Something in Between (33 page)

46

I didn't get there by wishing for it or hoping for it, but by working for it.

—ESTÉE LAUDER

IT'S LATE.
The thunderstorm outside dumps rain over the house. It sounds like marbles are falling on Kayla's roof and around the patio out front.

Her mom is gone for the weekend to some hotel hundreds of miles away in Avila where she can do a day spa and not feel like she's in Los Angeles. Kayla and I are watching a movie about a young astronaut falling in love with a girl who works at a flower shop. Neither of us are really paying attention to the movie or to the rain.

“I feel so bad for running out on Royce,” I say. “I think I ruined his life.”

“No, you didn't,” Kayla says. “You probably saved it. Jas, you're both way too young.”

I'm still heartbroken, thinking of the way he was looking at me at the courthouse earlier that day. “I never thought I'd be a runaway bride,” I say.

“It's not wrong to come to your senses,” Kayla says. “How many times over the past year have I had to wake up from something stupid I've done?”

“I just wish I could make him understand.”

Kayla doesn't disagree.

“What's going to happen with you and Dylan?” I ask.

She lets out a sigh. I can tell she's not completely happy. Maybe we've both been impatient. “We're just trying to be friends right now,” she says. She eats a mouthful of Doritos. Ever since cheer ended, we've both been on an awful junk-food binge. “We're taking things slower,” she adds. “We're working through the stuff that happened when I was with Mason. And I want to make sure he supports my future in dance as much as I support his band. I don't want to end up as his little groupie. We're not like Julian and Lo. It's like they're thirty-year-olds. We're barely grown-up enough to decide where to get takeout.”

We both laugh. I tell her I think that's probably Royce and me too.

“Have you heard from him?” Kayla asks.

“No.” His silence is deafening.

“Have you tried texting?”

“Only about a hundred times.” I check my phone again just in case. “I told him I was sorry, that I still love him.”

“And?”

“And nothing.” I put the phone on a coffee table.

“Maybe you should tell him to come over?” she says.

“I have. He hasn't answered.”

Just then something hits the window in the living room by where Kayla is sitting. The curtains are drawn, so we can't see anything.

“What was that?” I say.

She gets up. “Could be your lover boy caught in the rain. I think I saw someone pass the window. He probably thinks my mom's home so he doesn't want to be too loud.”

Kayla peeks out the curtains. “I can't tell because of the rain. Whoever it is dresses nice. That has to be Royce's coat. He's pointing toward the front door. Maybe you should go out there so you lovebirds can make up.”

My heart's beating fast. I don't care that he didn't text me back all day and made me worried sick about him. I was having nightmare visions of him racing on Mulholland and getting in an accident. I'm so relieved he's here. “I'll just talk outside with him for a minute,” I say.

“Take as long as you want,” she says, lying down. “I might take a nap.”

I slip out the front door. The outside light isn't on. A neighbor's dog barks in the darkness. “Royce?” I say, not seeing him. “Where are you?”

“Is that you, Jasmine? Where's Kayla?”

Wait a minute. I know this voice. It's not Royce. “Mason? What are you doing here?”

He steps out of the shadows like he's been in a fight. His hair and coat are rain-soaked. He stumbles over a loose brick on the walkway. He's obviously been drinking. “I came to see my girl.” He spits as the rain pours behind him. “Go get her now.”

“She's not your girl,” I say.

“Jealous are you? I knew it.” Mason grins. “Come here, baby.”

“Mason, stop it!” I say, when he tries to put his arms around me.

“You think you're too good for me, don't you, National Scholar. But you're just a mail-order bride and that's all you are. I can't believe my brother hasn't seen through you. You should have been long gone by now.”

“What are you talking about?”

Mason snickers. “After I sabotaged that private bill Dad was working on, I thought for sure you'd be on a boat back to China or wherever you're from. Honestly, I don't know what's taking so long.”

My anger boils up through my twisting gut. So do tears. I don't say anything. I don't do anything. I'm numb.

“What did you say?” a voice asks from behind Mason. It's hard to see in the rain, but I'd recognize that voice anywhere.

Mason addresses the darkness. “Well,
someone
had to leak the story or her illegal family might have been allowed to stay here. Even Dad was on her side, and that's just wrong, to put aside his political beliefs just for his family. No one should get what they want.”

Suddenly, Royce, also soaked, is behind his brother, grabbing him by the shoulder. “THAT WAS
YOU
?” he yells. “YOU LEAKED IT?”

“Surprise?” Mason laughs.

Mason liked taking away my toys and making me cry
,
Royce said the other day. Is that what I am to Mason? A thing?

When you're privileged, your life becomes a collection of things. Nothing's real. Not people, not their feelings.

Sabotaging my family's private immigration bill was a joke to him. My family's life, my future, was just a toy to be played with.

Royce punches Mason in the face but Mason ducks and hits Royce in the gut, sending him falling into the bushes.

“Royce!” I scream. “Don't hurt him!” I yell at Mason.

“Come on! Get up! You've never beat me in a fight!” Mason says, dukes up.

“Mason! What are you doing here?” Kayla says, appearing in the doorway. “Stop or I'll call the police!”

Royce gets up but this time he doesn't swing or kick. Instead he speaks calmly to his brother. “This isn't about me at all, is it? Or Jasmine. It's about Dad. You leaked the article to get back at him. You're using Jasmine to make a statement. You hate when anyone else gets attention from him.”

“Spare me your five-cent therapy,” Mason says.

“Mason, please. Dad loves you. I love you. You don't have to do this. You don't have to be this way.” I've never seen Royce look so destroyed. First I broke his heart at the courthouse and now this. I want to help but I don't know how.

Mason stumbles backward, still cursing at Royce.

But Royce is adamant that Mason hear what he has to say. “I know you've been angry ever since he started spending all his time in Washington, but he still loves us.”

“What are you talking about?” Mason says. “Want me to hit you again?”

“I'm talking about your feelings about Dad,” Royce says.

“Feel this!” Mason punches Royce again, who goes down hard.

I start to help Royce but he waves me off and gets up again. “He loves you, Mason,” Royce says. “I know he does.”

“SHUT UP!” Mason screams. “THIS IS NOT ABOUT DAD!”

But Royce keeps on talking. “I know you think Dad doesn't love you. So you take it out on everybody else. I'm telling you right now, Dad hurts for you. He's just no good at communicating with us.”

Mason looks like he wants to murder his little brother. His fists are balled. He grabs Royce with one of his hands and raises his fist. “Shut up!” he says, beginning to choke up. “Just shut up!”

“I won't,” Royce says. “I love you, Mason. If you need to beat me to feel better, just do it.” He's crying and I'm crying too.

“Stop it,” Mason croaks, pushing Royce's chest so he has to take a step back to balance himself.

“The only person you're hurting is yourself,” Royce says. “You'll slip deeper into someone you're not if you don't stop. You don't even like yourself.”

Mason looks like he's about to throw another punch, but he ends up shoving Royce into the side of the house and stumbling into the rain. I run over to help Royce up, and when he gets to his feet he runs after his older brother. Kayla and I follow behind him.

The rain is coming down in sheets. Mason has collapsed onto the front lawn, having completely broken down. Royce gets down on the ground and puts an arm around him.

“I don't know what's wrong with me,” Mason says, sobbing. “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“It's all right,” Royce says. “It's going to be okay.” Holding his big brother in his arms, he squints into the rain. “Jas, help me?”

“Of course.” I run to him.

* * *

Kayla and I are standing in the foyer of Congressman Blakely's house. Mason has just been taken away by his mother into another room. In a low voice, Royce tells his father what happened at Kayla's house. He doesn't hesitate to describe how Mason admitted to sabotaging the private bill.

“He did that?” Congressman Blakely asks calmly.

Royce nods. He's done with his story.

Congressman Blakely grimaces with disappointment. “Anything else?”

“No, sir,” Royce says.

The congressman thinks for a moment. “Get your friends home,” he says.

“Right.” Royce turns and sees me standing next to Kayla. Our eyes meet, and it's like he's seeing me for the first time since I ran away from him at the courthouse. He furrows his brows and faces the congressman again. There's a look of determination on his face, as if he just remembered something. “Dad?”

Mr. Blakely turns around. He looks at his son vacantly. “What is it?”

Royce seems especially brave right now. I don't know what it is, but the way he's standing there he looks like he's matured five years in the course of five hours.

“Will you call the judge now? And confirm the visa extension for Jasmine's family? For me?”

Mr. Blakely looks at his son and nods. He takes out his cell phone and dials.

47

We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies.

—EMILY DICKINSON

IT'S THE MIDDLE
of April, and by the end of the month I have to let Stanford know whether I'm enrolling in the fall. Since I never received any financial aid confirmation in the mail, last Monday I asked the dean of students, whom I'd met at the National Scholar dinner, if he could help find out what was going on. He advised leaving a message for the financial aid office asking about my package.

When the phone rings, I figure I'll let the message go to voice mail, but the phone stops ringing and Danny comes running into my room.

“It's for you,” he says.

“Who would call the house phone?” I say.

“I don't know,” he says. “Some guy from Stanford.”

“Stanford?” I drop the bracelets I'm holding and race for the kitchen counter.

“Hello?” I say. “This is Jasmine de los Santos.”

“Hi, Jasmine. This is Richard Brown from Stanford University's Office of Financial Aid. I've been trying to get in touch with you for a few days now.”

My heart pounds. “Sorry, Mr. Brown. I've had a crazy week.”

“I don't normally make calls,” he says. “We usually send out letters to award recipients, but I had some extra time and wanted to call you and let you know personally that you are receiving a full financial aid package from our university, should you choose to enroll.”

“I'm eligible for financial aid?” I whisper. “You know I'm not a citizen or a green-card holder?”

“Yes, we do,” he says, as if it's not a big deal at all. “Stanford subscribes to a need-blind admissions policy, and as an international student, you've been awarded a patron grant by a Stanford alumni. There are only a few of them available.”

“Wait,” I say, catching my breath. “I don't understand. What's a patron grant?”

“It's a rare grant, and in your case will pay for much of your education here at Stanford. Around the same time we received your financial aid application, our department also received a grant that was specifically designated for you. You've also received several other smaller private grants and scholarships to cover your tuition. We'll be notifying you about all of those. Have you made a decision about attending Stanford? I know many students don't accept admission until they've been able to figure out the financial situation.”

“I want to attend Stanford,” I say like an idiot.

“That's wonderful news. You'll need to contact Admissions to officially accept. The deadline is May first.”

“I'll do it right away,” I say. “I'll get right on it.”

Yet in the back of my mind, I'm still wondering whether I can go. There's still the matter of being able to stay in the country after all. Royce's dad called the judge and pressed for a delay of deportation and reminded him that we were supposed to get temporary visas, but as usual, we haven't heard if it was granted or not.

“Congratulations, Jasmine. This is a wonderful opportunity. We're so happy to have you at Stanford. Do you have any questions for me?”

I'm still in shock. “No... Yes. Just one question. If an alumni specified a grant for me, may I know who that person is?”

“Sure. I have that information right here...”

I can't believe what's happening. This news is so wonderful. It's as if my dreams are slowly unfurling in a breeze, only they're way up on a hill that I still have to climb. I'm so excited. At the same time, I'm feeling selfish again. If our visas don't come through soon, I don't know if I can ask my family to risk being thrown into a detainment center just because I want to attend Stanford so badly.

“Here it is,” Richard Brown says. “The patron is Amelia Florence Marsh. She graduated forty years ago. She was one of the first women to graduate with a chemistry degree from Stanford.”

When I call Millie to thank her, I'm glad to hear she's breathing easier. “I can't believe you did this for me.”

“Did what?” she asks.

“Stanford. The grant?”

“I didn't ask them to give it to you, Jasmine. Did they tell you that? I said I wanted them to choose an incoming female student who would use her education to give back to the world. The grant committee chose you. You earned it all on your own.”

Wow. I can't believe it.

“I know you're still unsure if can stay, but you know what? Now you know you're truly good enough to go anywhere in the world. You have so many options. You just have to keep your eyes open to them.”

* * *

As I hang up the phone, Dad walks into the kitchen, looking for a box to pack.

I know I need to tread on gentle ground with him right now. “Stanford just called, Daddy. I've been awarded enough financial aid to attend all four years.”

I don't tell him about Millie. It'll make him think the award is pity money.

“That's great,” Dad says. “Do they know you're getting deported in June?”

“No! I can't leave America. None of us can leave now! This isn't just about me getting into Stanford. This is money to attend. This is everything. This is my future.”

“Tell that to the US government,” he says. “We skip out on deportation, and we could lose all our assets and sit in a detainment center playing solitaire for five years.”

I don't say anything. He's right. I can't expect them to live under the pressure, especially since there's a significant chance none of us may ever gain citizenship if we don't follow the rules.

“It would be worse than bad,” he says. “You see those people who get kicked out? They have nothing. That's where we would be if we took too many risks. I'm sure they can take away all that scholarship money too, along with everything we own.”

“But Royce's dad called the judge and asked him to change his mind,” I insist. “We heard him talk to him on the phone. He said it would all work out.”

“Well, where's our extension, then?” Dad finally finds a box. He picks it up and opens the folds. “It's okay if we leave—we can eat Filipino food all the time.”

I give him a weak smile. “How do you deal with all of this, Dad?” I ask. “Us leaving. Without being too sad? Without shutting down?”

“Ah, Jasmine. My girl,” he says, beckoning me to come to him. When I go over, he holds me with his strong, fatherly arms. “This world is filled with families who don't have wonderful daughters like mine.”