It feels like there’s no ground beneath me, like everything I’ve ever done has been a lie. Like I’m breaking apart, shattering. Who am I? Where do I belong?

Jasmine de los Santos has always done what’s expected of her. Pretty and popular, she’s studied hard, made her Filipino immigrant parents proud and is ready to reap the rewards in the form of a full college scholarship.

And then everything shatters. A national scholar award invitation compels her parents to reveal the truth: their visas expired years ago. Her entire family is illegal. That means no scholarships, maybe no college at all and the very real threat of deportation.

For the first time, Jasmine rebels, trying all those teen things she never had time for in the past. Even as she’s trying to make sense of her new world, it’s turned upside down by Royce Blakely, the charming son of a high-ranking congressman. Jasmine no longer has any idea where—or if—she fits into the American Dream. All she knows is that she’s not giving up. Because when the rules you lived by no longer apply, the only thing to do is make up your own.

MELISSA DE LA CRUZ is the author of many best-selling novels, including the Blue Bloods series, the Au Pairs series, the Ashleys series, and Angels on Sunset Boulevard. She is also a frequent contributor to Glamour, Marie Claire, Teen Vogue, and Cosmopolitan. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and daughter, and is hard at work on her next book.

Something Inbetween

Melissa de la Cruz

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For my husband,

for everything,

including my American citizenship.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Tiger Cub

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Becoming Illegal

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

American Dream

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Author Note

Acknowledgments

Questions for Discussion

Copyright

Tiger Cub

Remember, remember always, that all of us, and you and I especially, are descended from immigrants and revolutionists.

—FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT

1

The truth is, immigrants tend to be more American than people born here.

—CHUCK PALAHNIUK, CHOKE

FIRST YOU HAVE to hollow out. Suck your belly button back against your spine. Pull up toward your rib cage. Maintain eye contact. Remember to breathe. Feel your muscles tighten. Make yourself compact. Lift up. Fly. Attitude is everything. Believe you can do that stunt. Stay tight. Smile. Keep everything together as you’re twisting through the air. Trust yourself. Trust your team. Let doubt creep in and you’ll fall—plus, you’ll let down the whole squad, and that’s the worst thing you can do as cheer captain, other than bossing everyone around like an aggro queen bee.

There’s no one more intense than a cheerleader—although according to every Hollywood movie ever made, we’re a bunch of ditzy, boy-crazy backstabbers. As if.

Don’t they get it? Cheerleaders are part of a team, and a good team trusts each other. Because the only thing stopping you from cracking your head open on the gym floor is your teammates.

Cheer makes you tough.

Loyal.

Strong.

“Hit. Hit. Hit. Pull!” Coach Davis shouts, her voice echoing against the gym walls. We jump three times in a row, extending our arms and legs into perfect toe touches, then tuck, flipping backward onto the mats.

Everyone sticks the tuck except for Kayla. She’s been struggling with her tumbling even though she used to be one of the best tumblers on the team. Her mind has been somewhere else for a while, worried about her parents, who aren’t getting along too well. I make a mental note to ask her how she’s doing after practice, maybe offer to help her brush up on some moves before she gets put on probation or kicked off the squad. She’s my best friend, but we haven’t hung out much since I’ve been studying for midterms and trying to get my college applications done.

“Keep your feet together, Santos,” Coach barks at me. “They’re wobbling on your landing.”

I nod even though I’m annoyed that she singled me out and didn’t say anything to Kayla. I know Coach is bringing me down a notch on purpose. She doesn’t want me to end up with an oversize ego. That’s why I got voted captain in the first place—I know you have to sacrifice yourself for the team, for the stunt, or else everything falls apart like a crumbling pyramid.

Sometimes the other girls tease me. You’re so perfect, Jasmine. You do everything right. You were junior class president. Cheer captain. Honor Roll. Volunteering. Don’t you ever get tired?

Never, I say with a smile. Except the truth is I’m always tired, but I can never admit it, not to my friends, especially not to my family.

“Let’s run through the routine until the end of practice,” Coach orders. She walks over to the sound system to start the music.

Most of the girls start taking their positions, but Emily crosses her arms. “I’m exhausted. I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” Her cheeks are flaming red on her Irish complexion.

“Don’t be a drama queen,” Deandra says, whipping her dark braids like the queen of the Nile. She looks like Halle Berry, but prettier with gorgeous naturally thick eyelashes. “You’re only tired because you stayed up texting Brandon all night.”

“He likes my texts.” Emily grins. She raises one eyebrow like she’s holding on to a juicy secret. “Creative emojis.”

I tell them to hush. It’s my senior year and last chance to win at Nationals. If we want to win this time, the whole team has to be serious about practice. We don’t have any time not to be on point.

“Positions!” I yell out.

Coach nods and I count down to begin the routine.

“Five, six, seven, eight!”

Music blasts from the speakers.

Our routine begins with high-intensity tumbling. We sprint across the mats, propelling our bodies through the air, hitting our handsprings, layouts, and tucks right on the beat. The girls are getting even more pumped as they move into formation for the flyer stunts. I step up onto my bases, let them propel me up into a barrel roll, and fall back into their cradle. The stunts are getting more and more complex and one of our flyers loses her balance during a dismount on a pyramid, smacking against her back spotter and sending her to the ground. The bases help the spotter back up.

Coach stops the mix. She’s frowning.

“We got this! Come on, ladies!” I shout. “Again from the beginning!”

We practice our routine over and over until all of the flyers are hitting their stunts. Our muscles ache and our arms are slick with sweat, but the better we get, the more pumped we are, so by the end of practice everyone is cheering louder, staying tighter, and flying higher.

That’s more like it.

We’re about to go through our last run when Mrs. Garcia pushes through the swing doors and power walks toward us. Her scuffed pleather heels thump against the wood floors. Weird. What’s the college counselor doing at cheer practice? Everyone else must have noticed her too, because they’re all chatting and whispering instead of getting into their positions.

Coach catches her eye and turns to us. “Ladies! Listen up. I want you to pair up and practice your back walkovers, back tucks, then cool down with stretches and splits, holding each side for thirty seconds each. Spot for each other. Start slow. Keep them controlled.”

As she joins Mrs. Garcia, I pair up with Kayla and help her slowly ease into a backbend. She tries to kick up with her foot, but can’t catch the momentum, so I help guide her through the move.

Kayla Paredes is curvy, with a tiny waist, curly dark hair and a quick smile. Boys have been worshipping at her feet since we were twelve, but she tires of them easily. She’s fifth-generation Mexican American, which means she learned Spanish in class just like I did.

“Movie night on Friday?” she asks. “My house?”

I’m about to say no, I have to study, but it’s been ages and we need to catch up. “Perfect,” I tell her. “I’ll have to clear it with my mom, but it should be okay. Let’s make chocolate-chip cookies.”

“With extra chocolate chips.” Kayla grins. After a couple minutes, Coach calls out for me. “Santos! Mrs. Garcia needs a word with you.”

Me? Is something wrong? Uncertainty creeps into my stomach. It’s October and I’ve been trying to narrow down my list of colleges. Did I miss an early application deadline? I’ve been going to Mrs. Garcia’s office every couple of weeks since junior year to make sure I’m on track. Could she have forgotten to tell me something important?

I help Kayla up before walking over, trying not to look too worried. Coach winks at me as she passes by on her way back to the group, and I’m relieved. This can only mean something good.

“I have something special for you,” Mrs. Garcia says as she hands me an envelope. She folds her arms, a slight smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

My heart begins to beat when I see a fancy logo printed in official navy blue ink on the top right corner: United States National Scholarship Program, Department of Education. Somehow, I know I’m holding my future in my hands. The one I’ve worked so hard for. The one my parents have dreamed of ever since we moved here from the Philippines when I was only nine years old. Danny was a toddler and Isko was still a newborn. I remember holding Danny’s hand on the plane while my mom cradled Isko on her lap as the plane rushed down the runway, lifting off toward America.

I wrote about it in my application essay, how one of my earliest memories is of looking out the window in our first house in California, at the bright lights and the stark silhouettes of palm trees, and how different it was from the view of the green and wet mountains in our house in Antipolo, where it was always muggy and raining, and we often kept the mosquito screens closed. I’ve come to think of America as an open window—open to new possibilities, to the new life promised to those who journey from far away to reach its shores.

The National Scholarship Award is one of the most prestigious in the nation, bestowed upon only the top high school students, the best of the best, who are chosen not only on their grades and scores but on their personal essays and teacher recommendations. It’s a bit like applying to college, I guess, but it’s even harder than getting into the Ivy League. I worked so hard on my application and I wanted it so badly. Now that it’s here, I’m shaking.

Mrs. Garcia puts her hand on my shoulder, startling me back to the present. “I’m so proud of you,” she says like I’m her own daughter.

I tear the envelope open, nearly ripping the letter apart.

As I unfold the letter, my eyes drift to the signature at the bottom. It’s actually signed—not printed—by the president of the United States. I return to the top and begin reading the body of the letter:

Dear Ms. de los Santos,

I am pleased to offer you a National Scholarship Award in recognition of your outstanding academic achievement. The award includes a financial grant covering four years of tuition to the college of your choice. Only three hundred students out of thousands of highly qualified applicants are chosen each year, making the award one of the most competitive in the nation.

You are among a select group of astonishing young people, people who by the ages of sixteen and seventeen have not only succeeded academically but have conducted innovative medical research, played with the Los Angeles Philharmonic, competed in the Olympics, launched companies, volunteered for international social service organizations, and more. National Scholars go on to attend our nation’s top universities and use their gifts to improve both our country and the world.

It is my distinct pleasure to invite you to attend the National Scholarship Recognition Program to celebrate your achievement and meet with government officials, educators, musicians, scientists, business leaders, and past scholars. You will also have the opportunity to visit historic museums and monuments, as well as attend recitals, receptions and official ceremonies as guests of the Department of Education. Please complete and return the form included with this letter. Additional details about the trip to Washington, D.C., will be sent within the following weeks. Congratulations! I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ll do to make a brighter future for our country.

Yours,

The President of the United States

I can’t even breathe. This is the happiest day of my life. Everything I’ve given up—the hours of sleep, the driver’s license (because my parents wouldn’t allow me to learn), all the parties I never attended, all the fun I never had, all the boys I never kissed...

Nothing compares to this scholarship.

Mrs. Garcia shuffles against the gym floor, leaving small smudges on the wood. “This is a huge deal, Jasmine. There hasn’t been a National Scholar from our town as long as I’ve been here. It’s the highest honor a student can be awarded.”

A full ride to any college of my choice. My parents won’t have to worry about not being able to afford tuition. It almost takes my breath away. I can see it so clearly. My future.

College. Graduate school. I don’t know yet what I want to do, but I do know that winning at the meritocracy is my American dream. A successful career and a handsome husband. A family. I’m old-fashioned that way, maybe because I’m Filipino, but ever since I was a kid I’ve wanted a family of my own and a marriage like the one my parents share. Corny, I know, but hey, I’m an American girl, and I want it all.

I worked hard for this, gave up everything. Some of my friends tease that I’m seventeen going on thirty-five. It doesn’t matter now. What’s certain is that I’m not going to be stuck with my parents’ limited options. My mom graduated top of her class in the Philippines, but in America she cleans up vomit in a hospital, and my dad, the smartest man I know, drives a bus for a living. But they always believed if their children became American like I am now, the sky’s the limit.

And here it is. The sky is on fire.

This is it. My year. My shot (thanks, Hamilton).

The exhilaration is almost as good—if not better—as sticking a killer landing at Nationals.

2

It was my father who taught us that an immigrant must work twice as hard as anybody else, that he must never give up.

—ZINEDINE ZIDANE

“WHAT WAS THAT all about?” Kayla asks when Mrs. Garcia leaves. She raises her eyebrows and waits expectantly.

I can’t hide my elation, but I want to tell my parents first. The news is too precious, too hard-earned to share with even my best friend right now. It’s not that she won’t be happy for me; she’ll be ecstatic. But Mom and Dad deserve to be the first ones to hear.

“Just some good news about college apps,” I tell her. “She thinks I’m eligible for a Regent’s at the UC schools.” The Regent’s Scholarships are California’s answer to the National Scholarship Program. They cover thousands of dollars of tuition a year for the top percentage of applicants, and I’d known I’ve been eligible for a while as UC applications are due at the end of November.

“Well, duh, I could have told you that,” she says, as I pull the scholarship letter out of my sports bra and slip it into the front pocket of my backpack.

When practice is over, we run into Lorraine Schiana leaning against her car with a couple of boys in the parking lot. She’s twisting her dark red hair around one of her fingers. Lo is drop-dead gorgeous but never looks as if she’s trying. You know the type. Glamorous. Bohemian. Like a rock star’s famous girlfriend. She’s a total scene queen, always dating a different hot musician at least a year or two older, and dyeing her hair these amazing unnatural colors—pink, blue, lavender, and silver. Right now she’s wearing her hair au naturel, as she told me all that dye was drying out the ends too much. We’ve been friends since junior high, but Lo started running in different groups once we got to high school and my class load meant I didn’t have as much free time as I’d like. Even though we’re not as close anymore, I still love her. Her world always seems so much bigger than mine. She knows so many people and has so many fun things going on that it makes me feel a little jealous sometimes.

As I pass by, I give her a little wave, not wanting to interrupt her conversation.

Kayla leans over and whispers, “Who are those guys? Dibs on the one in the Bob Marley shirt.”

It’s like the boys can sense she’s talking about them because they train their eyes on us, which makes Lorraine look over too. “Hey, Jas,” she says. “What up, girl? Haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“The usual,” I say, smiling back. “What’s up with you?”

“Hanging out with these losers.” Lorraine gestures to the guys at her side. “This is my boyfriend, Julian. That’s Dylan. They play in a band together,” she says.

Julian is African American, incredibly good-looking, with cappuccino-colored skin and dreadlocks. He’s wearing a red beanie and has tattoos all over his forearms. Kayla smiles at Dylan, the surfer-type boy with messy blond hair wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses and a T-shirt with Bob Marley’s face on the front. I can tell she’s already developed a massive crush on him.

“Cheerleaders, huh?” Dylan asks.

I sigh a little. “Good guess. How can you tell?”

It’s not like we’re wearing our uniforms or anything, and I don’t like the way he said cheerleaders, as if we’re just chicks who shake their pom-poms. Our squad won Regionals last year. We’re just as much athletes as the guys in helmets we supposedly “cheer” for. (They lose every year. Our squad has a better winning percentage. Burn.)

Dylan smirks. “Dorky white tennis shoes are pretty much a dead giveaway.”

“Leave her alone, Dylan. She’s a friend of mine,” Lo says.

“My older sister was a cheerleader,” he says somewhat apologetically.

“It’s okay,” says Kayla, who’s practically drooling over him even though she’s trying to appear disinterested. “Where do you guys go to school?”

“We graduated last year. Dylan’s at Valley College. I’m taking some time off and focusing on music,” Julian says. “I might go back to become a sound engineer. I’m still figuring things out.”

Lo tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Want to come over on Friday?” she asks. “I’m having a few people over for a kick back. It’ll be chill. My parents are out of town.”

“I don’t know,” I say, hesitating to commit, even as I feel Kayla’s intense stare on me. “Midterms are coming up and you know what my parents are like. And Kayla and I already have plans that night.” To sit at home and bake chocolate-chip cookies, but I don’t mention that.

“We can change them!” Kayla chirps.

“Yeah, come on, Jas,” Lorraine says. “It’ll be fun. Hang out for a change.”

“Fine. Maybe. Message me the details?” I hate letting people down and I do miss Lo.

“Will do,” Lorraine says. “See you guys then. Bye, Jas. Bye, Kayla.”

Kayla seems shocked Lorraine even knows her name but recovers quickly. “Cool, thanks, Lo.” She looks at the boys. “Are you guys going to be there?”

Julian seems amused. He exchanges glances with Dylan. I’m not sure what they’re trying to say to each other. Boys. I can never read them.

“Yeah, we’ll be there,” says Julian, and Dylan nods.

“Excellent,” says Kayla.

* * *

Kayla and I walk to her brand-new pearly-white Dodge Charger, which her parents bought her for her seventeenth birthday. We throw our backpacks onto the backseat and plop into the front seats, overheated and exhausted, although I can tell Kayla’s in a good mood from the party invitation and meeting those guys.

I’m catching a ride to the hospital where my mom works. I don’t know how to drive yet, and it’s kind of embarrassing, especially since I live in LA (okay, Chatsworth, but no one ever wants to admit they live in the Valley).

Daddy always promises to teach me how to drive, but there hasn’t been any time in either of our schedules, especially since I’ve been training so hard at cheer. Right now I don’t really have time to go anywhere besides school and practice, so I don’t mind too much.

Kayla turns on the ignition and rolls the windows down. “He was cute, right? Did he seem into me? Dylan?”

“Who can tell behind those aviator shades?” I say, teasing her on her “bad boy” taste. As she drives out of the lot and down the highway next to the school, I change the subject. Once Kayla gets going on boy-talk, she’ll never stop, and I want to bring up something more important. “Hey, your tumbling is looking really good,” I say.

Kayla rolls her eyes. “Thanks, but I don’t need false compliments.”

I search Kayla’s face for a hint of sarcasm, but I don’t see any. “I wasn’t being fake with you,” I say.

“It’s not about whether I can do the movements,” she says.

“Of course not. You’ve always been one of the best on the team.”

Idling at a stoplight, Kayla turns to me. “I don’t need you to make me feel better about myself, Jas. You could just ask what’s been going on with me. I feel like you barely exist outside of practice anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I really am. I know Kayla’s needed me and I’ve neglected her. “I’m a terrible friend.”

“You’re not. I know how important being the best is for you, so I understand that you need to work so hard. But don’t forget that I’m here for you too.”

I lean my head on Kayla’s shoulder. “Thanks, K. So what’s been going on with you? Are you still going out with that guy? What was his name? Jason?”

“Girl, we really do need to catch up. I only went on, like, two dates with him. If you can even count them as dates... On the last one, he took me to an arcade, then expected me to watch him play video games. I said I was going to the bathroom and ditched him to play mini golf next door with one of the guys who works at the arcade.”

We both start laughing at her story, and I know that Kayla has forgiven me for being so absent lately. “I know you’ve noticed that I’ve been missing my marks more than normal,” she continues. “But it’s not because of boys.”

I stay silent. I know Kayla well enough to understand that she’s not going to quit talking until she’s said everything she needs to get out. Talking is her way of processing things, while I tend to keep things bottled up inside until something’s bothering me so bad that I finally explode in tears.

“My parents are separating. Dad moved out last week. He’s living in his own apartment in Simi Valley.” She takes a deep breath and her upper lip quivers.

“Oh my God. What happened?” I ask, feeling the bottom drop out of my stomach. I knew things were bad at home, but not this bad. No matter how old you are, your parents getting divorced is still every kid’s nightmare. I feel awful for her.

Kayla shakes her head. “I don’t know. I think Dad had an affair, but they’re not saying anything. I guess Mom doesn’t want Brian and me to hate him for forever.” Her little brother is Danny’s age.

“Of course not. But that’s terrible.” I lean over and give Kayla as much of a hug as I can while she’s driving. “I’m so sorry, K. I don’t know what to say.” I feel my eyes watering.

Kayla gives me a little side hug back and wipes her eyes too. “It’s okay. I’m glad I told you.”

“Do you want to have movie night at my house instead? You can get away from your place for a while,” I suggest.

“You mean on Friday? I thought we were hitting Lo’s party after the game...”

“Ugh, I don’t know,” I say. “It’s not a party anyway. It’s a kick back.”

“You know a kick back is just a code name for a total rager. Right? I can’t go without you.”

“Yes, you can,” I say. “You don’t need me.”

“We’re going to that party,” she says determinedly. “It’s senior year, Jas. It’s about time you had a little fun.”

Dylan has no idea what’s coming at him. What Kayla wants, Kayla gets. Especially when it comes to boys. Then she drops them like flies and they leave sad comments online, asking why she never texts them back. I wish I had her confidence in that arena. It’s not that I’m shy around guys, but with my parents being so strict along with my tough academic slate and all my extracurrriculars, I’ve never really had the time or opportunity to have a boyfriend.

Kayla whips around the corner into the parking lot of the hospital. “You have to come. I need you to be my wing-woman. Just tell your parents you’re staying at my house. It’ll be the truth. I’ll drive us back after the party.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “You know them. My mom will call while we’re supposed to be at your house, asking to talk to your mom, trying to pretend that she’s not checking up on me.”

I want to go to Lo’s. I do. But I also don’t want to lie to my parents, no matter how much we disagree. I know everyone thinks I’m one of the good girls, but I can’t afford to mess up like other kids. I’m an immigrant in this country. My dad always told me we have to work twice as hard as anyone else just to get to the same place, which is why I work four times as hard—because I want to succeed.

“What’s Lo going to say?” Kayla asks. “You told her you’d be there.”

I stare out the window at the palm trees lining the edge of the parking lot. Why do I feel guilty for just thinking about doing things most teenagers do? “No, I said maybe.”

“Why do I even bother?” Kayla says, clearly annoyed. “Your maybe always means no.”

Fair enough, but if I didn’t always say no to things, I might not be getting the biggest yes of my life now—the golden ticket in my backpack. The one that will bring me straight to the top of the heap, where I belong.

3

The land flourished because it was fed from so many sources—because it was nourished by so many cultures and traditions and peoples.

—LYNDON B. JOHNSON

I SAY BYE to Kayla and hope she’s not too irritated with me, and promise I’ll think about going to Lo’s party, then I head into the hospital. My mom has been working there for a few years now. She’s what they call an environmental service worker, which basically means she’s a glorified janitor. She has to do everything from mopping the hallways to washing dirty sheets. I feel bad for her, especially this year. Her job is already hard, but the hospital administration changed a few months ago and they started laying off some of Mom’s coworkers, which means she’s doing double the work she used to do. I know she’s worried about losing her job too.

I started volunteering at the hospital in the gift shop when I was a freshman, then I assisted the nurses, but a year ago I started interviewing patients for a storytelling project. It’s part of a research study to see how connections and being heard can affect the healing process, especially for elderly patients. Apparently patients need personal interactions, especially during recovery, and these moments can even alleviate physical symptoms. Hearing my mom talk about how sad it was that so many of the people at the hospital never had anyone visit made me excited to help out. I wrote about my experiences for my essay for the National Scholarship too. Patients need to know that people care about them, that someone is listening to what they have to say. For many of them, that someone is me.

Trying to shake off disappointing Kayla, I head through the doors to the ER lobby. Gladys, an older woman with curly white hair that she wears in ringlets close to her scalp, sits behind the counter where new patients fill out their paperwork. She’s talking to an older gentleman wearing a fancy navy blue suit standing next to a tall boy who looks like he’s around my age. They look like father and son, except the son has dark, chestnut-colored hair and his dad’s is more wheat-colored.

While the boy listens to his father, I sneak a peek at him. He’s tan, although maybe not so much tan as a natural golden-brown color. He must be mixed. Caucasian dad, Latina mom maybe? I can tell because I’m pretty mixed myself. Filipinos are a little of everything. (I’m Filipino Chinese Hawaiian French.) This guy has deep brown eyes and cut-glass cheekbones, and he’s wearing a navy suit with a green tie and brown dress shoes. Although his clothes are perfectly put together, his hair looks like he’s been running his hands through it too much. When he smiles at something his father says, I notice a dimple on one cheek. He glances over and catches me staring, and I blush, because he’s really cute. My heart rate immediately goes up and I’m lucky I’m not hooked up to a machine right now.

His father shakes Gladys’s hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Robertson. I appreciate your help.” He walks toward the elevator but the son lingers behind. “Go ahead, Dad. I forgot something.”

I say hi to Gladys and she hands me the folder with the list of today’s patients who’ve signed up to be part of the project. The boy is still standing next to me. When Gladys gets up from her chair, she raises an eyebrow in my direction, then makes herself look busy at the filing cabinet.

I can feel him looking at me, but he doesn’t say anything, so I finally do. “What did you forget?” I blurt.

“I forgot to get your number,” he says, his voice low and rich.

My blush deepens, and when our eyes meet, I feel a spark inside, like I’m all lit up from within. He smiles at me from under his long, floppy bangs. It makes me want to run my own hands through his hair, which looks so thick and glossy and inviting. I’ve never felt so attracted to anyone before, and I’m a little shocked at how much I want to touch him—a shoulder, an elbow.

Somehow I find myself digging for my phone. I don’t know why, but I can’t remember my number, let alone my name right now.

Gladys yells from the window. “Jazzy baby!” she calls. “I’ve got another patient for you!”

I’m mortified, but the boy’s smile grows wider. He takes my phone from my hand. I didn’t even realize I was holding it.

“Tell you what. Why don’t you text me? That way it’s up to you. I can tell your mother taught you never to talk to strangers.” He punches in his number, takes a quick, goofy selfie to go with his contact info and hands it back to me. His fingers are warm, but dry. My hand feels electric.

I pocket my phone, trying to look as cool as he does. I shrug, as if I could care less.

When he’s gone, Gladys comes back to the window with an amused expression and a slip of paper with another name for me. “What did he want? Although I can guess,” she teases.

“Who is he?” I ask, ignoring the teasing.

“Congressman Blakely’s son. His dad represents our district. They were here visiting a relative.”

I take a surreptitious look at my phone, at the mug shot he just took. He’s smiling like a doofus. A very handsome doofus who does things like take a girl’s phone on a whim. ROYCE BLAKELY, it reads. Royce? What kind of ridiculous name is Royce?

Gladys smirks. “Cute, isn’t he?”

I roll my eyes. “He’d be even cuter if he didn’t wear a suit. Who wears a suit in LA?”

“Be careful what you say,” Gladys says, tapping the counter with a pen. “When you’re older, you’ll want your man to dress better. Some can get pretty lazy. After enough years together, you could find yourself begging him not to wear sweatpants to the Christmas party. Like I know I’ll have to do with Bob again this year.”

I laugh and say goodbye to her, then take the elevator up to the floor where they keep the people who have chronic illnesses or have to stay at the hospital for long periods of time. Mom makes friends with a lot of these patients, since she cleans their rooms every day. When she comes home quieter than normal, I know she’s lost one of them.

Most of our family still lives in the Philippines, so I understand what it’s like to be away from people you love. But at least I know they’re still alive. I can’t even imagine what I would do if I knew I would never be able to visit them again. It’s been a few years since we were back in Manila, and I miss it. I miss my grandparents’ huge house in the province, where at any time of day you can find neighbors, friends and relatives gathered at the courtyard tables playing mah-jongg or cards. Their house is like the community center for the village, always open and welcome to all.

I look down at my phone again. His name is Royce. Seriously? Am I supposed to call him that? Why don’t you text me? That way it’s up to you, he said. He’s not a stranger. He’s a congressman’s son. I mean, you’re supposed to know your congressman, right? I can be a good citizen.

jasmindls: Hey it’s me, I send.

I get a text back immediately.

royceb: jazzy baby?

jasmindls: The one and the same, Rolls Royce.

royceb: original.

jasmindls: Is that your real name or did your parents just really want a car?

royceb: if you must know, I’m named after my uncle who died.

jasmindls: Oh god! Sorry. My bad.

royceb: no, it’s mine. my uncle’s alive.

jasmindls: You’re evil!!!

royceb: actually he just got in a car accident, that’s why we were at the hospital.

royceb: so you have a problem with my name huh?

jasmindls: I dunno I kind of like fancy cars.

royceb: cool. so should I call you Jazzy for short?

royceb: or do you prefer Baby?

jasmindls: It’s Jasmine, thank you very much.

royceb: nice to meet you Jasmine.

jasmindls: U too GTG TTYL, I type as I reach my floor.

royceb:

The nurses are chatting around their workstation as an employee pushes a food cart down the hall past me for the early bird dinners. Usually, I try to snag a Jell-O cup for myself. I’d never admit it, but I actually like the hospital food. But this time, I leave it. I was starving earlier, yet for some reason, I’m not hungry anymore. I’m excited and queasy-feeling, and I suspect it may have something to do with the boy who’s texting me.

I see my mother rounding the corner in her dark blue scrubs, dragging a bucket full of water and a mop behind her tiny frame.

“Mommy!” I say, skipping toward her. I never call her that except when I want to make her happy. It’s sort of a Filipino thing, and right now I’m bursting with news about the scholarship. “Guess what!”

But before I can say anything else she sets down the mop and leans against the handle. “Are you busy?” she asks. “I need you.”

I shake my head, disappointed not to have her full attention, and my good mood dampens a bit. She seems stressed. “What’s up?” I ask.

“Can you come help me with a mess? You don’t have to touch anything. I just need you to make sure no one walks on it.”

I nod and follow her. When the pressure becomes too much sometimes, when I feel like I’m about to burst with anxiety over my grades or get mad that I’ve never had a social life, I think about my mom and what she’s sacrificed for us so that we can have a better life. I’m so grateful to her and my dad for everything.

She leads me down the hallway into a large room. There’s a nurse bustling about the bed, giving a small, frail woman with white hair a sponge bath. I look down to give her privacy, but the woman complains loudly, “Nothing special to see here, honey. When you’re this old, there’s no such thing as dignity. Your body falls apart like a junky car, but you still have to have the mechanic take a look at the insides. Funny how young people are so modest when they have no reason to be. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, I say.”

I raise my eyebrow at my mom, who suppresses a smile. This patient is a feisty one, that’s for sure.

The nurse quiets her down while my mother begins mopping up urine from the floor. Since I’m not allowed to touch anything hazardous, I squeeze the water out of the mop for her. Even though I’ve been volunteering at the hospital for a few years, I still don’t know how Mom does her job. There’s no way I could clean up after people like this all day long. I have mad respect for her. She’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. Deep down, I think she knows that about herself too. Mom doesn’t suffer fools and she was always the one who told me I could work my way up to the top. She’s always believed in me, that I could do anything, be anyone I wanted to be.

By the time we’re done, the nurse has left the room and the old lady is starting to talk again, something about meeting Frank Sinatra. She’s staring out the window at the tall buildings across the street, so I can’t tell whether she’s speaking to us or just to herself.

Mom nudges me with her shoulder. “Why don’t you interview her for your project?”

I check to see if the hospital room is on the approved list first, and notice that this patient was the last-minute addition that Gladys just handed to me.

Pushing the mop bucket out the doorway, Mom says, “Meet me at the parking lot at the end of my shift.”

I nod and pull up a seat next to the bed. The stories this old lady could tell sound like they’d be interesting, especially as she was describing to the nurse how she met Frank Sinatra backstage and he gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Hi, I’m Jasmine de los Santos,” I say. “I’m here to interview you for the study you signed up for? I’m hoping to compile the stories into a book as well, and plan to share it with everyone at the end of the year.”

She gazes intensely at me, and I notice for the first time that her eyes are a milky blue, like the sky behind clouds. “I suppose you want to know my name?” She has a slight accent that’s hard to place.

I nod. “That would be helpful to start.”

“My full name is Amelia Florence Marsh,” she says, in the tone of voice as if she’s the queen of England.

“Mrs. Marsh...”

“Ms. Marsh, actually, though I suppose that’s confusing since Marsh is my married name. I’m a widow.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, backpedaling.

“No need to be sorry. What do you have people call you when you never divorced but you’re also not married anymore? Anyway, I go by Millie with my friends. And we’re going to be friends, aren’t we? I can always tell.”

I smile. “Millie, I couldn’t help but overhear your story about meeting Frank Sinatra. Do you want to start there?”

Millie arches one perfectly plucked gray eyebrow. “Sure. I was a young girl then—around fifteen probably.”

“So what did he say to you?”

She purses her lips as she looks up to the ceiling like a little kid who’s been keeping a big secret for a long time and just can’t wait to tell someone, even though she also doesn’t want to be in trouble. “He told me I’d be just his type if I was just a little older,” she says with a throaty laugh. “Oh, that Frank.”

I laugh with her. “Did you meet other famous people?”

“Of course. We lived in Beverly Hills, and it was only natural in my husband’s line of work. But I’m not some kind of vulgar name-dropper, if that’s what you’re thinking, missy. The memory just reminded me of being young again, of having a body that worked for me instead of against me. Being old’s terrible.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” I say, although I like that she’s a pistol.

Millie wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. “No, I’m sorry, darling. I’m an awful wretch when I’m sick. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I just don’t feel well. At my age, everything stops working. They’re supposed to tell me if I have something wrong with my heart, but I think the only thing wrong with it is that it’s old.”

“I should let you get some rest.” I begin to stand, but Millie reaches out and grabs my forearm, pulling me back down.

“Please stay. It would be nice to talk a little more.”

I smile at her. She reminds me of my auntie Girlie—scrappy yet gentle. I feel slightly homesick for the Philippines. Even though I wouldn’t want to move back there to live, I miss my big family. My grandparents and cousins and aunties and uncles—all of them coming and going through the big house—all that noise and laughter and light.

“So you live in Beverly Hills?” I ask, wondering if maybe Royce is from there too. With a name like that...

Millie adjusts a pillow behind her back, sitting up and settling in for the long haul. “That’s right. Should I start there?”

I nod, and Millie begins to unravel her tale. I listen patiently, giving her my full attention, even as I’m eager for the day to end so that I can get home and tell my parents my good news already. They’re going to die when they find out about the National Scholarship. I can’t wait.

4

I had always hoped that this land might become a safe and agreeable asylum to the virtuous and persecuted part of mankind, to whatever nation they might belong.

—GEORGE WASHINGTON

ON THE WAY back home from the hospital, Mom is quiet and tired. I want to tell her my news, but decide to wait until she and Dad are together. That way it’ll be more dramatic and special. So instead of talking about that, I tell her about Millie.

“I’m so glad she signed up for my project,” I say. “She was a cool old lady. Did you know she founded her own construction company? She was a building engineer.”

Mom nods approvingly. “See, I told you, girls can do anything.”

When we get home, I dawdle behind her as she walks up the driveway. Shockingly pink bougainvillea flowers spiral around the trellises and lean against the outside of the house. My mother loves bright flowers. They make her feel more at home in America. She plants them every year: hibiscus, ylang-ylang, azalea, birds of paradise, verbena, scarlet larkspur, night-blooming jasmine. Our house may be small, but Mom makes sure we always have the neighborhood’s best garden. It’s her pride in life besides her three children.

I walk through the door and kick off my sneakers, exchanging them for a pair of light blue tsinelas, comfy slippers to wear around the house. Mom is already in the kitchen talking loudly to Lola Cherry on the phone as she cuts up yellow jackfruit and bananas to make turon for dessert. Lola Cherry isn’t my grandmother. She’s my mother’s cousin’s aunt, but we call her Lola—grandma—anyway. She’s as close to a grandmother as I have in the States. We haven’t seen my real Lola since I was thirteen and my brothers were seven and five years old. My brothers don’t even remember her that well anymore—they don’t remember much about our native country. Danny and Isko can only speak English, and my Tagalog is so atrocious, my mother scolds me for “losing my culture.” I hate when she says that kind of thing. As if she wasn’t the one who decided to move to America in the first place. I’m not complaining though. If my parents had stayed home, I would never have earned this scholarship. And getting to meet the president? The leader of the free world? Forget it.

I weave around Mom and grab a piece of jackfruit, then bite into its sticky flesh, letting the sweet juice linger on my tongue. She shoos me away from the kitchen, pretending she’s annoyed at me. I can’t wait to tell everyone my big announcement but decide to hold off until dinner is over so I have everyone’s full attention. I want my brothers to hear too. I love them almost like they’re my kids and not just my brothers. It’s funny. When they were really little, when we first moved to America, my mother’s pinay—and closest—girlfriends would call me maliit na ina—little mother—because I was so protective of the boys.

My brothers and I are very different though. Not only because I’m a girl. It goes deeper. Since I’m the oldest, I’ve always felt more pressure to be successful. I have to show them the way. And I also have to act like a bridge between them and my parents. Danny and Isko are pretty much 100 percent American. It’s as if my parents are first-generation immigrants and they’re second generation. But I’m stuck somewhere between both of them, trying to figure out how to help them understand each other.

The sounds of my brothers playing video games in the back of the house float down the hallway. Dad is watching the local news. I kiss him hello on the cheek and sit on the couch to watch with him. The anchor introduces a video clip of a politician from Los Angeles slamming an immigration reform bill that’s just been introduced in the Senate.

Suddenly, I recognize the man on-screen from the hospital.

It’s Congressman Blakely. Royce’s father. He’s talking about how a path to citizenship shouldn’t be granted to undocumented immigrants at all. If they entered the country illegally, he says, then they don’t deserve to be Americans. Oh great, he’s one of those politicians who think illegal aliens are as good as criminals, and deserve punishment rather than mercy. I shift in my seat, thinking of Royce, and wonder if he agrees with his father. I sort of hope not.

My family got their green cards when we moved to America, but none of us are American citizens yet. I don’t think I can apply to become a citizen until I turn eighteen next year. But the minute I do, you can bet I’m taking the oath. I can’t wait to vote.

Dad shakes his head and starts pontificating to the air. “If that congressman had to grow up in a different country, he would understand better why people come here. These politicians know nothing of true hardship.”

“Easy lang, Dad,” I say, meaning take it easy. “Don’t get too riled up. It’s bad for your heart.”

He looks up at me and clicks his tongue. “O-o na. Have you done your homework yet?”

“I just got home! You know I do my homework after dinner.” My parents. I swear, school is all they care about. They never ask about Kayla, or cheer, or my hospital project. It’s always, how did you do on your test, did you get an A, did you get all your work done?

Dad turns off the television. “As long as you know your job. You’re lucky to not have to get up at five in the morning to do chores, then walk three miles to school or swim half a mile in the monsoon season like I did when I was a boy.” This is my Filipino dad’s version of the classic American dad tale of “walking home for miles in the snow uphill.”

Before I can tease him for repeating the same story over and over again, Mom yells at me, “Neneng! Take your shower and tell your brothers to set the table. The adobo’s almost ready.”

I walk down to my room, toss my backpack onto the ground, and flop onto the bedspread. It’s fluffy and off-white with textured fabric in the shapes of flowers. It looks like a bed for a princess without the fussiness. Mom and Dad let me redecorate my room for my birthday present one year. I researched what I wanted for months. Dad complained about how long I took to choose everything, but I think Mom enjoyed the redecorating. She never had her own room in Manila, so I didn’t mind letting her give me her opinion on just about everything. Even though there were times when she drove me completely crazy.

No, Mom, I know it’s hard to believe, but I don’t want yellow bamboo floor mats to go on top of the carpet.

Anything we couldn’t afford to buy, Mom either made herself or got help from her crafty girlfriends. I decided on a creamy light pink and off-white color scheme with black accents. I hung pictures of my family’s last vacation to the Philippines, and shadow boxes with pretty colored-glass bottles inside them on the walls. I keep my sand and rock collection inside the bottles. They’re filled with little pieces of places I’ve been since I was a young girl. There are red lava rocks from Taal Volcano near Manila, where Dad and I fished for giant maliputo. In a light pink bottle, there’s a clump of regular everyday dirt, the first soil I stepped on in California. The newest one, a turquoise green bottle, holds white sand from Boracay Island.

Dad didn’t want to spend the money to go to the fancy beach, one of the most popular in the Philippines, but Mom insisted that all of us go for a few days the last time we were there. I remember her making a big deal about the trip, almost like she thought we would never get the chance to go again.

Then I have a pin board where I write down inspirational quotes I’ve discovered in books or online. My favorite is the one from President Roosevelt about how we’re all descended from immigrants and revolutionaries.

But the most important thing in my room, the thing I could never travel anywhere without, my secret good-luck charm, my talisman, is a small piece of amber-colored glass my grandmother found inside a big balete tree when she was a young girl. She gave me the glass for good luck before I left for America. It was a secret between us, because Mom doesn’t like her mother’s superstitions. I love the story Dad tells about how Lola Baby demanded that Mom and her entire family travel to Dad’s village a whole month before their wedding because she was convinced that couples who are about to get married are prone to accidents, so they shouldn’t travel before the wedding.

I hear my brothers shouting, barely muffled by the thin walls. Rolling off my bed, I get up and walk into the hallway. They’re still yelling as I open the door to the room next to mine, which they’ve shared ever since we moved to California. They’re playing Call of Duty. The bullets are ripping through the television speakers. It’s so loud I can barely hear myself think.

“Danny! Isko!”

They can’t hear me, or are pretending not to.

I quietly sneak up behind Isko and pinch his neck.

“Ack! Ate!” Isko complains. They both call me “big sister.” Mom and Dad do too—it’s another Filipino thing.

Not wanting to take his hands off the controller, Isko twists his neck to try to get me to stop while Danny laughs at him. On the screen, I watch Danny shoot Isko—his side of the screen turns red with blood. Isko throws down his controller, whining, “You made him kill me. He always wins anyway.”

Isko’s only nine years old. He’s the baby and the one who takes after Dad. He’s skinny and has little chicken arms and legs. Danny and I tease him sometimes, calling him our little runt, but Isko isn’t just short. He’s short even for a little pinoy boy. What he doesn’t have in height, Isko definitely makes up for in personality. If he enters or exits a room, you’ll always know. He’s louder and more dramatic than anybody else, which really means something when you come from a Filipino family.

“Thanks, Ate.” Danny grabs the controller from Isko. “You should do that more often.”

I smile at them with fake sweetness. “You guys need to help Mommy set the table. Dinner is ready.”

“I thought it was your turn.” Isko pouts.

“I still need a shower. Get going. She’s about to start calling for you.”

Danny switches off the television and both boys sulk down the hallway, pinching and punching each other, as they head to the kitchen.

Danny’s the classic middle child. I know he feels like he can’t live up to the same expectations my parents have for me. He’s smart, but Dad gets down on him because Danny’s always drawing and doodling instead of doing schoolwork. He’s really good though. Way better than you would expect. You’d never believe he’s only eleven years old by looking at his drawings.

“Ate! Go take your shower. I don’t want to wait for you to eat my dinner,” Dad shouts from down the hallway.

“All right! I’m going, Daddy!”

Heading toward the bathroom, I think about the day our family moved to California. We boarded a big jet plane at the Manila airport. Daddy was worried sick about our belongings not showing up in Los Angeles. It’s crazy how much our lives have changed since that day. I don’t remember much about life there now, mostly that we were hot all the time, and sweaty, since the Philippines is near the equator. I take my shower, washing off all the sweat from practice, letting the water fall over my face and shoulders, warming my skin, relaxing my muscles. The shower is my sanctuary, the one place I can be alone and think without interruptions.

I think about the National Scholarship, how it means I can most likely go to any college now—and the reception will be the first time I’m away from home and on my own. I’ve traveled with the cheer team, but we’re always together. I imagine Washington, D.C., and the fancy reception and all the people who will be there—diplomats, activists, congressmen and women, scientists, artists, the president and the first lady. I’ll be around people who actually run the country, people who influence history and who have the power to make other people’s lives better. I hope I’ll be one of them someday. I don’t really know what I want to do yet—something to do with medicine or law, but I’m still unsure.

I decide I’ll tell my parents my good news by showing them the letter and letting it speak for itself. Then I’ll ask them to fill out the acceptance form with me tonight, so that I can send my information back as soon as possible.

* * *

As I’m brushing my hair, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Royce.

royceb: hey good-looking.

So cheesy! But I’m charmed anyway. I can’t help but grin as I text back. I forget about seeing his dad rail against illegal immigrants on TV.

jasmindls: Hey yourself.

royceb: are you around this weekend?

royceb: wanna hang out?

jasmindls: Maybe.

It’s not that I’m playing hard to get—I do have a lot of studying to do, and Kayla wants to go to Lo’s party, so that doesn’t really leave me with a lot of free time. I feel a flutter in my heart at the thought of seeing him again. Weekends are difficult, but maybe there’s another way.

royceb: maybe?

royceb: did you google me or something?

royceb: i swear that wasn’t me in the angry bird costume scaring the children.

jasmindls: LOL are you sure?

royceb: Okay, okay, that was me. The pigs made me do it.

He’s funny, I think as I type back.

jasmindls: Weekend’s tough but I volunteer at the hospital on Mondays and Wednesdays.

royceb: okayyyy. Not quite what I was hoping.

royceb: But I do hear the hospital cafeteria is delightful.

That makes me giggle out loud.

jasmindls:

Glowing, I head to the kitchen. Everyone is gathered around the stove, spooning rice and adobo into their bowls. I slip the scholarship letter under a book on the counter and grab a bowl of adobo for myself.

Mom notices I filled the bowl only a little. “What? You don’t like my cooking?”

Isko perks up. “Don’t you know, Ma? Jasmine is on a diet,” he says. “So she won’t get taba like you.”

“How can such a little boy have such a big personality?” Mom says, pretending to be annoyed that he called her fat, even if it’s an endearment. Filipinos don’t think being fat is the worst thing in the world, probably because it’s a Third World country where many people are starving.

I pat Isko on the head, which I know he hates more than anything. Isn’t that a big sister’s job? To drive her little brothers crazy?

Danny doesn’t say anything to back me up. He’s at the table sketching some kind of magical beast. Dad doesn’t even look up from his bowl.

“Mommy, I told you, I have to watch what I eat during the season. Otherwise they won’t be able to throw me up in the air.”

“I don’t understand you girls and your diets. In the Philippines, I never had to watch what I ate and I stayed skinny as a stick. I guess you think our kind of food will make you fat, but look at the Filipinos you know. We’re skinnier than Americans!”

Danny sighs. “In the Philippines...”

Mom ignores him. “When I was growing up, all of the children played outside all the time. We made up outside games and ran around our compound and climbed trees. At least Jasmine dances,” she says to the boys. “You’re always glued to the television.”

She always calls cheer “dancing” even though she knows better. I don’t think she ever got over the fact that I stopped doing the traditional Filipino dance classes in junior high. But I had to drop something to be able to keep my other extracurricular activities and still get all my homework done.

She walks over to Danny and grabs his sketch pad. “Tsk. And you. No drawing at the table during dinner. You’re as bad as your sister with her phone.”

I self-consciously check my pocket, to see if Royce has sent a new text, but he hasn’t. The thought of seeing him at the hospital next Monday gives me serious butterflies. I’ve had crushes before, and I can already tell this is the worst one yet. I’m really into him and I’ve only known him for, like, five seconds.

Isko stuffs a pork chunk into his mouth. “I like hearing about the Philippines,” he says, nudging Dad with his elbow. “Tell us the story about how you and Tito Boy used to fight spiders!”

Dad puts down his empty bowl and leans back in his chair. He loves telling this story. Tito Boy died a few years ago at his construction job in Manila, so I think talking about him helps Daddy remember his brother.

“Tito Boy and I would stay up all night before spider-hunting season opened. As soon as the first light came up, we hunted for El Tigre spiders in the jungle. They’re the best ones. We’d keep them in little boxes, any kind of small container, and let them out to crawl on our hands. Then we’d put them on long sticks, watch them crawl toward each other, knock each other off or fight to the death. We’d yell and scream for our favorite. Mine had only seven legs from a fight it survived. But let me tell you, that spider beat a hundred other spiders before I released it into a tree, retired to a new life. If only we could all escape this life with so few scars.”

By the time Dad is done with the story, Mom has brought over the turon for dessert. Danny and Isko swarm over the plate, grabbing two for each of them. Despite the warm sweet smell of burned caramel, I’m too excited about the scholarship to eat any dessert. I can’t wait any longer.

“Mommy, Daddy, I want to show you something,” I say, standing up and walking over to the book on the counter. I slip the envelope from underneath and hand the letter to my father. I’m grinning ear to ear. I’m so proud of myself, of my parents, of my entire family right now.

I can’t wait to hear them cry and scream and cheer when they read it.

I did it! I want to shout. I did it! I’m a National Scholar! And I couldn’t have done it without you!

5

I take issue with many people’s description of people being illegal immigrants. There aren’t any illegal human beings as far as I’m concerned.

—DENNIS KUCINICH

DAD OPENS THE envelope slowly. Mom leans over his shoulder. They are completely silent as they read the letter. I expected my father to jump up from the table and hug me, and my mother to scream and start calling all my aunties to brag about me. But neither of them say anything.

In fact, they look like they just received the worst kind of news instead of the best news ever.

Okay.

Maybe they’re so happy they’re shocked into silence?

“Isn’t it amazing?” I reach over and pull the acceptance form from the envelope. “Don’t worry, I can fill everything else out myself, but I need a copy of my green card. Mrs. Garcia will let me use the copier at school, but I have to get it done soon so they know I’m accepting the scholarship and going to D.C. for the reception.”

They look at each other with concern. I’m so confused by their silence. Isn’t this the moment they’ve been waiting for my whole life?

What’s going on?

“Danny, Isko. Out! We need to talk to Jasmine alone,” Mom says. “Take the turon with you.”

I feel a chill down the back of my neck. Something must really be wrong. Mom never allows the boys to eat in their room, let alone play games after dinner before their homework is done. I suddenly feel outnumbered. I want to call them back to stay with me.

What is it? Are they worried about the plane fare to D.C.? But the letter says the program will cover all hotel and transportation costs for the weekend trip. Oh, maybe they don’t want to allow me to go to D.C. alone? Is that it?

Mom pushes the dishes to the side of the table, not meeting my gaze. “We have something to tell you, neneng, and you have to believe us when we say we’ve always wanted the best for you,” she says. “We’ve tried to do everything right.”

Dad just keeps staring at the letter like the words don’t make any sense. I thought he would be the proudest of me, of what I’ve done for our family. With this opportunity, I’ll be able to take care of my parents someday. I’ll be able to give them the lives they wanted to give me.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“We should have told you sooner, but we didn’t know how,” she says.

I sense a glimmer of what my mom is trying to tell me, and I feel a cold shock all over my body. This isn’t just about letting me go to another city on my own.

“What are you saying?” I ask. “What do you mean tried?”

“I don’t like your tone, young lady,” Mom says.

“Sorry, Mom, I just don’t know what’s going on. Aren’t you happy for me?” I don’t understand why she’s reacting this way. Almost as if she’s annoyed that I won this scholarship. She’s the one who pushed me so hard—they both did—but the way they’re reacting isn’t making any sense.

“Are you mad that I didn’t make the top-ten list?” The accompanying paperwork mentioned that the top ten scholars were invited to spend the summer interning at the White House. Maybe Mom is disappointed I wasn’t one of them? “Nothing will ever be good enough for you,” I say, almost on the verge of tears. “It’s not fair!”

“You don’t know what fair is!” she retorts.

Dad doesn’t want any of this. “Stop fighting! Right now.” His eyes have tears in them. “Jasmine, it’s not about you not making the top ten. This is an amazing achievement. We’re incredibly proud of you. You know that.”

“Okay,” I say.

“But there are things that are out of our control that we haven’t told you about, and it’s time we were honest with you,” he says. His face is grave, and so sad that I can’t bear it.

I run through the reasons they might be acting so strangely. Did Dad lose his job? Is he sick? “You’re scaring me, Daddy.”

“It’s not what you think. I’m not sick and neither is your mom.”

He knows me so well. “So what’s going on, then?” I ask, my breath catching in my throat. Whatever it is, it’s bad.

“You can’t accept this scholarship. I’m so sorry,” he says, putting his hand over mine to comfort me. Mom is about to say something but he hushes her.

“But why not?” I ask, stunned.

“Because you don’t have a green card, Jasmine. None of us do. And that means you’re not eligible for this award.”

“I don’t have a green card? I don’t understand. Of course I do. We all do, don’t we?” It’s like my dad is talking nonsense.

He puffs out his cheeks. “When we first moved here, we had work visas that allowed Mom and me to work for Tito Sonny’s export business, remember that?”

I nod. We called him Uncle—Tito—even though we’re not related. Tito Sonny is a friend of the family who gave my parents jobs working in his discount store, stocking shelves and keeping inventory. He imported Chinese and Filipino items and sold them to the expat community. The items were cheap knickknacks—velvet paintings of Jesus, cheesy 3-D paintings of waterfalls, ceramic Buddhas, that sort of thing.

“But that store closed years ago and Tito Sonny went back to the Philippines,” I say, remembering now.

“Exactly. When the store closed, our work visas expired. Tito Sonny thought he would be able to sponsor us for green cards, but he couldn’t even sustain the business. We thought it would be easy to find other jobs and new visas, but that hasn’t been the case.”

I vaguely remember a few years ago when my parents were always tense, right after the store closed. There were a few months when neither of them worked. I thought we were just worried about money back then. I didn’t know they were also worried about being able to stay here legally.

“So what does that mean?” I ask, still stunned. “We really don’t have green cards?” The news is starting to sink in.

“We never did, just temporary work visas. Right now we don’t have any proof of legal residency. That’s why we stopped visiting the Philippines. We didn’t want to get trapped there. Not after building a new life here. We couldn’t take away your home. We didn’t think you would have to prove legal status for a college scholarship. We were hoping...”

“So wait. What are you saying? I’m not legal? We’re not in America legally? Oh my God.”

Dad nods and looks like he’s about to cry, which makes me want to cry too.

“But if I’m not legal, how could I go to school all these years? How can any of us go to school?”

“Ma and I didn’t choose California only for the palm trees and sunshine. We came here because it’s easier on immigrants generally. Schools can’t report undocumented students, and they don’t do a lot of workplace raids.”

“But how do you guys work?”

“We have fake papers. The hospital and the bus company don’t sponsor work visas, not for the kind of jobs we do.” Unskilled jobs, they mean. Menial jobs.

“What...” I feel tears welling in my eyes. Why didn’t they tell me earlier? Did they not trust me? “Please tell me you’re joking.” I just can’t accept this. This can’t be the truth.

“No, we’re not joking, Jasmine,” Dad says. “We thought a college scholarship would solve everything for you, for our kids. We didn’t know most of the grants and loans are for citizens or green-card holders.”

So that’s why the two of them had been sort of muted lately when I kept blabbing on about college and financial aid forms. I’d tried not to think about it too much, assuming they were just busy.

“We never wanted this for you. We’re so sorry. But you’re a smart girl,” Mom says, trying to touch my hand. “You’ll find a way, neneng.”

I pull away. I know they tried their best, but their best isn’t enough in this case. This is my future, what I’ve worked so hard for, and I’m furious. “No! I can’t! There isn’t any other way if I don’t have a green card. Getting this scholarship was my way!”

“Stop!” Dad isn’t crying anymore. He slams his open hand against the table. “You should consider yourself lucky. If someone finds out our papers are fake, our entire family could be deported. Your mother’s already struggling with her supervisor asking questions at the hospital. If all of us aren’t careful, our luck will run out.”

Deported? Oh my God. I didn’t even think of that. It’s not just about not being able to go to college. We might lose our entire life here. The cold that’s settled around my body turns to ice. There’s no way I can go back to live in the Philippines. I can barely speak Tagalog. My life is here. In America.

I grab the letter away from them and scan the application. “But why can’t I accept the scholarship money? We have papers, you said. I’ll just use the fake ones. I don’t care.”

“No, absolutely not,” Dad says. “You’d be lying to the government. To the president of the United States.”

“I seriously doubt the president will personally be looking at my application...”

“It doesn’t matter, Jas. We have to be careful. If you get caught, are you going to go back to Manila by yourself?”

“So what was the point of me studying so hard, then? If I’m not eligible for loans or a grant, I won’t even be able to go to college. Everything I’ve worked for is totally wasted.” I’ve given up so much to be the best, to be number one. I’ve never had any fun outside of school. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed? I’m seventeen now.

Mom looks down at her lap. Her frustration has been replaced by a pained expression. It’s a face that I’ve rarely seen on her. “We were hoping something would come through—the latest immigration reform bill maybe.” She puts her head in her hands. “Or maybe you can go to school in the Philippines.”

Anger keeps working up inside me until I can’t stop the rush of words coming from my mouth. “No! No way! I don’t want to go to the Philippines! It’s your home. Not mine. You’re always talking about taking advantage of opportunities here. But haven’t you heard? There aren’t any for illegal immigrants.”

Rage radiates from my chest near where I’d held the letter so close to my heart. I’m shaking. How could my parents hide this from me for so long? How could they bury their heads and just expect everything to turn out for the best? If they had told me earlier, I could have gotten help. I could have done something.

I’m American. We’re resourceful, aren’t we?

Mom has started weeping quietly. Dad seems shocked at my yelling. I know I’ve pushed it too far, but I can’t help the words ripping from my tongue.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I yell. “I can’t believe you guys kept this from us for so long!” My knees are locked too tight. I feel dizzy. I just talked back to my parents.

“Jasmine!” Dad stands from his chair and reaches to steady me.

It feels like there’s no ground beneath me, like everything I’ve ever done has been a lie. Like Los Angeles has never really been my home. I’m breaking apart, shattering. Who am I? Where do I belong?

I’m not American. I’m not a legal resident. I don’t even have a green card.

I’m nothing. Nobody.

Illegal.

6

There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.

—PAULO COELHO

FRIDAY NIGHT. Our football team lost again, but we cheered them on anyway. We change out of our cheer clothes at Kayla’s. She’s excited and nervous, bouncing up and down as she curls her lashes and puts on her lipstick. I’m edgy too, but I’m not ready to tell her what my parents told me the other day. I’m too embarrassed, and if I don’t tell anyone, maybe it won’t be true. To be honest, I just want to forget about it for a night. Just thinking about it makes my head hurt.

Royce and I have been texting a little, and the other day he sent me a friend request on Snapchat and on Facebook. I accepted both. He hasn’t posted a new story on Snapchat, so I scroll through his FB feed again, impressed and annoyed at the same time. There are all these photos of him skiing in Mammoth with friends and boating in Newport with his family. When he smiles, his teeth are blindingly white, like an actor in a commercial. He’s way too handsome to be any good for anyone. Especially me.

His life looks like a cooler version of a Ralph Lauren ad. I squint at a photo of his mother. She looks like a less bombastic Sofia Vergara.

Is your mom Latina? I text him right then, out of the blue. Because I’m curious and jealous at the same time. Because just a few days ago, I thought I was just like him. Mixed race. Hyphenated American. But American.

royceb: My grandfather is Mexican. Mom is Mexican-Italian. Why do you ask? My dad is Norwegian-German by the way. English-Irish too I think. Who knows? Aren’t we all just American?

Not me, not anymore, I can’t help but think. Annoyed, I don’t text him back. What’s the point? He’s just some cute rich guy I’ll never see again. Let’s be serious. Guys like that don’t date girls like me. They only hook up with girls like me, and I’m not about to be anyone’s booty call. Not even for someone as cute as him...

Besides, his dad is a congressman who thinks all undocumented immigrants should be deported. Frightening. Another reason to steer clear.

Kayla comes out of the bathroom and sees me holding my phone. “Who’s that?” she asks, looking over my shoulder.

“Remember I told you about that cute guy I met at the hospital the other day?”

She perks up. “Yeah. Hey, you should invite him to the party!”

I’d thought of that earlier, when he asked what I was doing this weekend, but decided against it. “No.”

“Why not?”

“He lives on the other side of the city all the way in Bel-Air. By the time he gets here, the party will be over.” In truth, I was embarrassed about inviting a rich Westside kid over to the Valley. I look at all the photos on his FB page again. It confirms everything I assumed, from the way he dressed to the confident way he’d gotten my number. He’s a total player, and I’ve never even had a boyfriend. Besides, what if he thought the party was lame? That I was lame?

“God, Jas, you make it sound like Bel-Air is a different planet,” says Kayla with a sniff.

Kayla drives us past Lo’s place. Cars are bunched in the driveway and along the curb; kids are milling on the streets. I told my parents I’d be staying the night at Kayla’s house. After the blowup at the dinner table on Wednesday, they let me sleep over without asking any questions. I’m glad I’m going to this party and doubly glad my parents have no idea where I am. I’m going to have fun—the kind of fun that I’m never allowed to have.

I deserve to let my hair down. Maybe even meet a boy. (But I’ve already met a boy, I think.) No matter. I’ll have fun anyway. Dance a little. Get outside of myself.

“Look at all the cars,” Kayla says. “We’re going to have a good time. You’re going to have a good time, right?”

“Sure,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”

“There’s a bag behind my seat. Can you get it for me?”

I reach back for the bag. As I pick it up, I hear bottles clink. I turn to her, trying not to sound accusatory. “I didn’t know you were planning to drink.”

“It’s only a couple of beer bottles. Barely anything. Don’t worry. If I drink a little at the beginning, I’ll have a chance to sober up before we go home.”

I haven’t even thought about drinking. My parents would kill me if I took even one sip. Filipinos believe “nice girls” don’t even think of drinking.

Our house has been quieter than normal since the news. Most of the noise comes from either Danny and Isko shouting at each other about dumb little brother things like who will grow up to be the tallest or smartest. No one has told my brothers anything.

Even though they’ve figured out I’m fighting with Mom and Dad—which happens like never, so they know it’s about something serious—I don’t have the heart to tell them what it’s about. I can’t. It seems wrong to worry my brothers when they’re still so young. I don’t want them to have to live in fear like I am now. I think of those scruffy guys we sometimes see ambling outside the Home Depot, and how we felt bad for them, because they would take any job, do anyone’s dirty work—they were illegal and had no choice. Is that who we are now? Is that where I’m going to end up?

Instead of sulking, Mom has gone into full-on detail cleaning mode—like washing the miniblinds and wiping down the doors, which she does to keep herself calm and focused when she’s too emotional. When her life feels like it’s spiraling out of her grasp, she has to find something to control. That would usually mean telling her kids what to do, but she feels guilty, so now she’s spending her energy on cleaning and cooking. We always eat well when she’s bothered by something. If the problem is really big, she cooks bibingka, my favorite rice cake. The buttery, sugary coconut scent means one of two things. It’s either Christmas morning, or Mom’s stressed out. Let’s just say it’s not Christmas and there’s a ton of bibingka in the house right now.

School’s not much better. Everyone’s talking about colleges, even the slackers who didn’t really care about school until a week or two ago. Now everybody’s obsessed with their lists—ranking first, second, third, seventeenth choice. I’d always dreamed of going to Stanford, and had planned to apply to a few schools back east as well, although I’m worried that’s too far from my family. I was supposed to apply to Cal Berkeley and UCLA too, with UC Santa Barbara as my safety. I’d taken the Regent’s Scholarship for granted just a few days ago, but what’s the point of applying to the UC system if I don’t have any papers? If I’m not a citizen or a green-card holder, I’m not eligible for federal or state grants or loans, which makes the UC schools just as expensive as private colleges and totally out of reach.

Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore, because if I’m not legal, I don’t even know how long I can stay in this country. Maybe I should just go home right now and cry myself to sleep. Why am I even here at this dumb party?

I’m about to say forget it, let’s go back, when Kayla finds a parking spot. “Here,” Kayla says. “You can hold my keys.”

Walking across the street are two boys from school, Carl Thompson and Alan Chen. “Science geeks?” Kayla whispers. “Shouldn’t they be studying at home so they can get into Harvard or wherever they’re going?”

“What’s wrong with that,” I say, bristling and feeling jealous of those guys, who still have their future ahead of them.

Kayla laughs. “We’re cheerleaders, Jas. We’re supposed to have social lives.” We’re at the house now and she eyes a group of boys hanging out in the front yard. She whispers again. “Isn’t that Sam Curry?” She points to our quarterback from last year who graduated.

“You should know. Didn’t you date him?” I tease.

“Oh yeah, right.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder and laughs.

“Anyway, aren’t you here for Dylan?” I remind her.

She giggles. “Just keeping my options open. That dark-haired boy over there with Sam is cute.”

I glance across the yard, but I’m not really paying attention.

“Whatever,” I say.

He’s not even half as cute as Royce. Ugh. I should really stop thinking about him. That’s not going anywhere.

I want to go inside and sit down with a glass of Vitaminwater and listen to gossip, but it’s so crowded that I realize I won’t be able to hear anyone talking. “I thought this was supposed to be a kick back?”

“It is,” Kayla laughs, turning the door handle. “Let’s go find Lo.”

“Okay.” It occurs to me that when we left for this party, I wanted to try to chill and blow off steam. But now I’m just trying to avoid my feelings. I’m a cheerleader. I like peanut butter and pizza. Nicki Minaj and Miley Cyrus. I grew up on Gossip Girl and Sex and the City reruns. I believe in life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Freedom of speech. Every Olympics, my family gathers around the TV and we join the chant: “USA! USA! USA!” I love my country. I love America. Being American is as much a part of me as breathing.

Except it turns out I’m not American where it counts.

On paper.

Kayla and I enter the living room. A drum kit, amps, and mic stand have been set up in a corner of the living room. The band’s name, Bob Marley Lives, is on the kick drum and on a spray-painted banner made from a sheet that hangs on the wall.

Lo sees us right away. “I’m so glad you came, Jas.” She turns to Kayla. “Hey,” she says. “Drinks are in the kitchen and the garage. Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” Kayla says. She’s already not paying attention, I can tell, and is looking for Dylan. She wanders toward the kitchen.

Lo has already turned around. The bass player is asking her whether or not she has some kind of cable or other. Lo smiles at me as she runs past to go find it. She’s so beautiful. Carefree. Focused on music, life and friends. The bassist stands there and sort of smirks and raises his eyebrow like he’s sort of just stuck standing there until Lo returns. I smile back.

There are people here that I recognize from school. Veronica Lucas, who was veep when I was class president last year, waves hello. She’s now senior class president. Darla Anne Tucker, who’s in the California Scholarship Federation with me—the club for kids who have high GPAs—stands next to her. Mark Arias, Billy Ogasu, and Len Anderson, whom I know from Math Club, are all wearing checkered flannel shirts and have round pins on their collars with the band’s logo. Normally, I would join one of those groups, but right now all I want to do is melt into a chair, which I do and sit down by myself.

Julian, Lo’s boyfriend, is sitting on a couch, tuning a guitar. He has it connected to his iPhone. He runs the pick along each string, making minor adjustments until he’s happy. Then he gets up and sets it on a stand and checks the microphone. “Hey! Hey! Check! Mic! One...two... Check. Check. One two!”

People start streaming into the living room and I see Kayla with Dylan. They already look like a couple, giggling and whispering in each other’s ear. She drops a half-filled drink in my hand, winks at me, then turns back to him without getting my approval, which I don’t know if I would have given or not. He’s older than her and I hate to see her sidetracked, because I’ve seen her lose focus before, when her grades dropped last year. I worry she’s burying her feelings about her parents’ separation in yet another new guy.

Kayla can be pretty vulnerable when it comes to looking for affection. She teases me that I’m the only girl on the squad who’s never made out with a guy, let alone hooked up with one. Guys have been interested, but I’ve never been that into anyone before. Which makes me think of Royce again, which is annoying.

It’s not like my parents let me date either. My mom was a chaperone for her own sister when my auntie Riza was already twenty-three years old. It’s a wonder anyone gets married in the Philippines. They force you to have a chaperone on dates even when you’re an adult, then they ask you why you aren’t married yet.

I take a big gulp of the drink Kayla handed me. Some kind of punch-and-whatever concoction. I drink it all and set the cup down. Lo returns with a cable for the bass player. The group of boys who were in the front yard come inside too, and the dark-haired one glances at me as they crowd into the room. There are so many people crowding in that I push myself from the chair and move over to a wall. I look at the boys again. Maybe I should make out with one of them, just because. The dark-haired one is sort of cute.

The music is about to start. Lo takes one of the mics. Kayla is in the front of the room, clapping. Dylan holds a guitar, a sky blue Telecaster. Julian just stands there, and the drummer clicks his sticks together.

“Thanks everyone for coming,” Lo says into the mic. She’s holding a basket. “Yes, I’m taking advantage of my parents being gone. We need your support for Bob Marley Lives. They’re going to play a Greenpeace rally in San Francisco and need some travel money. So pass some cash into this basket I’m sending around!”

I take a few dollar bills from my purse and toss them into the basket. I try not to look at my phone to see if Royce has texted me again, but of course I check. No new texts, probably because I didn’t answer his. I sort of wish I’d invited him to the party now.

The music starts, and I listen to a few songs. But I can’t relax or escape my thoughts, and so I make my way to Kayla and tell her I want to go home. She downs the last of her drink, shoots a glance at Dylan playing guitar, and sets the bottle down on the bookshelf next to us. “Come on,” she says, taking my hand and leading me away from the crowd of partygoers surrounding the band. “We need to talk.”

“What? Why?”

She leads me to the upstairs bathroom. On the way up, I watch a group of guys pushing each other out the front door. The party is starting to get louder and louder. People are yelling drunkenly over the band.

Kayla pulls me inside the bathroom, then closes the door, shutting out most of the sound from the party. “What’s up with you?”

“Huh?”

She lifts up her hair, trying to cool down her neck. It’s stuffy inside the bathroom. “I’m not going to lie. This party is getting a little crazy. But I know you. There’s something else going on. You never go to parties, and suddenly, here you are at a party. You like that guy from the hospital, and you’re never interested in anyone, so that’s a big deal, but then you don’t invite him out tonight. And you’ve been really quiet all day.”

My parents warned me not to tell anyone. It’s too dangerous. I know I can trust Kayla though, and I start to tell her, but right then, we hear a banging coming from the first floor.

“Ugh,” Kayla says. “Hold on a sec.” She opens the door and peeks out.

I don’t hear music anymore. “What’s going on?” I ask.

Kayla comes back in. “Lo turned the lights off. Everyone’s quiet. I think the police are here to shut it down,” she says.

“The police!” I panic. “What are we going to do?”

Kayla shuts the door. “I don’t know. I’ll figure out something.”

Oh God. Thoughts of police turning my family over to immigration officers all because I went to a dumb party start spiraling through my imagination. If any of us are caught doing something illegal, we could be kicked out of the country. How could I be so stupid as to come to this stupid party?

“I can’t get caught by the cops!” I say, panicked.

I don’t realize how much I’m raising my voice until Kayla puts her hand over my mouth. “If you don’t stop shouting, they’re going to hear us.” She paces the tiny bathroom floor. We can hear loud knocking from down below. “Okay, I have a plan,” she says.

Kayla opens the bathroom door and pulls me into the hallway. I try to go back to the bathroom, but she drags me along. She’s taller and stronger than I am, and I can’t resist her. “Why are we going out there?”

The knocks are getting louder. “Open up!”

Hiding beside the front door, Lo spots us upstairs and points to the kitchen, gesturing for us to go that way. Kayla pulls at me. “Come on, Jas. I don’t have time to explain. Do you trust me?”

I’m too scared to run from the police, but I trust Kayla more than anyone. Probably even more than my parents right now. She’s been there for everything. The tears after a B minus. The schoolgirl daydreams about our crushes asking us out to winter formals and the prom. Not that I ever got to go, of course. I wasn’t allowed. My parents are too protective—they wouldn’t even let me go to the junior prom. Kayla went, of course.

Before I have a chance to respond, she pulls me down the stairs. The band’s instruments are lying on the floor, which is littered with empty red cups and crushed cans. We pass through the living room to the kitchen, where through the window I spot partygoers hopping over the back fence and fleeing through Lo’s side gate.

“Let’s get out of here,” Kayla says.

“But you can’t drive,” I whisper. “You’ve been drinking.”

Kayla puts her arm around my shoulders. It’s supposed to be calming, but I feel anything but calm. “I had two light beers,” she says. “I get more buzzed off my grandma’s rum cake on Christmas Eve.”

“I just want to be safe,” I say.

Kayla can tell I won’t budge. “Fine,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “If you had your license this wouldn’t be a problem...”

“This isn’t my fault. I didn’t call the cops.”

She takes her phone out of her purse and taps on the screen.

“Are you texting your mom?”

“For real?” Kayla asks. “Of course not.”

She extends her forearm, showing me Dylan’s number next to a silly smiley face scribbled on her skin. I guess boys are never really as grown-up as they might seem. We start giggling a little, then catch ourselves.

The knocking finally subsides and Lo returns to the kitchen. “Where’s Julian? It’s not even the cops. Just one of my cranky neighbors. I doubt they’ll actually send police out here for a stupid noise complaint.”

I exhale. “Oh man, everyone must have assumed...”

“That the cops were here. Yeah, I know,” Lo says, finishing my sentence. I expect Lo to get mad that her boyfriend ditched her, but she just looks disappointed. “It’s ruined anyway. No one’s coming back.”

“That’s not true,” I say, even though she’s right, the party’s over.

“Thanks for coming, Jas. I’m sorry it went down this way.”

I give her a hug. “Thanks, Lo. We can help you clean...”

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 think 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 shifts? 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.

—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.

Suzanne Roberts

Department of Education Liaison

P.S. Remember to pack warmly! It’s starting to get chilly here in D.C.

I’m barely listening when Dad begins making sarcastic comments about extraterrestrials. “Aliens, huh?” he says. “You think those guys who crash landed in Roswell could afford that fine?”

Mom and I both shake our heads. Now Dad just wants to show off.

“To be eligible,” Jessica says, “aliens must have been physically present in the United States since January 1, 2012, except for certain limited absences.”

“Thank God,” Mom says, sighing. “There’s hope for us.”

“This is good?” Dad asks. Though he’s usually the positive one, he seems unconvinced. “We’ve been here long enough, but we’ll probably go bankrupt just applying to stay here.”

“There are also criminal grounds for ineligibility,” Jessica adds, “including felony, multiple misdemeanors, and other crimes. Aliens must pass background checks and be financially sustainable above the federal poverty level.”

“You see?” Dad complains. “They’ll make us go bankrupt, then kick us out anyway.”

“Stop it,” Mom says. “This is good news!”

This is great news. I’m smiling, actually. For the first time in weeks, I feel like there’s a real way out. This means something, even more than the trip to D.C. The bill is a ray of hope. If it passes and becomes law, we can apply for green cards, and once we get those, after five years, we can apply for citizenship as well.

“I have some more good news,” I blurt.

“About what?” Mom asks.

“I’m going to Washington, D.C., next weekend for the National Scholarship Award.”

I realize that for once I didn’t even think about asking for permission.

Dad turns down the volume on the television. “Excuse me? And just how do you think you’ll do that? You don’t have a social security number.”

“I didn’t say I was going to fill out the grant acceptance form,” I say. “But they don’t need documentation for the recognition dinner and weekend activities. I can go to those at least. I’ll just have to figure out the rest later.”

“I don’t know,” Dad says doubtfully. “How will you get on an airplane?”

To my surprise, Mom backs me up instead of supporting Dad. “You stop worrying,” she says, touching him on the shoulder. “She’s right. She should be able to go to D.C. Be happy for your daughter! Besides, I still have our passports from the Philippines. Jasmine can use that for identification. She doesn’t have to tell anyone about her status.”

I smile. Dad will always go along with Mom’s approval. Now I just have to figure out what to wear to the fancy dinner.

“Just think,” I say, buoyed by the thought of actually being able to go on the trip, “once that bill passes the House, I can go wherever I want without having to worry. I’ll legally be in the US. We’ll all be.”

Please, God, let it happen.

9

When I discover who I am, I’ll be free.

—RALPH ELLISON, INVISIBLE MAN

THE NEXT DAY, I stop by the college counseling office to tell Mrs. Garcia I’m leaving for the National Scholarship reception on Thursday. “That’s wonderful, Jasmine, have a good time. Like I told you before, I’m so proud of you,” she says with a huge smile. “But I have to tell you... A couple of your teachers mentioned that you haven’t seemed like yourself the last few weeks,” she says. “What’s going on?”

“I guess I’ve been kind of busy,” I say, hesitant to reveal anything more.

Honestly, I’m upset to hear that. I’ve never had teachers complain about my performance. Apart from the B+ in Calc, I’m still pulling the usual A’s. Although I have been a little quiet in class, not raising my hand or offering my opinion on things, and I guess they’ve noticed. It’s not that I’m disengaged, it’s that I’m consumed with finding a way out of my family’s mess.

Every spare moment I’m not at school, I’m online, trying to determine how we can fix the situation we’re in, how illegal aliens can become legal in this country. If the new reform bill doesn’t pass, the news is terrifyingly grim on that front. My family is breaking the law, and apart from leaving and trying to come back under proper work visas, there’s not much we can do. In my parents’ minds, they weren’t doing anything wrong but were trying to do the best for their children, to give them a new, American start in life. Do I blame them for that? I don’t know.

I can understand the other side too—that Americans who were born here, or were born to American parents, don’t think we deserve to be here. I get it. But it doesn’t make it any easier. I thought we were here legally, and to think that we’re as good as criminals in the eyes of the law...it’s stomach-churning. I feel so helpless.

But I can’t share any of that with my college counselor. “Regionals are coming up soon,” I tell Mrs. Garcia. “And we really want to win Nationals this year.”

“Of course, and senior year is a lot of pressure too,” Mrs. Garcia says. She’s across from me, and she reaches for my hand. “You know I’m here for you,” she says, giving me a squeeze. “Are you sure that isn’t all it is? You seem worried about something.”

“Uh...” I’m so overwhelmed I don’t even know where to begin. I thought this was going to be a happy moment, telling her about going to Washington, D.C., but now all of the stress of the last few weeks is bubbling up again.

I live in fear that the tiniest little thing—like going to a party and getting caught drinking underage—could get my family in trouble. What if I get caught jaywalking? Littering? I suddenly wonder about Mrs. Garcia. Is she an immigrant? Are her parents, or grandparents? Does she have to deal with people thinking she doesn’t belong here too? But everyone in America is from somewhere else, right?

So maybe we’re all aliens, like Dad was joking about during the news. He says if we were from the great beyond, we would have fewer problems because everyone would at least want our technology. Mom, of course, says that even space aliens would have trouble finding jobs in America.

“I’m sorry, Jasmine. I didn’t tell you about your teachers to stress you out more. That wasn’t my intention at all,” she says, leaning forward in her chair. “How’s everything else going? Did you turn in your UC app?”

“Not yet,” I say.

“Well, don’t delay, the deadline’s coming up and the sooner you apply, the better your chances.”

“I know, I know.”

“I know you’ll get it done,” she says. “And remember, if it becomes too much for you to handle, there are people who care about you. You don’t always have to rely on yourself. There’s an entire community here for you.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Garcia, but I’m okay.”

Mrs. Garcia squeezes my hand again. “You know where to come if you want to talk.”

“I do,” I say, thanking her.

Dad said schools are safe zones for illegal immigrants, but I’m not ready to tell her about my status. Not yet.

* * *

After school, I tell Coach Davis I have to go to D.C. to accept my award while the girls warm up. She’s excited for me, though she knows this is a minor bump for the team.

“It’s a difficult weekend to miss,” she says. “We’ve got a football game and pre-Regionals this weekend. We have a real shot at Nationals this year, but it’s up to you girls to get us there.”

“I know—I’m sorry. I’ll put in extra time in workouts and practices when I come back.”

“I know. But I need someone to lead the practices while you’re gone. And I’ll have to pull up a flyer from the JV team to take your spot. I’ll ask Courtney to be interim team captain when you’re in D.C.,” she says.

I get that she has to name a captain while I’m away because the team needs one. But I’m surprised that she’s chosen Courtney, a junior, to lead in my place.

“Why not Kayla?” I ask. “She’s got seniority. She puts in the time...”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Coach Davis says.

“She’ll be disappointed,” I add.

“Too bad,” Coach says. “Kayla hasn’t been on point lately and she’s even missed a few practices. The other girls won’t look up to her like they do you. What’s going on with her? Do you know?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Her parents split up.” And she’s got a new boyfriend, but I don’t mention that.

Coach nods. “That’s rough. I hope you’re there for her.”

“I am,” I say. Even though I haven’t seen her outside of school lately. She’s always with Dylan, but I know I’m just using that as an excuse. I’ve been avoiding her too. I want to tell her what’s going on with me, but I’m embarrassed. Of the two of us, I’ve always been the one who had her life together—the tighter family, the better grades. I can’t tell her I’m a mess, that it’s all a big lie. I have too much pride.

I don’t agree with Coach’s choice for captain. I think more responsibility might help pull Kayla back toward the team. Everyone likes her. They’ll listen to her, but Coach won’t change her mind. I hope Kayla doesn’t take the news too hard.

After Coach tells the team about my award and how I’ll be heading to D.C., all the girls come up to congratulate me and give me hugs.

“Don’t forget us when you’re rich and famous,” says Deandra.

“The little people,” agrees Emily.

Courtney, who’s almost six feet tall, laughs at that. The others beam—everyone’s so happy for me.

“I’d never forget you guys!” I tell them. “Otherwise you’ll throw me off the pyramid and won’t catch me!”

“Girl, you got that right,” they say and laugh.

They’re all here, except for Kayla. She doesn’t come up to hug me or congratulate me. And that’s how I know she’s mad.

* * *

After practice, I wait for Kayla to change out of her cheer clothes. Walking out of the bathroom stall, she brushes by me and opens her backpack on the locker room bench.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the scholarship?” She doesn’t look up from the floor. “I have to find out with everyone else?”

Right. I never told her about it. I’d meant to, but then with everything that happened, it just slipped my mind. I feel my cheeks burn. “I don’t know. The day I heard the news, I wanted to tell my family first, and then I sort of forgot...”

“But if you’re going to D.C. this weekend, haven’t you known for, like, almost a month already? Did you think I’d be jealous or something? That’s messed up.”

I walk over to her and sit down on the bench next to her backpack. “No, it’s not that. I’m sorry. Things have been weird. At home, I mean. I didn’t even know I was going to D.C. until a couple days ago.”

Finished stuffing clothes inside her backpack, Kayla zips up the sides. “Things are weird at home for you? At least your parents don’t hate each other.”

I gently grab her arm, turning her toward me. “There’s a lot going on that I haven’t told you about. First of all, my mom lost her job at the hospital.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh my God, Jas, I’m so sorry. Is she okay? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was embarrassed. I know I shouldn’t be, but I just... Ugh. And I’m so sorry I haven’t been there for you as much as I should have been. I told myself you were busy with Dylan and you didn’t need me. But I’m here now. Tell me what’s going on with you too.”

Kayla sighs. Tears are building up in her eyes. “I just thought you didn’t care. You’ve been totally MIA for the last few weeks. Things have gotten so bad at home. Dad’s gone, and Mom spends as much time out of the house as possible. And I’m stuck watching Brian on the weekends. I hate everything. I just want my life to go back to normal.”

I feel the same way, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I hug Kayla until she’s done crying. Then I go to one of the stalls to get a wad of toilet paper so she can wipe her eyes and blow her nose.

“How’s Dylan?” I ask. Talking about boys always makes Kayla feel better. She instantly lights up.

“He’s good.” She sniffles. “I really like him. He’s not like any other guy I’ve dated. He’s really chill and easy to hang out with. I just...feel like I can totally be myself around him.”

“That’s amazing,” I say, feeling wistful. It’s not as if Royce and I have been in contact lately. We sort of lost the thread—okay, fine, I dropped it. I’ll probably never see him again.

“What are you going to do on your trip?” Kayla asks.

“There’s a tour of the Capitol, and there’s this fancy reception for the National Scholars. And I’m supposed to meet the president, I guess.”

“The president?” She wipes her nose, then throws the tissue away. “Wow, Jas, that’s huge. How fancy is this dinner? What are you going to wear?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about that yet.”

Kayla pulls me up from the bench. “We have to get out of here,” she says. “We’re going shopping!”

* * *

By Wednesday afternoon, I’ve got my bags completely packed. I stuffed a little blue glass bottle inside my suitcase so I can scoop up some dirt from the capital to add to my collection.

We’re on the way to the airport. My brothers stayed home with one of Mom’s friends. Dad and Lola Cherry are along for the ride. Lola Cherry is in her seventies, wearing large Jackie O glasses, and has the demeanor of someone who was quite the looker in her youth. She dyes her hair black and wears bright red lipstick, but like the typical Filipino matron, lives in comfortable housedresses and flip-flops.

I’ve been sort of dreading this moment when I leave them. It’s the first time I’ll be on my own anywhere, and I know how Mom can be. She’s worried and talking a hundred miles an hour. “You need to be careful out there. Washington, D.C., is filled with strange old men. You keep them away from you. Button up your blouse. And no makeup.”

“A chaperone is picking me up at the airport,” I say, nibbling my nails. “You’re overreacting.”

“I don’t know this chaperone,” Mom says.

“Me either,” Dad says. “He could be a space alien for all I know.”

“Daddy,” I say. “Just stop. You’re being silly. And it’s a girl.”

Lola Cherry sits in the backseat, snickering. “If you were smart, Jasmine, you would take me along,” she says.

“Why? So you can flirt with all the old congressmen?” Dad says.

Lola clicks her tongue. “I don’t flirt,” she says. “I don’t have to say a thing. They’ll come to me because of my beauty. They’ll take me to dinner on the town. I want to see this Washington, D.C., nightlife.”

I laugh. I should probably take Lola Cherry—she’d probably have more fun than me.

“Lola Cherry!” Mom says. “You’re not helping. These people have no scruples.”

“I know,” Lola says, winking at me.

I grin back.

“Ay,” Mom says. “I knew we shouldn’t have let you come with us.”

“So you can keep torturing your daughter on your own?”

“I’m not torturing her,” Mom says. “She needs to hear these things.”

“Mom,” I say. “I’ll be fine. It’s perfectly safe. This is a huge award. There’s a ton of security. Nothing will happen to me! Quit worrying. And you know what? That reform bill is going to pass the House. I can feel it. Everything will be okay.” My heart begins to beat faster, as I think about everything that’s at stake.

“That bill better pass,” Dad says. “Or the UFO is going to pick us up and take us away.”

“Dad, quit with the space alien jokes,” I sigh.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting tired of them already.”

Mom joins in. “We’re all getting tired of them.”

Finally, Dad pulls up to the drop-off area at the airport. We say our goodbyes and Mom actually cries, which makes me cry too. Lola gives me a hug and tells me to put in a good word to any congressmen or senators who look like movie stars.

“If any look like Elvis, get their phone number for me,” she says.

I hug her tightly. I love my crazy family. I wish my brothers were here. “I love you so much,” I tell Lola.

Mom complains right away. “What about me?”

“Stop,” I say, kissing her cheek. “You know how much I love you. We’re practically the same person. I’m going to be fine. I’m going to meet the president of the United States.” I kiss Dad goodbye too.

Lola’s eyes brighten. “You didn’t say you were going to meet the president! He’s the best-looking of all!”

“I told all of you,” I growl. “You just don’t listen! I’m going to be late for the plane. I love you!” I add, and run off into the terminal and to the security checkpoint.

10

There was nothing but land; not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.

—WILLA CATHER, MY ÁNTONIA

“MS. DE LOS SANTOS?” asks a young African American woman with straightened hair cut in a cute bob outside the terminal at Dulles International Airport. She’s holding a sign with my name on it.

“That’s me,” I say, with a big smile.

“Suzanne Roberts,” she says, shaking my hand. “National Scholarship Recognition Program Hostess and Department of Education Liaison. Right this way. You’ll be meeting some of the other students shortly.”

For being so young, Suzanne is all business. Her skirt and coat are a deep royal blue and her blouse is white. She’s perfectly put together. Not a wrinkle anywhere on her clothes or a hair out of place. There’s an insignia on her uniform for the program that looks like a blend with the presidential seal. I note the way she holds herself. The way she walks. She talks as if she graduated from some etiquette school in Switzerland where they teach you how to carry yourself with poise. She has a constant smile that seems real and not polished at all. She’s instantly likable. I want to be like her someday and tell her so.

“You’re sweet, thanks. I hear your essay and self-assessment was a particularly great read for the committee. Congratulations.”

“Thanks so much—it’s so nice to hear that. Are you on the selection committee?” I ask as we walk through the terminal.

Suzanne smiles. “No, those are all highly regarded scholars in the fields of education, law, medicine, the advanced arts, and other areas. Maybe one day. I was a previous scholarship recipient. I’m a congressional aide and for now, I’m just happy to assist the program’s candidates during their time here in Washington, D.C.”

“Cool,” I say, because it is. I can’t wait to meet everyone, to start making connections, to start being part of this great network that runs our country. For a moment, I feel like myself again, the person I was before I discovered the truth about our status.

* * *

I’m sitting in the backseat with two other students while Suzanne drives a black sedan toward the Ritz-Carlton on Twenty-second Street.

“This is Richard Morales,” Suzanne says, nodding toward the tall boy sitting in the front seat who has such large shoulders, he barely fits inside the car. “He’s from Arizona. And an incredible jazz musician, I hear.”

“What instruments do you play?” I ask.

Richard cranes his neck around to look at me. “A little of everything, I guess. But my favorite is the saxophone.” He curls his fingers and begins playing invisible notes. He’s already totally lost in his own imaginary world of music.

The other boy sitting next to me extends his hand, which I shake. His pale fingers are bony and long. “I’m Simon Sebastian,” he says in a nasally voice. “Did you know the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial was made in China? And that the FDR Memorial has a statue of his dog?”

“No,” I say. “You know a lot about Washington, D.C....”

While Simon continues to rattle off random trivia, I peer out the window for a glimpse of anything recognizable. I have the window rolled down a little so I can see better, and I’m shocked by how much colder the fall weather is here. Wrapping my coat tighter around me, I imagine myself walking across the campus of George Washington University or Georgetown, watching the auburn leaves falling off the branches of the old trees. I could belong here.

The buildings are so stately and old-fashioned. I’ve seen all the buildings on television before, of course, but I’m amazed by their size and significance upon seeing them in in real life. But when we finally see the Capitol dome, lit up like an earthly moon, I feel a pang, like it’s not for me. I want so badly to feel like part of this country. It’s the only home I know.

The Ritz-Carlton is a collection of dark buildings and many windows. It feels like a beautiful fortress. The ceilings are tall and lovely inside the hotel. I want to just sit in a chair and take it all in, stare at everything and everyone. Instead, I follow Suzanne to check-in, where we are each given a room. I’m sharing mine with a few girls, but they’ve already been there all day. Suzanne tells us to hurry. We’re the last group of arrivals.

She hands each of us a small folder, “This is your itinerary. Inside you’ll find where you’re supposed to be. I will be your guide through most of your stay here. The first Honoree Reception is in about two hours. Get some rest and meet me in the lobby at five, and we’ll walk to the main ballroom together.”

I’m relieved to hear that Suzanne will be with us the entire way. It makes me feel secure as I find my way to my room, which is just as elegant as I hoped. They’ve given us a two-bedroom suite with heavy floral couches and tables that shine like someone has recently polished them. In vases set next to each bed there are bouquets of white roses, which fill the room with a flowery scent that reminds me of Mom’s garden.

I toss my suitcase to the side and plop down on a bed in the room that doesn’t have clothes and jewelry strewn all over the place. It’s a dream, really, and the nicest hotel room I’ve ever been in. If this is a taste of my future, I want it.

I text Mom.

I’m here and in my room. Going to a reception in a couple hours. I have a chaperone named Suzanne. She’s smart and nice. Love you. Talk soon.

No reply; she must be busy.

I hear my roommates enter, but they all disappear into the other bedroom without saying hello. It sounds like they all know each other, and probably no one wants to room with the new girl. Fine, more room for me.

After showering, putting on my makeup and brushing out my long hair, I open my suitcase on one of the beds, unzipping the sides carefully to not catch any of my clothing. On top lies the dress I bought when I went shopping with Kayla. I put it on and fluff out the wrinkles. It’s as bright as a yellow gumamela flower, with an open back and a braid that twists over my shoulders and down to the bottom of the dress’s flowing fabric. I’m dark for a Filipino, nut-brown like my dad, and the color pops against my skin. From my suitcase, I take the amber glass my Lola gave me and feel the smooth sides between my fingers. Preparing my nerves for the dinner, I stick the stone inside my clutch and head out for the reception. I’m so ready for this.

* * *

The ballroom is decorated in layered white and gold bunting, and there are vases of white flowers everywhere. It’s like a wedding—everything is so pretty, and I can’t help but look around, wide-eyed and happy. The event is black-tie, so all the guys are in tuxes and the girls are in long dresses. The room is buzzing, lively. It’s clear everyone is thrilled to be here. There’s an hour before dinner during which we eat cheese and crackers and Suzanne introduces us to as many dignitaries as she can recognize. I stick close to her, as do Richard and Simon. We’re all a bit subdued, and when people congratulate us, we just smile and nod. I meet so many people, it’s hard to keep track of who’s who.

“Jasmine, may I introduce you to Senator Armstrong, Speaker of the House.”

“To Dr. Holly Villa, of the National Health Organization.”

“To the Honorable James Macgregor, Ambassador to Switzerland.”

“To Eugenia Rosenberg, editor in chief of the Washington Post.”

My head is swimming and my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. When it’s finally time for dinner and speeches, we go to look for our table, which is right in front. The head of the National Scholar Foundation speaks first and introduces the top ten scholars. They each give a short speech about their talents and ambitions, many of them in the scientific and technological arenas. In between, Suzanne engages us all with questions, but I can’t concentrate. The whole night is overwhelming, almost unreal to me. Then I cut into the chicken, which is rubbery and hard, and I fall back down to earth for a moment. Dad always says we eat better at home than most people do in restaurants, and he’s totally right.

Simon and Richard chat excitedly at our table. The other honorees seated with us include three girls who I find out are my elusive roommates. There’s Mallory Lynch, a preppie redhead, and Nina Chandra, a gorgeous Indian girl with a hilarious sense of humor. They’re both from Maryland. Then there’s Carrie Mayberry. She’s a classic all-American beauty with thick sandy-blond hair and cornflower-blue eyes who happens to be a Junior Olympics gymnast, a world-class sailor, and has already landed an internship with the New York Times and is a total shoo-in to Columbia, her first choice.

Carrie seems to be the leader of the three girls. Every topic of conversation revolves around what she thinks or whom she knows. Carrie is from D.C., but all three girls know each other because Nina and Carrie go to a boarding school together and Mallory plays on Nina’s water polo club team. All of their parents seem to be involved in politics somehow.

The girls are totally ignoring Richard and Simon, which doesn’t matter because the boys don’t even notice, they’re so engrossed in a super nerdy discussion about binary numbers.

“Are you excited to go to Columbia?” I ask Carrie, trying to make conversation. “Do you like New York?”

She crosses her arms. “Do I like New York? The city isn’t the kind of place that you like or dislike. New York is bigger than any single person. It’s the only place to live really.”

“Oh,” I say. “I guess that’s how Manila used to feel to me...that it’s more than a city.”

Carrie doesn’t respond, and Mallory politely picks up the conversation. “So you’re from the Philippines? Did you grow up there?”

“My parents were born there,” I say. “I grew up in LA.”

Both are technically true.

Nina leans forward. “Where in LA?”

“Uh, Chatsworth,” I admit.

“Where’s that?” asks Mallory.

“It’s in the San Fernando Valley,” I tell her.

“That’s not LA,” Carrie cuts in with a laugh.

“Yes, it’s the Valley,” I say coolly. “And the Valley is still part of Los Angeles, last I checked. Everyone thinks LA is just Beverly Hills and West Hollywood, but it’s much larger and more diverse than that. Besides, we have the best soup dumplings in the Valley. Better than New York’s Chinatown, according to the Michelin guide.”

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