Something in Between (11 page)

“I always liked it, about how it's so hard to be brave and stand for what's right when everything's against you, you know?” he asks.

I do know. I take my phone out of my bag and start typing.

“What are you doing?”

I flush. “I, um...it's silly...but I collect quotes. I write them down and I post them in my room on my corkboard.”

“Not to Pinterest or Instagram?” he teases.

“No, because they're just for me,” I say.

“Are you going to put my quote on it?”

“
Your
quote?” I tease. “You own it?”

“Well, yeah, I mean, I had to read the whole book.” He smiles back. “But I'll let you borrow it.”

“Okay, so you like to read. Does that mean you want to be a writer, then?”

“Yeah, like a journalist, I think,” he says with a flash of a smile. “Like Mailer was. And you know, like those guys who bust cover-ups and that sort of thing.”

“You're not just a writer, you're a crusader. An activist.”

“I don't know about that,” he said. “But whatever I do, it's definitely not going to be politics.” Whenever he says
politics
, his mouth makes a hard line, like it's distasteful. “What about you?”

“Law or medicine,” I say automatically. “I want to make a difference, but I don't know exactly in what arena yet.”

“Cool,” he says. “You've got time, you'll figure it out.”

“Yeah, isn't it funny? You already know what you want to do, and I don't, and I was the one who gave you advice.”

He laughs. “I guess I do know what I want. I just don't know if I can do it.”

“Why not?” I ask, concerned at the look on his face.

“I don't think my dad would be too impressed, honestly.”

“Oh.” I feel bad about that. My parents will be happy with whatever I choose. Royce looks uncomfortable so I try to change the subject, sort of. “Your dad seems busy,” I say.

“Yeah, it's a crazy time for him, especially with a vote on this immigration bill coming up soon.”

“Right.” Wrong subject. I really wish we could talk about something else right now.

“The leadership of the party wants him to move up the ranks. I think they want to test whether he could be a real presidential candidate someday,” he says proudly.

Yeah, ride that anti-immigration platform all the way to the top
, I think but don't say.

Just my luck, that the first boy I've ever been really interested in is related to someone who has dim views of people like me. “That must be exciting for you. About your father being groomed for president, I mean.” But I move away from him, stand up from the bench, and walk out of the enclosed area. I need a little cold air right now.

Royce follows me outside to the edge of the rail. “Not really. The busier Dad gets, the more I feel like a prop in his perfect political life. He carts Mom and I out to his parties. His speeches. Mason usually refuses to go, and my sister's too young.”

“Do you agree with him about the immigration bill? That undocumented immigrants shouldn't have a path to citizenship?” I ask, staring out at the view and too nervous to look directly at him. I have to know, before we get any closer, before anything happens between us. Do I want something to happen?

I sneak a peek at his face. Yes. I want something to happen. He's not just handsome, he's sweet and smart too.
Please say you don't agree with your dad
.
How can you agree with your dad when you love that quote from
Armies of the Night
?

Royce turns around and leans back against the railing, the city lights illuminating his chestnut hair and high cheekbones. “I'm not sure. To be honest, I don't really care about politics that much,” he says.

It's not the answer I want, but at least he didn't say he agreed with it, and maybe he can't be disloyal to his father.

“Hey,” I say, wanting to change the subject and suddenly realizing something. “Are you related to that family on TV?” He has the same name as them, sort of. Maybe there's a connection.

“
Royce Rolls
you mean? Only the most famous reality show family in Hollywood?” he says drily.

I try not to squeal, but the show is my guilty pleasure. I'm obsessed with the Royces. “Bentley Royce is my favorite,” I say, meaning the hellion wild child with the smart mouth and the vulnerable streak.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, unfortunately we're distant cousins. Royce is a family name.”

I shriek. “God, you're so LA! You're related to celebrities!”

He laughs. “If you can call them that.”

I smile back, but a draft of cold makes me shiver in the night air. I'm wearing only a thin wrap with my dress. Because the event was held at our hotel, I didn't need to bring a heavier coat.

Royce notices and removes his jacket and puts it on my shoulders. “You look cold.”

“Thanks.” His coat is soft and warm, and has a wonderful masculine smell. I snuggle deeper into it, feeling as if it's his arms that are around me.

“I have another confession to make. Two confessions, actually,” he says.

“Yeah?” I'm not sure what this is about.

“First,” Royce says, “I knew you were going to be here. My dad gets a list of the honorees, and when I saw a Jasmine listed, I had a feeling it would be you. I've actually known you were going to be here for a while.”

“You did?” I ask, intrigued.

“I know all about you,” he teases.

“Oh yeah? What do you know?” I say, the fluttering back in my stomach.

“Junior class president. Varsity cheerleader. Probably going to be valedictorian, am I right?”

“Stalker,” I say, thrilled.

He laughs. “Yeah, I deserve that. It's sort of why I told my dad I'd go with him to D.C. this time.” He smiles and gazes at me intensely, the way he did at dinner, when our eyes first met.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” I ask.

“I was just remembering something. You know that, throughout the whole event, you never stopped smiling? You looked so happy.”

I roll my eyes. I must have looked like a hick from the sticks. “So?” I ask. “What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing. It's just that I could tell you didn't care about who was looking at you or whom you needed to network with later. You were just
there
, living in the moment, appreciating everything. I can't remember the last time I felt like that.”

I nod. Despite all the problems my family and I have been going through and all the uncertainty that faces us right now, I
was
happy at the award reception. I was glad to be in that moment, glad that I was able to attend. My parents taught me that—how to feel grateful, how to feel joy. I'm proud of them suddenly, and proud of myself too.

“So what was your second confession?” I nudge him with my elbow.

“I don't know if I should tell you this one.” His voice is husky, and he's way too close now; his shoulder is bumping against my arm and when he turns to me, I can see the gold sparkling in his brown eyes.

“You already said you would,” I remind him, wondering once more if he can hear how loud and how fast my heart is beating.

“Maybe I changed my mind,” he says.

I move away from him deliberately, teasing him.

“Fine. I'll tell you. Are you sure you're ready?” He follows me, closing the space between us once again.

I huff. “I was born ready.”

“I think I need a drink first,” he jokes.

“Stop stalling.”

“All right, all right,” Royce says, putting his hands up. “Remember when we met at the hospital and I asked for your number?”

I nod.

“It wasn't the first time I saw you. I'd seen you a couple days before—you were interviewing one of the patients. The door was open and I heard you talking to this old guy, asking him about his life, making him laugh. I peeked in and saw you. I thought you'd come to my uncle's room next, but you didn't. When I saw you two days later at the check-in window, I decided that was my chance, so I took it. I had to make destiny happen.”

“Destiny, huh?” I say, my voice soft and low. “Like a fairy tale. Is that what this is?”

Royce is towering over me at six feet compared to my five feet three inches, and when he leans down, I can see his thick dark lashes over half-lidded eyes. He pulls me toward him by the jacket arms, and then his own arms are around me, and I tilt up my chin up and close my eyes.

Because I know what happens next. I've seen the movies, I've sung along to all the love songs.

This wonderful boy is going to kiss me.

A kiss I've been waiting for, for a very long time.

Here's a secret: waiting is worth it.

12

I smiled at him. America, I said quietly, just like that.
What is it? The sweepings of every country including
our own. Isn't that true? That's a fact.

—JAMES JOYCE,
ULYSSES

WHEN I OPEN
my eyes the next morning, I forget where I am. Am I late for school? Light streams through the windows, blinding me. I can't see a thing, and the alarm is going off. My heart feels like it's beating through my chest. Where am I?

Then I remember. I'm in the Ritz-Carlton. I'm in Washington, D.C., for the National Scholarship Program.

Finally, I lean way over, trying to get out of bed. I haven't gotten any sleep; I was with Royce all night. We kissed up there on the roof for a while. Until after midnight, actually. I touch my lips as if I could touch his by touching mine, smiling to myself a little. I'm away from home for the first time, I got a little tipsy on champagne, and I kissed a boy. And not just any boy. A sweet and handsome boy. One of the nicest guys I've ever met.

Royce couldn't be more wrong about himself. That he's Congressman Blakely's son is the
least
interesting thing about him.

I check my phone. Kayla left a message, thankfully. She says she won't quit the team, she was just emotional, but she's okay now. Good. I want to tell her all about my night with Royce, but it's way too early back home to call.

There's also a text from Royce at half past midnight, after he walked me back to my hotel room when we left the roof. I smile to myself and text him back, tell him I'll see him later. Then I hear the sounds of girls chattering in the bathroom on the other side of the suite.

Ugh. Mallory, Nina, and Carrie. My roommates...

I pull the pillow back over my head, dreading talking to them. When I got back last night, they were all in the other bedroom, Carrie on one bed, Nina on the other and Mallory in a pullout, with sleeping masks pulled over their eyes.

While the girls talk, I finally take the pillow off my head and look around the suite, my eyes adjusting to the daylight. It's a disaster, with clothes strewn all over the couch and the floor. There's only one bathroom, despite the two bedrooms, so I grab my things and sit on the couch to wait for my turn in the shower.

Carrie steps out of the bathroom. Mallory and Nina follow behind her. All three of them look perfectly put together. Plucked and filled-in eyebrows, tousled hair, classy boots that go up over their knees. Carrie slips her bag over her elbow and looms down at me. “So, I heard you were with Royce Blakely last night.”

I nod warily. “Do you know him?”

“We've hung out,” she says, with a possessive air. “I've known him for a long time. Our parents are friends.”

She's so eager to point out that he's from her circle. I want to ask Carrie what she means by “hung out,” but she's the one with the twenty questions it seems. “So did he take you somewhere nice? His dad knows everyone in Washington and gets the best tables.”

I really don't want to answer Carrie's question, but she's not going anywhere until she gets an answer. Meanwhile, Mallory and Nina just stare at me, googly-eyed. I must look awful, I barely got any sleep.

“No, we just stayed here,” I tell her. “He had to go to an early breakfast with his family.” I don't know why, but I'm feeling defensive about this all of a sudden.

“You stayed in the hotel? Why didn't you guys come to the after-party?” Carrie asks, looking overly confused. Then she elbows the girls with a knowing smile.

I feel my cheeks burning, as if I should be ashamed, even though I didn't do anything wrong. Carrie and the girls are acting as if I did something tawdry and scandalous, when last night was one of the best and most magical nights of my life.

“Guess you guys had a party of your own, huh?” Carrie snickers.

Thank God Nina interrupts. “Let's go, I need coffeeeeee.”

“Fine,” Carrie says. “Let's go.”

As the girls file out of the room, Carrie stops at the door and turns back to me. She's not done sticking her knife in yet. “I'm just trying to watch out for you, Jasmine,” she says disingenuously. “Royce Blakely isn't what he seems like. I've been there. He's a total player. Trust me on this one.”

The door clicks shut.

I've
been
there?

What does that mean?

Were they...? Did they...?

Ugh. Why would she say that? She's just trying to get into my head. She can't mean he was her boyfriend or something. How could that be? He lives in LA and she lives in D.C. She's probably just jealous.

Determined not to let Carrie ruin my beautiful memory of last night, I go to look out the windows. Morning light bursts over the beautiful, busy city, highlighting people bundled up in coats, hurrying to their jobs, and early-morning traffic. The hotel is only a few blocks from the White House to the southeast, and just a few blocks north from Constitution Gardens, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, Washington Monument, Potomac Park.

Half an hour later, I've showered, dressed, and eaten, and I barely make it to the tour in time. Part of me can't wait to see Royce again, no matter what Carrie said about him, but the other part wants to be able to see this place on my own, to not worry about anything other than enjoying the present. I've also remembered to bring along my empty little glass bottle, for my own souvenir.

The tour group approaches the outside of the Capitol and I feel myself getting emotional. My eyes burn with tears. Why am I like this? Is this awe of the history before us? Am I anxious about whether or not the reform bill will pass? Or does it have to do with last night?

Suzanne is leading our small group, peppy as a cheerleader at her first football game. She doesn't look tired. No bags around her eyes. Does she even sleep? She must be so busy running the scholarship program, rushing from meetings to parties to cocktail hours. You know who needs sleep though? Me.

Guilt washes over me. What would my parents think if they knew I'd been alone for most of the night with a boy?

I try to stop thinking about Royce and focus on the tour. I'm amazed at all the artwork inside the Capitol. The architecture. The sound of footsteps in the wide halls. The rotunda is my favorite place. I gaze up at the Apotheosis of Washington like I've been frozen into the center of everything.

“It was painted at the end of the Civil War,” Suzanne says.

The other students and I crane our necks.

“Who is that up there?” Richard Morales asks. “God?”

“The guy in the royal purple coat most toward the center?” Suzanne laughs. “Not quite,” she says. “Try George Washington. As you know, he was the first US president and commander in chief of the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War.”

“But who is that with him?” Richard asks. “Those aren't people from the Constitutional Convention. Only men signed the Constitution. Women were still second-class citizens in those days.”

“You've been doing your homework,” Suzanne says. “Figures from classical mythology. Everyone up there is exalted. That's Liberty and Victory on either side of him.”

Some of the students have lost interest. I knew they would. Half the students in our group go to private schools. They've been here before and so act bored, except when they spot certain political figures power walking around the Capitol.

Carrie, Nina, and Mallory are turning their backs on the art and noting who's walking by our group. When the Secretary of State passes through the hallway, Carrie whispers to one of her friends, “My mom threw a fundraiser for her last year when she thought she'd run for president.”

“Remember that night? I thought I was going to hurl right in her lap,” Nina says.

Mallory joins them. “You almost did.”

I wander away from them, trying to take in the immensity of the fresco. The way the painter did the perspective makes you think the Capitol's rotunda reaches all the way up to heaven. It's overwhelming. Even though I've never been to the Sistine Chapel in Italy, I imagine that looking at this is a little bit like they describe looking at Michelangelo's painting of God and Adam. I'm thinking about a lecture my AP Art History teacher, Mr. Lee, gave once about this weird thing that happens when people look at great pieces of art and start to feel sick. Like they're going to pass out.

But I think my symptoms are more from last night. I'm still light-headed and not quite awake. Staring up at the painting, I hear a few voices chattering behind me.

“You remember that party. Don't you?” Carrie asks.

A boy's voice responds. “Yeah, that was epic.”

I turn around. It's Royce. He doesn't see me, and I duck away. My head hurts and now my heart does too. Of
course
he knows Carrie.

I was so stupid to assume Carrie was lying to me. How could she not know Royce? He must spend a lot of time in D.C. with his dad. He and Carrie have probably known each other for years. Maybe they've even dated, like she hinted. He was at that “epic” party, right? Ugh.

Suzanne has moved into one of the corridors. Royce is still chatting with Carrie and her private-school clique and I hear them laughing, telling inside jokes. I don't recognize any of the names they throw around, or the places they talk about. I haven't been to Vail or to Jackson Hole, have no opinion on whether Parrot Cay is overrated or if the service at the Breakers is better than ever. They're like a real-life version of Rich Kids of Instagram. I bet they'll talk about private planes next. Their whole insider vibe makes me want to puke.

Carrie invites him to go to some party with “the group” later and he says sure.

“Can you believe we have to do this?” Carrie sneers. “I've been on private tours of this place, where they take you to the places the tourists can't go. I wish we could go find a bar or something.”

Her friends titter, but I don't know if Royce agreed with her or not and I don't want to stay and find out, so I purposefully lag behind, gawking at a row of female portraits. I don't belong here. I don't belong with them, with him.

Of course, right then, when I'm feeling the most alienated and out of it is when Royce finally sees me.

“There you are,” he says, beaming. He doesn't look any worse for wear. His eyes are a little hooded, maybe, but they just serve to make him look mysterious rather than tired. “Hey.” He gives me a sly smile, like we share a secret. Images from the night before begin to flash: Royce kissing my forehead, tracing kisses from my nose down to my lips and my neck, Royce putting his arms around me, and how good he smelled, so clean and boyish. It hurts.

My heart rate is going up again, but I try not to let it show. I nod hello but don't return the smile.

“Those are the first female US senators,” he says, meaning the paintings. “Rebecca Latimer Felton and Hattie Caraway.”

“Interesting,” I say, even though I try to make myself sound bored. My skin feels electric at the sight of him, which makes me madder. I thought I knew what last night was all about, but this morning, I'm not so sure. He moves in that circle of rich, connected kids and speaks their language. I'm not part of that world; I'm just a visitor for the weekend. I walk away from him.

“Hey. Where're you going?”

I don't turn around.

He catches up. “Is something wrong?” he asks. “I came to the tour to see you. I'm sorry I'm late.”

Royce is only on the tour because he wanted to see me.
But I'm too upset about what Carrie said and how chummy he was with them. I can't look him in the eye. “It's nothing. Look, I have to catch up to my group. Let's talk later.”

“Okay.” He sounds hurt.

I don't look back, but I can imagine him standing there with his hands in his pockets, like when he was waiting to talk to his dad the night before. I'm mad at myself too. Sure, I'm a National Scholar, but it just occurred to me that Royce is from one of those families that probably funds scholarships in their name. Why didn't I think of that to begin with? What's he doing with me? Shouldn't he be with Carrie and those kinds of girls? It's obvious he should.

Still. It's hard to walk away from him.

* * *

The group of honorees gathers at the Washington Monument before lunch. I try to stop thinking about Royce. I convince myself it was just a one-night thing. People make out all the time—it didn't mean anything to him, and it sure doesn't mean anything to me. As if.

Oh my God, I need to stop lying to myself. I can't stop thinking about him. I like him so much, and if he doesn't feel the same, I don't know what I'll do.

I try to concentrate on the docent who's giving us all the juicy details. These are the facts: It's an obelisk. It commemorates George, who is up there with the gods in the rotunda. It's due east of the reflecting pool. It's made of marble, granite, and some kind of blue metamorphic rock called gneiss, which is related to the German word
gneist
, which means
to spark
. I walk up to the Washington Monument while the docent is still talking and put a hand to the marble. It feels softer than I imagined. I run my hand along the bumpy texture, then pull out my phone and text Mom.

I'm touching the Washington Monument. It's bumpier than I thought.

She doesn't answer for a little while. I picture her putting her phone down and yelling to everyone in the house. “Can you believe it? Our baby is touching the Washington Monument!” This thought makes me smile along with the idea that Dad is probably saying something stupid like, “Tell her not to bring it home. It's too big for the yard.”

Finally I get a text.

I'm so proud of you. Your father wants to know if you've met the President yet and if so, see if he will pass a bill to keep the neighbor's cat off the lawn.