hint of his throat and Adam's apple. It feels so intimate somehow, it makes me blush again. Thankfully, he doesn't notice.

“I guess girls like you always need to be in control, huh,” he says, leaning back in a languid pose.

“What do you mean? Isn't that a good thing?”

“It's not what you're thinking. I like those kinds of girls. Except they always have so much going on it's hard to get them to make time to see you.” He gives me a sly side-eye.

Ha. “So you like girls like me, do you?” I tease.

“Maybe,” he allows. He's the one blushing now, and I feel my cheeks growing hot as well.

“Can I be honest with you?” I ask, changing the subject. For some reason I feel comfortable with him—he's easy to talk to.

“Sure,” Royce says.

“This is the most downtime I've had since I can remember,” I say. “I've always judged myself by how much I can achieve. How good I am at things. It's what I do. I never have any time just to appreciate things.”

Royce sits up a little, adjusting his pants so they cover his ankles. “It's good to be busy. At least it means you're good at something, unlike me.”

“That can't be true,” I say. “Why would you say that?” He looks so crushed for a moment that I know he's not being falsely modest like some people can be.

He shrugs. “I guess it doesn't matter either way, really. I'm the son of a congressman and my family has money. My life is all set up for me.” He turns to look at me directly. “Look—I know how bad that sounds. Like I'm complaining about my privilege. I get it. People like you and all the other honorees have worked so hard to get here. But I'm just here because of my dad.”

I'm about to say something, then decide to listen instead.

His shoulders slump. “I guess sometimes I just want to know that what I do matters. That people aren't judging me by who my parents are, but by who I am.”

I nod sympathetically. “Who are you, then? Who do you want to be?” I ask him, thinking I'm asking the same questions about myself.

Royce knits his brows and looks out at the view. I've caught him off guard.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable,” I say.

“No, no, it's not that,” he says, leaning back again, and when he shifts, his knee brushes against mine, and the heat inside me builds. “It's just that no one has ever asked me that before. I don't know how to answer.”

I turn to him and look him right in his dark eyes. “What are you interested in? Sometimes it's easier to figure out what you want to do when you figure out what you like.”

He stares at me. “I never thought of it that way. You're so wise—you're sure you're only seventeen?” he teases.

“Well?”

He runs his fingers through his hair again, messing it up. “I like to read. I didn't learn how to for a long time. I'm dyslexic, and for the longest time everyone just thought I was just slow. So when I finally learned how to read, I couldn't stop. I felt like I had to catch up.”

“Who's your favorite writer?”

“Ah, it's hard to choose,” he says. “Saul Bellow maybe. Or Norman Mailer. Did you ever read
Armies of the Night
?”

I shake my head. “I've heard of it though. It's about the sixties, right? The protests against the Vietnam War?”

“Yeah. There's a line from it that's never left me. ‘There is no greater importance in all the world like knowing you are right and that the wave of the world is wrong, yet the wave crashes upon you.'” Royce looks out at the view, pensive and still. The space between us is so tight and close it feels as if I can hear his heart beating under his shirt. Can he hear mine?