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.”
She yawns.
Snobs are the worst. Especially elite snobs like her, who think they’re so sophisticated when really, they’re closed-minded. They live in their fancy bubble and think that’s all there is to life. I turn away, but she’s not done with me yet.
“So, Jasmine, since your parents are immigrants, what do you think of that new immigration bill that passed in the Senate last week and was just introduced in the House? I normally don’t follow those things, but I wanted to know who I’d be talking to at tonight’s reception.”
I must have a confused expression on my face, because Nina jumps in to explain the situation to me. “The congressman who’s the lead opponent against the bill is speaking tonight. Some people think he could be president in a few election cycles.”
Oh, wonderful, a president who hates immigrants.
“What’s the bill about again?” Mallory asks. She seems genuinely interested.
“I think it’s about giving out citizenship to a bunch of people who have to pay a $500 fine for sneaking into the country in the past. It’s basically just a slap on the hand if you’ve lived here for a long time,” Nina says. “But I guess they have to do something for these people.”
“Personally, I think that whole argument about immigrants being productive members of American society is pretty weak,” Carrie says. “Anyone who entered the United States without proper documentation is technically a criminal. They aren’t law-abiding people. Obviously.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, raising my voice a little. “Playing by the rules isn’t always about what’s right. There have been plenty of laws that weren’t right. Why should someone be law-abiding when the laws are so stacked against them that the system makes it nearly impossible to follow those laws? Ever heard of Rosa Parks?”
No one says anything. Mallory and Nina sit back in their chairs, looking uncomfortable, but Carrie studies me with a calculating expression. I look down at my plate, relieved as the murmur of conversation throughout the room turns into a hush.
My hands are shaking so hard after my outburst at the table that I almost knock my water over and don’t hear the introduction of the evening’s keynote speaker. It’s a politician who looks familiar, and he takes the podium to speak briefly. He congratulates us and says we exemplify the best of America, and we show that all Americans need an education before they can contribute at the higher levels of citizenship. He says we are model citizens from hardworking families who value a degree of being American that many have lost focus on. He calls
us the heroes of our generation—the most diverse generation.
I don’t feel like a hero at all. Sure, I feel hopeful, that somehow I’m going to find my way through this mess. At the same time, I think of Mom and Dad and how they should be here instead of me. They both deserve this more, since they worked so hard to put me here. Millie too. If it wasn’t for her encouragement, I don’t think I’d be here either.
I applaud when the politician finishes his speech. He nods to us as he walks to a table to sit with his family.
The politician’s wife is wearing a long, gorgeous, sweeping black dress with a full skirt. I saw the same dress in Vogue this month. She’s styled her chestnut hair in a low chignon at the nape of her neck that makes her look like a First Lady. The couple is joined by a young man who glances my way. I recognize him from somewhere.
Oh my God.
How could I have not put two and two together? Congressman Blakely was the speaker. Duh. Royce’s dad. Mr. Anti-immigration. How did I not recognize his face? It’s not like I haven’t seen him all over the news since I first spotted him at the hospital.
And there’s Royce. Looking incredibly handsome in a crisp black tuxedo. He scans the room and our eyes meet. It’s like I’m zapped by lightning—everything in me is on fire when he looks at me.
I have to look away. It’s too much. I feel almost ill from excitement.
My phone buzzes immediately. It’s a text from him. I need to go all the way to D.C. to see you?
Oh, hey, fancy seeing you here, I send, trying to seem casual.
My heart is racing. The shock of seeing him takes my breath away. I don’t know whether to stare a hole into the tablecloth or check out Royce again, but my decision is made up for me when the host announces that dinner is coming to a close and Suzanne comes to the table to sweep the group up for the next event on the itinerary. We’re scheduled for another meet and greet with more dignitaries for dessert. I follow Suzanne to an area where there are many black couches, chairs and small tables. Caterers come around with bottles of water and trays of tarts and tiny little cakes. I decline. I surreptitiously look for Royce but don’t see him anywhere. My hands are trembling and I tell myself to calm down. Why does he affect me so much?
I peek at my phone. Why not? Other honorees are. There’s a message from Kayla: I’m not the team captain while you’re gone? I feel like quitting.
Oh no. She can’t! I type back. I’m so sorry. I tried to tell coach it was the wrong choice. Don’t quit. We need you.
She doesn’t text back.
I send her another text and another, but she’s gone radio silent. I text her that I’ll call her when the reception is over.
I stuff the phone back in my purse. When I look up, Royce is standing in front of me, holding two glasses of champagne.
Oh.
My.
God.
He’s so incredibly handsome, and even more so in that tux. The sharp black lines of the jacket and his crisp white shirt look good with his dark hair, which he’s slicked back from his forehead. His brown eyes are warm and shining, and I forgot about that dimple on his cheek, which softens the striking edges of his face and makes him look like a mischievous boy. I remember the goofy selfie he took that’s still on my phone, and the Snapchats he sent of himself belly flopping into his pool and falling off a surfboard. He may look like the star of a teen soap opera, but he’s a goofball, like he doesn’t take anything too seriously.
The butterflies in my stomach relax. Being near him is enough to calm me down, it seems. It was the wait, the anticipation that was killing me. Still, it’s hard to breathe.
“For me?” I ask, taking the proffered flute with a smile, relieved that my voice sounds even. “Is this allowed?”
“If I say so,” he says. We clink glasses.
I take a small sip. It’s sweet and tart. I take a bigger sip.
Royce is looking at me so intensely, I feel nervous again. I’m not sure what to say to him. This is the problem when you text a lot but don’t see each other in real life. We met only once, so it’s weird. And there’s the whole thing with his dad thinking illegal immigrants are ruining this country—what if Royce thinks the same way? I really, really hope he doesn’t think the same way.
“How come you never mentioned that you’re a National Scholar?” he teases, a glint in his eye. “Congrats by the way.”
“Thanks. You too!” I say, assuming he’s here for the same reason I am.
He flushes, and I worry I’ve said the wrong thing—and it turns out I have.
“Oh, I’m not one of you guys. I’m just here with my dad.”
“Um, okay. That’s cool,” I say, to make up for my faux pas. I look down at my shoes.
But Royce seems nonplussed and just shrugs. “Yeah, it was a last-minute thing. My dad wanted me to go.” His smile disappears.
I look back up at him. “He forced you, huh?” I tease. “Hard life.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’ve heard one of my dad’s speeches you’ve heard them all. Plus the food is always awful.”
I groan. “It really was. That chicken was disgusting.”
“Of course I still ate the whole thing,” he says with a grin.
“So did I!”
We laugh, and he puts me so at ease that I almost snort when I giggle.
“I’m glad I’m here though, I was beginning to think I’d never see you again,” he says, a serious look on his face.
“Oh,” I say, blushing furiously, not knowing quite what to say. I feel bad he thought I was avoiding him, which I was, but not for the reason he might think.
I try to find my composure and change the subject. “Your dad made a good speech though.”
“You really think so?”
“Yeah.” I do. I don’t agree with the congressman’s politics, but I agree with what he said about education and striving.
“Hey, you want to meet him?” Royce asks suddenly, as if to make up for acting so jaded before.
“Your dad? Sure,” I say, even though I’m a little scared. What if Congressman Blakely can tell that I don’t have papers? That I’m practically the enemy? Of course this is an irrational, paranoid thought, but I have it anyway. Then I tell myself I should meet his dad, because once I have, maybe I can go out on a date with Royce without my dad getting upset that he didn’t meet Royce first. As if meeting one parent counts somehow?
Am I getting ahead of myself? Why do I think Royce and I are going to date? Royce whisks away our champagne glasses and before I can think more on it, we’re next to Congressman Blakely, who’s deep in conversation with another important-looking person.
“Dad,” Royce says, touching his arm.
The congressman doesn’t seem to hear his son.
Royce bounces on his heels a few times. He shoves his hands in his pockets and leans toward me. “He does this sometimes,” he says. “Watch this.” He turns back toward his dad. “Congressman Blakely, Majority Leader, may I present Jasmine...”
“De los Santos,” I say.
The congressman turns now, all smiles, as if a light switch automatically flips as soon as a stranger is present. He takes a split second to survey me. “Pleasure to meet you, Jasmine. You’re one of our honorees from California, aren’t you?”
I’m amazed at his knowledge. There are three hundred of us. “Yes, the Los Angeles area,” I say. “Pleased to meet you, Congressman.”
“The honor is all mine. May I introduce you to Senator Lauren Silverton from Wisconsin?”
I shake the senator’s hand, which is soft and perfectly manicured. She’s one of the few women in the Senate, and I’m ecstatic to meet her. “It’s an honor,” I tell her.
“We’re so proud of you,” she tells me with a warm smile. “You and all the honorees are the bright
lights of our country.”
The two of them beam at me. Royce’s dad says, “I heard you wrote a great essay. We need more students like you making America great.”
“Thank you both. It’s wonderful to be here,” I say, noticing Royce smirking.
“Dad, Senator, if you’ll excuse us,” Royce says.
They nod and smile. “Yes, lovely meeting you,” the congressman says, turning away.
And that’s it—nothing scary about him. It’s odd though, I thought I was meeting Royce’s dad, but it turned out I was just meeting the congressman. I’m not sure my dad would think this counts as a meet-the-parents moment, it was so impersonal.
Royce hands me a new champagne glass once we’re far enough away from his dad. “So, here you are.”
“Here you are,” I say, taking a sip.
“IRL,” he says.
I raise my glass. “We’re not blue bubbles on our phones anymore!”
He smiles, and when his cheeks flush, he looks even more handsome. It’s almost painful. My stomach is doing that thing again, and for a moment we’re just standing there, smiling at each other, as if we’re the only two people in the room. Everything else recedes and goes out of focus. There’s only him and my beating heart.
Royce finishes his drink and sets it on the nearest table. “So,” he says expectantly. “What are you doing after this?”
11
The most courageous act is still to think for yourself. Aloud.
—COCO CHANEL
ROYCE HAS TO do a little glad-handing for his parents but promises to meet me in the hotel lobby after the event, so I go back to find Suzanne. She introduces me to the person she’s talking to, who turns out to be the dean of students at Stanford University.
The dean is one of the more youngish bigwigs here, and he’s not wearing a tux, just a black jacket and no tie. He has a slightly disheveled, casual California air that makes me feel right at home. When he asks me about my academic interests, I tell him about the storytelling project I was working on at the hospital, and how I’m drawn to both law and medicine but haven’t made a choice just yet. I don’t mention that the project is over; I still plan to put that book together and get it to the patients somehow.
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