Something in Between (7 page)

“I'm sorry, Mommy.” I hug her, which makes her start crying again.

“I tried to reason with them. I told them this was a mistake, and I could fix it. But they didn't want to hear it. They just wanted me out—but that wasn't the worst, Jas.”

I can feel myself getting angrier. How could they humiliate my mother, a woman who works twice as hard as anyone else, for not having the papers they were apparently willing to overlook for years?

Mom continues her story. “‘Go get your daughter,' my boss said. ‘We don't want two illegals in here.' After all you were doing for them,
neneng
. After you've been working so hard on their project. After all you've done for the patients. I'm so sorry.”

I've never felt so ashamed. And now I'm terrified for our entire family.

What happens to illegals in this country?

I'm afraid we're about to find out.

8

Still, there are times I am bewildered by each mile I have traveled, each meal I have eaten, each person I have known, each room in which I have slept. As ordinary as it all appears, there are times when it is beyond my imagination.

—JHUMPA LAHIRI,
INTERPRETER OF MALADIES

YOU KNOW HOW
people say “life goes on”? Well, life does go on. I take my midterms, I go to cheer practice, I become a bit of a robot, keep my head down and try not to think about the future and what it will or won't bring. I don't know what to do about the National Scholarship. When Mrs. Garcia sees me in the hallway, she reminds me that I have to turn in the acceptance form so the foundation can make my travel arrangements. I tell her I will soon.

Kayla and Dylan are hot and heavy and I rarely see her outside of practice. Royce and I have sent a few more texts back and forth, and he mentioned he's been busy with school, which is why he wasn't able to visit me at the hospital. But that he
was
there last Monday, and was looking for me but didn't see me. I didn't want to tell him I'm not allowed there anymore—it's too painful. So I lied and told him my project is over and I won't be at the hospital again anytime soon. Which is sort of the truth.

He sends me a Snapchat of himself falling off a kiddie scooter, to show that he's bummed about that, but I don't send him one back.

It's like Kayla said—I do sort of believe he lives on another planet. One with no problems.

I did well on my midterms, except for an uncharacteristic B+ in AP Calculus. Don't know if it was because I was stressed, or an honest mistake on the equation. Dad doesn't make his usual joke about B's being Asian F's. No one thinks anything is funny in my house lately. In European History, Kissinger has just convinced Brezhnev to attend the SALT talks, and the Cold War is thawing.

I wish it would at home too. Mom hasn't worked for three weeks now. It's eating at her. She's spending a huge amount of time reading the news online, watching TV shows, calling all kinds of people about our situation. Lawyers too, even though it's clear we can't afford any of them.

Dad's home for dinner for the first time all week. He picked up some extra hours driving buses on the evening shift, since Mom isn't working anymore. I used to complain that we
had
to eat at the table, but now I realize how much I miss having everyone gathered together, talking and laughing and stuffing our faces with Mom's food.

Mom and I made Dad's favorite dinner—a whole fried chicken and
pancit
with minced green onions, shredded cabbage, carrots, pork tenderloin, peeled shrimp, and soy sauce, working silently beside each other to prepare it. Even though I'm watching my weight, I heap a second helping onto my plate.

“It's nice to see my family for a change,” Dad says. He squints, peering at Danny and Isko. “It's awfully quiet at this dinner table. You boys must be up to some mischief. I know you too well.”

Isko giggles and Danny kicks him under the table. “We're not up to anything,” Danny says. “Huh, Isko?”

“Nuh-uh. Not us,” Isko says. “We're not up to no good.”

Cutting off a piece of fried chicken, I correct him. “You mean you're not up to any good.”

“Yeah!” Isko says. “That's what I mean.”

“Dumb little brother. She's tricking you,” Danny says. He stands up, takes his plate to the sink, and returns to the table. “Can I be excused?”

Not looking up from his plate, Dad tells him to sit down. “Spend some time with your family. You act more like a teenager than your sister.”

“Leave him alone,” Mom says. “You don't have to compare them.”

“I just want to spend some time with my children. Is that so terrible? I wanted to spend every minute with my father when I was Danny's age. When he came home from harvesting sugarcane, I would pull his boots off his feet. It was an honor to take off his shoes. And now I can't even get my boys to eat dinner with their family for more than fifteen minutes.”

“Okay. So does that mean I have to stay?” Danny asks.

“Sit down,” Dad says.

Danny sulks over to his seat and plops down on the chair. From under his butt comes the sound of a long, gassy explosion.
Pfffffffft!

Danny jumps up. “Aw! Man!”

Isko doubles over, laughing so hard he's gasping for air.

Danny picks up the whoopee cushion from his seat. He throws it at Isko but misses. It lands on top of the pancit. Dad's face turns red.

At first we think Dad is going to yell but then both Mom and I try to stifle our giggling, and soon we can barely keep the laughter back. It's the thing that cracks the Cold War, and Dad laughs too. It's then that I realize nothing has changed, really. We're still our family. We're still here in America. At least for now.

“It's not my fault that Danny's a stinkatron,” Isko says.

Danny fights back. “You're the gas master!”

“Stink-a-zilla!”

“Fartzilla!”

“Hey, Isko. You know what they call King Kong's little brother?”

Isko, shaking his head, smiles mischievously.

“King Krap!”

“Okay! Enough! Out!” Dad yells, shooing them away from the table. “Water your mother's garden. Then you go to your room and finish your homework.”

Danny starts to complain that there's an art project he wants to finish, but Dad won't accept any arguing.

I take the dishes to the sink and begin rinsing them while Mom and Dad sit at the table talking. It's mostly small talk at first. After a few minutes, though, I can hear them arguing with each other even over the running water. “This isn't the end,” Dad says. “There are plenty of undocumented workers in this city. You don't even need papers. Work under the table.”

“I liked working at the hospital.” Mom pouts. “Cleaning houses or offices isn't going to pay enough. And there won't be any benefits.”

I put the dishes in the dishwasher loudly, letting them know I can hear everything they're saying, but Mom doesn't lower her voice.

“I have to work a job that pays at least as much as the hospital. Or else we'll lose the house. We have two boys who will soon be eating everything in sight. How will I keep up with them?”

When I had asked them earlier how they bought the house in the first place, they said anyone can buy real estate in America if you don't need a loan. Tito Sonny had loaned them money to buy the house and over the years they had been able to pay him back.

I finish the dishes and sit back down at the table. I hate hearing my parents argue about money, but I want to be part of the conversation. I don't want them to hide anything from me anymore.

“I could start working,” I say. “I'll give up cheer and get a job.” If they can work with fake papers, so can I.

“No, Jasmine,” Dad says. “You have to focus on school.”

But why?
I think. Why focus on school if we can't afford to send me to college anyway? Not without a scholarship, and we all know I can't get one if I'm not a citizen or a legal resident. All the federal and state aid grants require a social security number and proof of legal residency or citizenship—of which I have neither.

I'm going to miss the UC application deadline that's coming up, but I can't worry about college right now. With my mom out of work, I have to do something. I can't let them lose the house. I can't let my little brothers suffer. I've been so selfish this whole time, thinking about only my own dreams and fears. In cheer you can't let one person take on the weight of the whole team. It's the same with family. Everyone needs to support each other.

“Why not?” I ask. “I can do it.”

“Absolutely not,” Mom says. She reaches across the table and grabs my hands. “You need to keep your focus on school. There must be scholarships or grants other than government ones. Maybe we can take out a private loan or something.”

She's in denial
, I think.

“We'll figure it out. You deserve to go,” she tells me.

“And you deserve better than cleaning up other people's messes, Mom,” I say. “You could get a different kind of job.”

Dad scoffs. “That's not going to happen without citizenship. Or at least another set of fake papers.”

“I'm tired of lying,” Mom says. “We need to do things the right way.”

Mom tells us that she's found several lawyers who help undocumented people, but they're all shady. “It's a scam. They want too much money. Isn't there an alliance out there of lawyers who want to help people like us who are already here and have been for years?”

“Better to leave it alone,” Dad says. “Fly under the radar. These issues are debated on the news every day. Politicians never solve the problems. They just talk. Worrying about it isn't going to fix anything.”

“What if your boss finds out you're illegal?” Mom asks. “How do you know my supervisor won't call your boss? How do you know they won't send someone to the house? Is that how you want to live? Just waiting for the hammer to fall?”

“There's no hammer,” Dad says. “We just got unlucky. Thousands of undocumented workers live in Los Angeles. What are they going to do? Deport all of us? Take a month off. You need the break.”

“No,” Mom says. “We need the money. I'll get another job. I've done it before. I can do it again. It just might take time to find the right one.”

Despite our arguments, I love how my mother can be so tough. She may have a little breakdown, but then she's back up on her feet, fighting for herself again.

I'm a fighter too.

I go back to my room and turn on my computer. With a start, I realize that tomorrow is the last day to turn in the acceptance form for the National Scholarship, as the awards dinner is next weekend in D.C.! I have to go. I earned it, like Millie said. But how? I can't fake a social security number. Maybe I'll just say I need more time to turn in the acceptance form, but that I still want to go to the reception? If giving them the wrong information on the form is too risky, at least I'll still be able to meet the president.

I pull the award letter out of my jewelry box. There's a contact email at the top.
Suzanne Roberts
. Liaison for the United States Department of Education.

I immediately type out an email apologizing for being so late and wondering if I can still attend the dinner. Can they schedule a last-minute flight for me? Am I too late? Did I miss the greatest opportunity I've had in my whole life?

Send.

“Jasmine!” Dad yells. “You left your backpack in the middle of the living room! I could have tripped over the damn thing!”

I go back to get it. Dad has just kicked Isko off the television and changed the channel to MSNBC, when it's suddenly announced that a new immigration reform bill could give millions of undocumented workers legal status. This is the bill my parents were talking about earlier.

Dad's excited and turns up the volume loud so we can all hear.

“Pilar! Come here!” Dad shouts.

“Why are you turning that up?” Danny asks. “The news is so boring.”

Dad ignores him, and the boys run out to play video games as Mom comes into the room.

The TV news anchor has a large forehead. His foundation has been heavily applied and his eyes are bulging from his head, probably due to those crazy clips they use under their hair to stretch the skin smooth (I've seen YouTube tutorials, natch). He looks like a pale pink fish. “Possible good news for undocumented workers in the US,” he says in his dull pseudoexcited voice. “Our political analyst Jessica Hart has the full report in our special segment ‘Immigration in America,' brought to you by Carl's Jr. and Watson Worldwide Construction.”

Jessica wears a starchy bright yellow dress. All I can focus on are her blindingly white teeth as she greets the news anchor.

“Wasn't she the weather girl last week?” Dad says. “How can she be a political analyst?”

“Be quiet,” Mom says.

Jessica stares into the camera. Her face is suddenly serious. “Immigration Reform Bill No. 555 passed the Senate last week, which means there's only one hurdle left, and that's a rather big one in the climate of the current House of Representatives.”

The screen shows Latino field workers and housekeepers.

“Why do the news stations always show Latinos?” Dad complains. “There are a lot of immigrants in this country. Filipinos, Burmese, Turkish, Nigerian, Iranians, Chinese, Ethiopians...”

“Dad!” I say. “I can't hear.”

He throws his hands up. He can never win when Mom and I are around.

Jessica is still talking. “The bill, according to Washington analysts, includes tightening border security on high-risk rural areas where drugs and undocumented aliens are routinely smuggled...”

“The same old story,” Dad says. “It's not my fault this country is addicted to drugs! You can't blame me for that. Even the radio reported that immigrants were the least likely group of people to commit a crime.” He starts shouting at the TV. “Check the facts!”

Mom elbows him.

Jessica continues reading from the teleprompter scrolling the words for her. “Section 2011b establishes registered provisional immigrant status, granted to eligible aliens who apply within the application period and pay the fee, including any application penalty fees, both of which may exceed $500...”

She's still talking when I hear a beep go off on my phone, signaling that I've gotten an email. When I see who it's from, I raise my eyebrows. Suzanne must work late, because I've never gotten a response that fast. I open the email, preparing myself for bad news since her answer is so short.

Ms. de los Santos—

We're so happy to hear from you! I'm ready to book your flight from LAX to Dulles. Please send me your information so I can do so. And there's plenty of time before the grant forms are due. I can answer any questions you have about it either over email or in person when you arrive. Looking forward to meeting you.