Something in Between

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Lo waves me off. “That’s okay. My parents won’t be back until the end of the weekend. Do you guys have a ride home?”

  Kayla looks down at her phone. “I texted Dylan. He’s going to drop us off at my place.”

  “That was fast,” Lo says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” says Kayla.

  Lo shrugs.

  Kayla frowns.

  Sensing tension building between them, I try to end the conversation. “We don’t want to keep you up. Let’s wait outside, Kayla.”

  “He’s outside anyway,” Kayla says.

  Lo crosses her arms. “Is Julian with him?”

  “How should I know?” Kayla asks, pushing past Lo toward the front door. I give Lo a little wave to say I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s up between her and Kayla. I didn’t think Lo was the territorial type.

  As I follow Kayla outside, Dylan pulls up in a beat-up, rusted-out Camaro. “How are you going to get your car back?” I ask her.

  “He’ll pick us up in the morning. Then I’ll take you back home.”

  “Isn’t your mom going to notice the car’s gone?”

  “Probably not. Since Dad left, Mom doesn’t really care what I do. She doesn’t have the same expectations of me that your parents do for you, Jasmine.”

  “Yes, she does,” I tell her. “Stop talking like that.” I guess sometimes I am lucky—my parents can be pains about rules and they’re way too strict, but at least they’ve always pushed me to do well.

  When we walk up, Dylan gets out and puts his arm around Kayla, leading her to the passenger side. I follow behind them, thinking over what Kayla said about expectations.

  Until now, I thought everything I did—the grades, student council, cheer—was because my parents expected me to do it. Watching Kayla flirt with Dylan in the front seat, I realize that’s not quite the truth.

  I did all those things for me. I did them because I love them. Because they make me who I am. I like studying, I like doing well in school. Academics have always been easy for me, and I like pushing myself and topping everyone else. I’m super competitive and I always have to win. Whether I get to go to D.C. or not, I am a National Scholar.

  I’m not going to lower my expectations of myself because the law and some politicians say I don’t belong. I deserve that scholarship. The United States Department of Education thinks so too.

  I’m going to figure out a way to go to Washington, D.C. The president will be expecting me.

  7

  It is never too late to be what you might have been.

  —GEORGE ELIOT

  IT’S A WEEK after Lo’s party and I still haven’t figured out how to put my plan to storm the Capitol into action. Royce and I have been texting again. He saw pictures of me from the party that Kayla posted on Instagram and tagged me in, and said it looked fun. But he never showed up during either of my volunteer shifts at the hospital, so maybe he was mad I didn’t invite him? Who knows. I have other things to worry about right now anyway, but I am disappointed I didn’t get to see him.

  I haven’t really talked to my parents. I guess we’re living in détente and denial right now. We’re learning about the Cold War in AP European History, which makes me America and my parents the Soviet Union, I guess?

  After cheer practice on Wednesday, Kayla drives me to the hospital again. She’s a different person since she’s met Dylan—bouncy and giddy and girlish. I’m happy for her. He seems all right. I thought he was too cool for school, but he’s sweet to her. On Monday he was even nice enough to drive me to the hospital when Kayla couldn’t because she had to pick up her brother from after-school care. Now that her dad’s moved out, her mom needs more help.

  “Did Dylan say anything about me by the way?” she asks. “The other day?”

  “He says he’s totally in love and wants to marry you,” I joke. “I don’t know. We didn’t really talk about you.”

  “You didn’t!” she squeals. “Why not!”

  “All right, we did. He thinks you’re a ‘cool chick.’”

  “He likes me, right?”

  “He wouldn’t drive your best friend to a hospital if he didn’t,” I say.

  Kayla beams.

  I hug her goodbye and go visit my favorite patient. I’ve known her for only a week and a half, but Millie is already high on my list. She told me the other day that she’s an immigrant too. Her family moved from Germany when she was a teenager, which is why she still has a slight accent.

  “You look great today. Your cheeks are so rosy,” I tell her when I arrive. Sitting down next to her hospital bed, I notice that someone has styled her hair, and I can see the Beverly Hills socialite she used to be.

  “You flatter me too much,” Millie says. “I was never what they call a great beauty. But I’ll tell you, I never lacked attention from handsome men either.”

  “Was your husband handsome?” I ask, taking out my notebook. “You said he did something in politics. Right?”

  “Yes, he worked for the city. And he was very good-looking! I would have never married someone I wasn’t completely attracted to—both intellectually and physically.”

  I think about how handsome Royce is—and funny and smart too—and feel myself beginning to blush, which Millie quickly notices.

  “I’m sorry, Jasmine. That’s always been a trait of mine. I’m terribly forthcoming. I think my husband loved that about me. My mother always said I never had enough tact.”

  “My best friend Kayla’s like that too, although she’s too honest about some things. It gets her in trouble.”

  Millie gestures for me to open the window blinds. “You don’t strike me as someone who’d keep her opinions to herself though.”

  Opening the blinds, I consider what I mean about Kayla’s honesty. “I try not to lie. And Kayla lies about stupid teenager things, like where she’s going or which boy she happens to be dating that minute, but she’s honest about how she feels. I wish I could be more like her in that way.” I wish I could tell Millie about my family’s situation. I think about it all the time, and the secret is starting to weigh on me.

  “You’ll learn. In some ways you get braver as you get older. That’s why old biddies like me get away with saying whatever they want.”

  We laugh together.

  “We’re supposed to be talking about you,” I say, sitting back down. “What made you fall in love with your husband?”

  “He was a dreamer, I suppose. People tend to think of politicians as pragmatic, doing what’s sensible, what’s realistic. It’s all a myth. Every single one is an idealist. Politicians are more about all kinds of crazy ideas than they are about what actually works.”

  Does Millie know Royce’s dad, I wonder. Would she call him an idealist? I consider asking her, but I try to remind myself of the purpose of the project. This interview is to help Millie heal; it’s not for me. She’s here due to some heart trouble, and she told me she’d been in and out of the hospital for months now.

  “What kind of politician was your husband?” I ask.

  “A district attorney.”

  “How did the two of you meet?”

  “He helped us with a permit we needed for one of our buildings,” Millie straightens herself in her bed.

  “Do you miss your work?” I ask, because she sounded a little wistful.

  “A little. My sons run the company now.” She leans up in her bed. “Could you help me adjust this pillow? I’ve had a kink in my back all day.” As I shift her pillows behind her, Millie turns to put her hand on my shoulder. “I’ve had something on my mind lately, Jasmine. May I ask you a question? It’s only a little personal.”

  I nod. “Yes. Of course.”

  “What’s your happiest memory?” Millie asks.

  I th
ink for a moment, scanning through my happiest moments. My grandmother giving me the amber glass. Being named cheer captain at the end of last school year. Falling asleep on a mattress on the floor my first night in America, snuggled up to Danny, his little toddler’s body warm against me. I was scared, but I was also so excited to begin a new life.

  Before I can even answer her, Millie starts up again. “Do you ever sense a little silver sliver of sadness around your happy memories?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean...”

  “I do. There’s something about remembering that just isn’t the same as the real thing. No matter how happy it makes you feel. When you remember something, you have to recognize that the moment will never happen again.”

  Millie looks out the window, her expression pensive, like she’s remembering something that happened long ago. “Never mind about that anyway,” she says. “I shouldn’t bother you with an old woman’s regrets. What about you? Tell me about yourself. You’re a senior, aren’t you? Where are you planning on going to college? Is there a boy you’re seeing? Good news? Bad news? Future plans?”

  My stomach turns. Only a week ago, I would have been excited about these questions, maybe even telling her about Royce. Things have changed. Boy, have they changed.

  “Oh, you don’t want to hear about my life,” I say. I recall my dad warning me to keep mum on our “problem.” But why couldn’t I tell Millie? It’s not like she would call immigration on us, would she? She’s my friend, and so is Kayla.

  “Sure I do. I find most people interesting. You just have to dig a little to get to know someone. Come on. What’s bothering you?”

  I decide to take a chance. I can’t keep it bottled up inside anymore, and who knows, maybe Millie can help. She’s a dynamo who owned her own company. Maybe she could help me figure out what to do. “I’ve been invited to go to Washington, D.C.,” I say. “But I probably shouldn’t.”

  “What do you mean you shouldn’t? Why are you invited there in the first place? You’re a little too young for office. You’re not secretly planning to take over the world?”

  Her words actually make me laugh a little. “It’s not that,” I say. “I just don’t know how I’ll get there.”

  I take a deep breath and tell her about the National Scholarship Award and the president’s letter. I tell her how my dreams came true only to be shattered by the discovery that I’m here illegally. “I can’t believe it. My parents hid the truth from us, and my brothers still don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen now. What am I going to do next year?”

  As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I get nervous. Can I really trust her? What does she think of me? Why would an elderly Beverly Hills socialite care about an undocumented Filipino girl like me?

  Now I feel silly for even thinking about asking her for advice.

  Millie wrinkles her forehead like she’s thinking really hard. “But you still want to go to Washington, D.C., for the reception?”

  “Yes. But what’s the use? They’ll just laugh me out of the White House.”

  “You really think in this day and age, with everything that the presidential administration stands for, that they would just kick you out? A beautiful young girl like you who’s so smart, she got accepted for such a high honor in the first place?”

  I shake my head. “There are lots of people who live in detention centers until they’re deported, told to never come back to America. Mom told me a story about one woman who lived here her whole life but was born in Mexico. They deported her for not paying a traffic ticket. And she doesn’t even know Spanish. She got a job working at a telemarketing company because she’s a native English speaker, but her life completely changed. She lost all her friends. Her belongings. Everyone she knew. Now she can never come back to America. We can’t risk it. I can’t risk it.”

  Millie considers this. “I suppose you’re right. This is a dangerous time to be an immigrant. Still, being brave, following through, and meeting the highest politicians in the land might not be a bad idea.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I know so. You should get on that plane. You won that award fair and square.”

  I did. Millie’s right. I deserve to go. I worked so hard for it. “Okay.” I feel hopeful for the first time in days. I’m going to make this happen.

  Millie smiles and holds up her hand. I’m about to slap her a high five when she looks over at the doorway. Concern passes over her face. I turn around in my seat to see Mom standing in the hallway, quietly sobbing.

  Oh no! I run to my mom.

  “Neneng,” she says, barely getting the words out. “We have to go.”

  I put my arms around her. “Are you hurt? Do I need to call Daddy?”

  “I’ve been fired. We have to leave before they call security.”

  “Fired?” I say, frozen suddenly. “What happened?”

  Mom glances at Millie. “I shouldn’t have even said that much. I’m so embarrassed.” She wipes mascara streaks from her cheeks.

  “Please don’t worry, Pilar,” Millie says, sitting up in her bed. “You’re one of the best staff around here. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Is there anything I can do or say to help?”

  “No, Ms. Millie. It’s already done. Thank you,” Mom says. She turns to leave and I’m following her, not knowing what I’m going to say, thinking all of my problems mean nothing in comparison to hers, when Millie calls to me.

  Mom stops and looks back. “Jas, say goodbye to Millie—you can’t come back either,” she says.

  “I can’t?” I ask, a pit forming in my stomach.

  “No.”

  “But what about the project?”

  “They’ll find someone else to interview the patients for the study.”

  I’m stunned. “I really can’t come back here?” I guess I could still put the book together. I’d been meaning to gift it to the patients at the end of the year, but how will I get it to them if I can’t come back?

  Mom shakes her head.

  Millie is alarmed. “Oh my goodness, that is terrible news. Keep in touch, will you, Jasmine?” she says, writing her number on a napkin next to her bed. “I want to finish our...interview. I feel like we were just getting to the important part of our talk. I’ll be out of here next week, but you can always call me. And let me see what I can do. Maybe I can help you and your mother. I’ve been known to pull a few strings.”

  “You would do that?” I say, taking her information, not quite believing I’ve been kicked out of the hospital as well.

  “I can’t make promises. I’ll do my best. Call me, okay?”

  * * *

  In the car, Mom’s silence is deafening. She doesn’t start the engine. She’s no longer crying, but she’s shaking like she’ll lose it any second. I’m afraid to ask why she was fired, because I think I already know.

  I’m scared and numb. Until now, I never worried about my family. We never had much money, but we’re better off than most. Happy. My parents love each other. Mom makes Dad a heart-shaped meat loaf every Valentine’s Day. I’m not worried there. But lately I keep thinking we’ll soon be living somewhere on the outskirts of Manila, and I’ll be stuck refereeing seven-legged spider fights between my brothers.

  I won’t be a student anymore. I’ll probably end up working for some resort hotel, or become a waitress or underpaid secretary like many of my cousins. I’ll fade away in a country that I don’t really understand. Not like America, which is my home, my life. Though I’m also starting to think I don’t really understand America either.

  “What happened?” I finally ask.

  Mom sits for a long time before answering. “They found out I’m a liability.”

  “A liability?” I say. “What do you mean? Did someone die or get hurt during one of your shif
ts? You’re always so safe, so thorough.”

  “They found out I don’t have documentation,” she whispers.

  We’re still sitting in the parking lot. A woman passes by the car and gives us a concerned look. “How? Why would they even check? You’ve been working at the hospital for years,” I say.

  I grip my seat. This is exactly what I was scared of, and now it’s happened. How could my parents be so stupid?

  “My supervisor called me into her office,” Mom says, taking a deep, heaving breath. “She told me I’m a good worker but that she can’t ignore the paperwork this time. Not in this ‘political climate.’ Something about one of their big donors asking to make sure all their workers are legal.”

  It gets worse. It turns out my mom’s papers were flagged, and some so-called expert claimed they’re forgeries. They told my mother she could be legally deported and the hospital fined for hiring her.

  “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.