Something in Between (27 page)

My story is only one of many.

I feel connected to everyone who has ever tried to move to the United States in search of a better life. Those who have sacrificed so much for the dream of a future they won't get to enjoy—only their children will.

I feel tears welling up in my eyes, and I pledge that I will be worthy of that sacrifice.

34

The main thing is to remain oneself, under any circumstances; that was and is our common purpose.

—MADELEINE ALBRIGHT

AT SCHOOL, EVERYONE
is shocked when they hear the results of the trial. Mrs. Garcia shakes her head. Coach Davis is angry. My teammates are livid. Mrs. Lopez, the school principal, pulls me aside and looks at me with sad eyes. “Deported?” she says in disbelief.

Everyone says the same thing.
But you
'
re a National Scholar. You
'
re a part of the fabric of this school, this city, this country
. I want to tell them that the fabric is torn. A hole has been ripped through this country. People like me pour out of it, spilling back over the borders because of the way we are all criminalized, instead of only the few who are criminals. But I keep my mouth shut about the private bill for now.

I wait a day to tell my family about my conversation with Congressman Blakely. Dad's already contacting family members in the Philippines, planning our arrival. He looks like he has a gun to his back. We all do. We're feeling like outsiders in our own community, in our own house.

“What's it going to be like over there?” Isko asks. “Will it smell different?”

We're eating dinner together. Mom has made fried rice with shrimp and chicken. I drown mine in chili sauce. Isko and Danny stuff their faces with food.

“Everything will be different,” Mom says. “You won't be the minority anymore.”

“What does that mean?” Isko asks.

“It means everyone will be Filipino like you,” Dad says.

“But I'm American,” Isko says. “I'll be the one talking funny.”

“You'll look exactly like them, and for your information, Filipinos can speak English. You just don't remember.”

Isko pouts.

Danny gives his little brother a look, the one that means all the cheerleaders will love him and not his little brother. I'm glad Danny seems to be getting out of his funk.

“Shut up,” Isko says.

Danny feigns surprise. “I didn't say anything.”

“You're doing it again,” Isko says.

“Will you stop?” Mom says to Danny. “No one wants to kiss you.”

Danny laughs while looking at Isko. “Oh yes, they do.”

I speak up. “I met with Royce's dad.”

“He was finally in town?” Dad says, taking a last bite.

Mom clears the plates from the table. Danny helps, but he still teases Isko by winking when he picks up Isko's plate. Isko growls at him. Mom gives them both
the look.

“I asked him if he could help us.” I push around the last shrimp on my plate but don't have the stomach to finish, I'm too nervous to share my news.

“And?” Dad says. “Did he give you a lecture and a nice send-off? ‘Bon voyage! Thanks for dating my son!'”

“No, Daddy,” I say patiently. “We had a nice conversation. He wants to try to help. He wants to write a private bill.”

I tell Dad and Mom about how Congressman Blakely is going to get the judge to agree to a stay of deportation and issue a temporary visa or something while congress drafts us a private bill. I tell them how it will work.

“The US Congress is going to pass a bill just for us?” Dad asks, his eyes bulging. “And the president will sign it?”

“Yes.”

Neither of them looks excited at the news. I don't understand.

“Jasmine, it sounds too good to be true, and here's the thing—when it's too good to be true, it usually is. Think about it. This bill would have to pass the House and the Senate, and the president's desk? That's a lot of what-ifs. Don't you remember that he and his party
oppose
immigration reform?”

“It will work if we get a lot of lawmakers on our side.” I explain the stories about other private bills. I've done some research as well. “They're so rare that I don't see why we would be denied. This is what we were missing in the deportation hearing, remember? Having high-ranking officials on our side. Remember how the judge asked if there were any letters from politicians? It's too bad we didn't tell our lawyer we knew Royce's dad. Apparently it's how this sort of thing works. If you get enough politicians on your side you can get what you need—”

“That's the problem,” Dad says. “Politicians are the last people to be trusted. And if you depend on them, you find out you're just a pawn in some bigger game of theirs.”

“It's not like that,” I say. “He's really trying to help. They helped their Filipino housekeeper, Maria—”

“Oh great. Now we're just like the help,” Dad says. “They're going to want us to clean their house next?”

Once he makes up his mind about people, I can never get Dad to listen. It's so frustrating. I get up from the table. “Why do you have to be so difficult?”

Mom is surprisingly quiet as she dries a dish and puts it away.

My brothers have long disappeared to another room, disinterested or too scared to follow this conversation.

“I'm not being difficult,” Dad says. “I'm a realist. If our deportation is stayed, and this private bill passes, I'll be the first one to celebrate. But we need to be prepared for the worst. Mom and I are putting this house on the market, and making plans for what will happen when we do have to move back to the Philippines. We can't depend on the imaginary games of politicians. We have to have a concrete plan. We can't live like ostriches with our heads stuck deep into the sand.”

“But we don't have to give up so easily either,” I say. “Don't you want to stay?”

“Of course I'd rather stay. But sometimes I wish I'd never suggested moving us to this damn country,” Dad says. He gets up from the table. “It's made me break all my promises to my children.”

* * *

There's no cheer practice after school. Just a brief team meeting to say goodbye to the seniors and to let the returning girls know when practices will start up again during the summer. The meeting is already over. Coach Davis left in a hurry. I thought that our send-off would be a bigger deal, but no one really wants to linger. Everyone must feel the coming spring break in the air.

Most of the girls eagerly scatter. Kayla doesn't. She comes up to me. “Hey, Jas, want a ride home?”

We haven't spoken much since the movie-theater incident. I have no idea if she's still dating Mason or not. I'm not mad at her for keeping it from me, but I am annoyed that she asked Royce to do so, and I'm still mad about what her little brother did to mine. I haven't told her how Royce and I are doing, and what he's doing for my family.

“No, thanks, I'll walk,” I say.

“Please? We can get a coffee,” she says.

Even I can't hold a grudge forever. “All right,” I say.

At the coffeehouse, we sit at a corner table and sip Americanos. The caffeine from the espresso wakes me up. I feel like I could go on a five-mile run or a shopping binge in Beverly Hills.

“Have you talked to Lo lately?” Kayla asks.

I already know where this is going. “If you want to know how Dylan is doing, why don't you just ask him?”

“I don't know,” she says.

“How's Mason?”

“That's over,” she says. “I don't even know why I dated that jerk.”

“Yeah, seriously.”

“Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Mason. I went out with him because he kept calling, and I was tired of waiting around while Dylan toured with his band. You know how bored I get,” she says, putting her hands around her mug.

“Try long-distance when you have to go to the Philippines.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I guess
that
relationship is over.”

Meaning Royce and me.

“No, we're not over,” I say, offended.

“Oh. I just assumed that since the Philippines is so far away...”

“You shouldn't assume,” I say. “Look, Kayla. Why are we here? What do you want?”

Kayla takes a breath. “I want my friend back. I wanted to tell you I'm so sorry about what happened with our brothers. Brian's been acting out since our parents split, and I didn't know how to handle it. I really thought he was just joking. I was horrified when it happened, and I was so embarrassed. I couldn't face you.”

I understand how that feels.

“I miss you, Jas. You're my oldest friend,” she says, her eyes watery.

“I miss you too, K,” I say, close to tears as well. It's been such an emotional year.

Because no matter how mad she and I get at each other, we bounce back. I can forgive Brian for what he did to Danny, I guess. And we're not going to let an idiot like Mason get in the way. But next time she wants to hook up with a guy, I'm going to make her screen him through me first, and I tell her so.

“I don't want to meet another guy,” she says. “I miss Dylan. I made such a huge mistake. Do you think he'll ever talk to me again?”

“Why not?” I say, thinking of everything Royce and I have been through, and how no relationship is perfect all the time. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

35

The most difficult thing is the decision to act, the rest is merely tenacity.

—AMELIA EARHART

IT'S MID-MARCH AND
we don't hear anything about a new visa, or about the private bill other than Royce telling me that his father's staff is working on it. Except for our relationship, which is growing deeper every day, everything else seems to be up in the air. I'm starting to think maybe Dad was right for not being optimistic about the process. If we do end up having to move back to Manila, Dad says his cousins have a house we can rent-to-own.

Mom starts organizing every room. We all help. A lot of our things will be sold at a yard sale to help raise travel expenses. We just can't afford to move all our things. Mom says we'll get new furniture in the Philippines. We'll truly start over. She's already window-shopping online, setting placeholders for the furniture she's going to buy. She's not as sad when she does this. Somehow I think there's a kind of peace, a calm in the storm when she confronts Dad on the budget for all the furniture. Of course he's more concerned with our house and if and when it sells.

Although immersing themselves in the business of moving helps my parents get their minds off the deportation, I get sad when they talk about selling the house. It's the only place I can remember living. When I think of home, I don't think of the Philippines or even America. I think of our house.

* * *

Even if my whole family is readying for the worst, I still have hope for the bill. I try not to constantly pester Congressman Blakely about the process. One night, at a dinner with Royce's mother and father at a restaurant in Beverly Hills near Tiffany's, I ask, “Are these things hard to draft?”

“No harder than any other bill,” he says, looking around. “But let's not talk about that here.”

His wife gives him a look. I don't know what it means, other than we change the subject to both Royce's acceptance and my interest in attending Stanford. I won't find out whether I'm in until April. I try not to think about it too much. Even if I can stay and Stanford does admit me—two really big
ifs
—I'll still have to figure out a way to pay my tuition. Stanford says it's need-blind even when it comes to international students, but who knows if that's really true? As my dad says, you never know. I can't depend on anything.

“So you applied there too,” Mrs. Blakely says. “What are you hoping to study?”

“Political science, I think,” I say. “I've been thinking I might go to law school.”

Mr. Blakely beams. “An excellent choice!”

Royce smiles at me proudly, and I'm tickled to have impressed his father.

“Are you continuing with cheer?” Debra asks.

I chew on a steamed green bean. “Thinking about it. I do want to compete at the collegiate level. It might help me focus overall. Keep me healthy. But I guess that depends on whether I make the team.”

Mrs. Blakely sips her wine. “I don't think that will be a problem.”

“At any rate,” Congressman Blakely says, lowering his voice. “I did finally talk to the judge about an extension of you know what... I have a pretty good feeling.”

I'm quietly elated, but I don't understand why he has to be so secretive about the extension. It's not like any of his party leadership are hiding in the planters next to the dining tables.

Royce prods his dad for more information. “What did he say?”

Congressman Blakely takes a big stab of his steak. “I'm not going to talk exact details. Let's just say I turned up the pressure and if he doesn't take care of this right away, he won't have my continued support when he's up for reelection.” He takes a drink of lemon water. “It's all about favors, son. Sometimes you have to put your foot down so these guys don't continue to balk when you need something done.”

“Is that what you did with the immigration reform bill?” Royce asks.

Mr. Blakely appears agitated. “We're not going to talk about that right now either.”

Still, Royce doesn't give up. “I just thought, since you're helping Jasmine, you might want to explain why you basically killed the bill that would have helped her family in the first place.”

I kick Royce under the table. I'm kind of impressed, but I'm also wondering why he's doing this all of a sudden. I don't want Congressman Blakely to think I'm ungrateful and stop helping us.

The congressman sets down his fork rather hard. He talks with his hands, gesticulating forcefully. “Son, I don't
have
to explain anything to you. I'm not going to talk about that here, or anywhere in public for that matter. So drop it, okay? This isn't the place. You sure are aggravating enough to make a good investigative journalist.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Blakely suddenly says, waving out the window. “It's Mason! I told him to try and join us if he could.”

Royce reaches for my hand under the table. I squeeze his reassuringly.

“I see there are still aliens among us,” Mason says when he arrives, and my stomach immediately drops.

“Come on, Mason,” Royce says, raising his voice. “Why do you have to be that way? It's not funny.”

Mason gives me a little smile. “Ease up, little brother. She's a smart girl. She knows I'm kidding.”

“That's enough, Mason,” the congressman says.

Dinner continues, awkward and tense. Royce squeezes my hand under the table, a small comfort.

* * *

A week later, I see that Royce has left me a voice mail. He rarely calls, since we text all the time, so I know there must be big news. I hold the phone close to my ear as I walk home, trying to block out the noise with my hand.

“The judge is allowing your family a temporary visa!” he says. “I think it's for a year. Maybe more. Isn't this great? It's a first step. Dad says his office has been gathering some great letters from officials, including one from the commission that looked at your essay for National Scholar. Things are pulling together. I would have waited to tell you in person, but I thought you would want to know as soon as possible. Call me today. I want to see you when I can. We need to celebrate!”

I feel this weight lift off my shoulders. When I get home, I start dancing around the house. It's a victory we desperately needed. I run into the living room and throw my arms around Daddy. I tell him and Mom the good news.

“Wait. Is this a sure thing?” Mom asks.

“Royce says so. I don't know why he would be wrong.”

“I'll believe it when I see it,” Dad says darkly. “Until then, mission is not aborted. We still need to prepare to leave.”

“Daddy! Why do you have to be so negative? Come on.”

Mom stands there with a hand over her mouth, shocked by the news. I don't think she ever believed the political plan would work.

“Did you hear me, Mommy?” I ask. “We got our extension! One, maybe two years! It's a start, right?”

“Yes, it is
neneng
,” she says. “This is good news. Great news! But what about the bill? That's what we really need. There was all this talk, but we haven't heard anything in weeks.”

I think about the dinner the other night. Congressman Blakely was acting so strange. What was wrong with talking publicly about the private bill? Everyone would know about us soon enough. What's wrong if people find out that his party sometimes does support immigrants? Wouldn't that be a good thing?

It's not like my brothers and I made those decisions to come here. We just live with them. It's not our fault that we love America, that we want to stay in the only country we know.

It's not our fault that we aren't carrying green cards in our pockets.