Something in Between

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “From Midsummer Night’s Dream. Yes. Exactly. You’re such a romantic,” I tease.

  He smiles broadly, not at all embarrassed, and I like him even more than I did already. “So is it safe to let the president live?” he says, scooting so that he’s next to me in the banquette.

  “Why not? He seems like a nice guy,” I say. “And anyway, he’s already married.”

  He slings an arm over the seat, his hand dangling over my shoulder. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. So what did you think of the Oval Office?”

  I mull my answer as I move closer to him as well. So this is what attraction means—wanting to be as near as possible. “It was...” I say, pausing, not able to think of the right word. “Presidential.”

  He cracks a grin and gives my shoulder a squeeze, then lets his hand stay there. “What’s your family like? Are they anything like you?”

  “Why do you ask?” I say coyly, feeling warm all over.

  When he runs his knuckles down the side of my arm, I feel goose bumps underneath my sweater sleeves. “Just wondering if they speak in riddles like you.”

  “Like you?” I counter, because he plays the game as much as I do.

  “No way. I’m an open book.”

  “They’re like me and not like me, I guess,” I tell him. “My parents grew up in the Philippines, in another culture. They’re very strict. But we have the same sense of humor. We get each other.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “I know I am. I’m always thankful for that.” I lean against him, thinking of what he said the night before and at the Jefferson Memorial. “Can I ask you something? How come when you talk about politics you always get this look on your face?”

  “What look?”

  “This look,” I say, trying to imitate him. “Like it’s repulsive.”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I guess maybe it’s because my dad expects me to go into it like he did. His dad was a politician too. He was a congressman, and my dad took over his seat.”

  “Old money, huh?”

  “I guess. My dad’s family does all right, but it was my mom’s side of the family that funded my dad’s first campaign. My grandfather came from Mexico and started a steel company.”

  “So he was an immigrant,” I say, smiling to learn that his grandfather wasn’t too different from me.

  “Yeah, he started out selling oranges by the highway, is the family legend, but in his lifetime became one of the biggest industrial manufacturers in the state,” he says proudly.

  A waiter comes by and we just order drinks, since there’s a group dinner with Suzanne later on.

  Royce reaches for a piece of warm bread and tears off a piece. He chews thoughtfully. “Anyway, yeah, I guess I’m not into politics. All that dirt, all those compromises, the bubble of big spending.”

  “Still, it’s still a way to help people outside of that bubble. There are other people out there who get forgotten, and they need a voice too,” I say.

  “Have you ever thought about going into politics?” Royce asks. “You definitely have the willpower and intensity. I’d believe anything you say.”

  He’s so sweet that I can’t help but smile at him. “You don’t have to go into politics to change the world. You just have to work hard.” I wonder if that’s my father talking now, or maybe my mother. I’m not sure.

  “You really believe that?”

  “Is it naive of me?”

  “No,” he says thoughtfully. “It’s idealistic. Optimistic. That’s cool.” He removes his hand from my shoulder, and I’m a disappointed for a minute until he places it on my knee.

  I used to look at couples snuggling in restaurants who couldn’t keep their hands off each other and wonder what that was all about. Now I understand. I can’t stop touching him either. I run my fingers through his soft hair, pushing it out of his eyes like I did last night.

  We disengage a little when we finally get our drinks—iced teas—green for him, black for me since I need the caffeine. When the waiter leaves, Royce has a different look on his face—more determined, but not as self-assured as usual.

  “I thought more about our conversation last night, about how I want to go into journalism. But my parents will never go for it. Probably ’cause I’m not smart enough. I think I could be good at it though. When I want to find out something, I don’t let up.”

  “Stop putting yourself down. You’d be great at it, and you’re more than smart enough,” I say. Then I change tack. “But the thing about journalists, though, is that they have to tell the truth, right?”

  “The facts, I think. Truth is relative.” He can tell I’m testing him. He’s clever and has his guard up, an eyebrow raised.

  I guess I am testing him. “Okay, the facts, then.” I move a little away from him to take a sip of my drink so that he has to remove his hand from my knee.

  “What are you getting at?” he says, although I have a feeling he already knows.

  “You never explained how you know Carrie,” I say. “Or why she would say that about you.” Royce Blakely isn’t what he seems like. I’ve been there. He’s a total player.

  Royce meets my gaze steadily, then sighs. “Carrie and I kind of had a thing the summer before junior year,” he says moodily.

  “What do you mean by a thing?”

  “We made out at that party she was talking about this morning. I was pretty wasted when it happened. After, we went out a few times, because I could tell she expected it. But I wasn’t feeling it and told her. I wasn’t up for dating long-distance either. She wasn’t too happy about that.”

  “You guys seemed pretty friendly today.” I try not to feel jealous, but I am. So he did go out with Carrie. She’s his type, most likely. His brother even said so, said that I wasn’t the usual kind of girl that Royce liked.

  “Today was the first time I’ve talked to her in over a year. I was on my way to find you, and I didn’t want to be rude by ignoring her as I was walking by. Would you have wanted me to do that?”

  I think about it for a second. “No. I guess not.” I try not to be mad about Carrie. Of course he had a life before me, other girls before me. Deal with it. What did I expect? That he’d waited his whole life to kiss me too?

  He leans closer again. “You know, I kind of like it when you’re jealous.” He’s actually smiling.

  “Who says I’m jealous?” I huff.

  “I’m saying it.” He’s fully grinning now. “It means you like me. And I like you too, Jas. A lot.”

  I melt. I turn to him, and he puts an arm around my shoulders again. “You smell good,” he says, his nose in my hair. “Is that coconut?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I answer as he moves from my hair and buries his face in my neck, planting soft kisses there, then works his way back up.

  I close my eyes and tilt my chin so that our lips meet. He kisses me softly at first, but soon our mouths are open, and the kiss deepens. His hands, my hands, they’re everywhere. I can’t get enough of touching him. I hug him under his jacket, wrapping my arms around his strong back. We’re both breathless.

  But I pull away when I realize we’re not alone, and we’re in public, at a restaurant.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Got a little carried away there.” He has a goofy smile on his face, and I want to kiss him again. Maybe I should be embarrassed, but I’m not.

  “I have to ask Suzanne if it’s okay, but will you come with me to the farewell dinner?” I ask, already texting her.

  “Of course,” he says.

  He pays the check even though I try to hand him a twenty. Suzanne texts me back to say someone canceled, so Royce can join us. We attend the dinner, where I thank Suzanne and say goodbye to Richard and Simon, and we all promise to keep in touch. The whole time we’re there, Royce holds my hand under
the table, and I squeeze it back.

  When we get back to the hotel, I stop before we go through the double doors. I run out to a small grassy patch and kneel in the dirt. I’d forgotten to do this earlier, and it’s my last chance.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, kneeling next to me.

  I show him the tiny bottle and pick up a tiny handful of dirt. “I like to collect earth or sand from the places I’ve been, and I forgot to do this all weekend.”

  Royce nods and doesn’t ask more questions. He helps me fill the bottle and close the stopper. “There. A little part of D.C. you can take home.”

  I’m nervous when we get in the elevator. I wasn’t sure what the plan was—we didn’t say anything to each other, but somehow I know we both assumed we would spend the last night alone together. But where?

  Do I go up to his room?

  Invite him to mine?

  “I have, uh, roommates,” I say.

  “I don’t,” he says.

  We’re suddenly shy now, and he looks just as nervous as I am, which makes me feel better. “Your room, then,” I say.

  He looks at me from under his dark lashes, his long bangs falling into his eyes and smiles so sweetly. “Okay.” He presses his floor number.

  Then he pulls me closer to him and we’re kissing again, kissing like mad, and a part of me is worried someone else will get in the elevator and another part of me doesn’t care at all who sees us.

  When the elevator stops at his floor, we’re out of there faster than a senator rushing to the House floor to filibuster an important bill. He makes me feel things and want to do things I’ve never felt before. Every part of me is addicted to him. Being with him is like waking up, like I’m just discovering something new and amazing about the world, and I tell him so when we stop kissing for a brief moment.

  We’re lying on the bed, on top of the covers, and I’m looking up at him while he leans on an elbow, gazing down at me.

  “I like that,” he says. “We’re waking up to each other.” He rubs my cheek. “Your skin is so soft.”

  “Yours is so stubbly,” I tease, when I put a hand on his.

  I like that we’re comfortable around each other. I thought I’d feel self-conscious with a boy, nervous, worried that I wouldn’t know how to kiss correctly, or that I was doing something wrong. But there’s none of that. I’ve been with him for only two days, but I feel closer to him than to anyone.

  All night, we make out, order room service, talk, and make out again. I don’t ever want to stop kissing him. I wish I could stay with him until morning, but I can’t. I have an early flight.

  “When am I going to see you again?” he asks, when we get to my door, yawning. His hair is rumpled and his shirt is untucked, but he’s as gorgeous as ever, if not more.

  “Um, we both live in LA,” I say, giving him one last embrace.

  “This weekend, then,” he says, kissing my forehead.

  “Text me,” I say.

  He reaches for his phone in his jeans pocket. He punches in a message and sends it. My phone buzzes in my handbag and I remove it to read what he’d sent.

  It reads, Hi it’s Royce, your boyfriend. Let’s hang out this weekend.

  I can’t help but smile. I guess I have a boyfriend now.

  15

  An ocean could not explain the distance we have traveled.

  —JONATHAN SAFRAN FOER, EXTREMELY LOUD AND INCREDIBLY CLOSE

  IT’S NOON WHEN Dad picks me up from LAX in our old Toyota Camry. I’m a little tired from the flight, but I feel a huge surge of warmth when I see my old dad in his trusty Member’s Only jacket (that Mom still buys at Costco), a huge smile on his leathered face.

  “Anak. We missed you,” he says, giving me a big hug before putting my bags in the trunk. “How was D.C.?”

  “Missed you too, Daddy. It was amazing.” I tell him all about the receptions, and the fancy people I met, and how the president complimented me on my essay.

  Dad listens quietly and nods, and I can tell he also feels bad that this weekend is all I’m ever going to get from being a National Scholar. When his phone rings he picks it up, and soon he’s deep into a discussion with Tito Charlie about a new kind of karaoke machine he’s thinking of buying.

  While he discusses all the new bells and whistles of this fantastic machine, I stare at the palm trees blurring by the window. I wonder when Royce is getting back into town. I’m still buzzing from the high of being with him, but I’m also thinking about the research I did on the plane (thank you, free Wi-Fi) about the upcoming vote on the immigration reform bill, college tuition, and finding a path to citizenship. Up until now, I’d been discouraged by what I’d discovered, but my talk with the president really moved me. I can’t give up. If I don’t keep trying to change our situation, who will?

  At the airport, when Suzanne dropped me off, I’d confessed that I wasn’t going to be able to accept the scholarship. When she asked me why, I told her things were complicated and left it at that. She said she was sorry about it, but she understood, and if the situation changed to let her know. I still have until the spring to turn in the form and accept the tuition award.

  I told her it was unlikely the situation would change that quickly, it would take a miracle if it did. For now I put it out of my mind, because as soon as Dad pulls into the driveway, I catch a glimpse of Mom’s garden and realize how much I missed home. And now home means Royce too. He’s local.

  “What’s that smile for?” says Dad.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Hmm. Fine don’t talk to your dad,” says Dad.

  “What! You were the one who practically didn’t talk to me the entire ride home! You were obsessed with your new karaoke machine!”

  “It’s a good one. Samsung. Five thousand songs.”

  Dad cracks me up. “Where’s Mom?” I ask.

  He frowns. “She doesn’t feel well.” I know this means Mom’s still depressed about losing her job.

  “Mommy?” I yell. “Where are you?”

  “Over here,” she says from the kitchen. She’s putting out lunch—chicken salad sandwiches and potato chips. She turns away from the counter and gives me a big hug before sitting at the table. “How was your trip?” She’s smiling but her eyes are sad.

  “Fun,” I say. I tell her about seeing the Capitol, about how someone thought God had been painted on the rotunda. I almost tell her about Royce, but I get nervous since it would mean confessing I was hanging out with a boy, which I’m not allowed to do.

  “I’m glad you went. It’s scary to take risks, Jas,” Mom says. “I can’t even tell you how afraid I was to relocate our whole family to the United States. Your father and I had no idea how you kids were going to handle the move, but we wanted to give you opportunities that neither of us had in the Philippines.”

  Speaking of opportunities. I tell her my new resolve. “I’m not giving up on being able to go to college. I did some research while I was in D.C. Meeting the president reminded me that I want to do great things with my life. I can’t give up on my dreams.”

  Taking a big sigh, she leans back in her chair and rubs her eyes. I know she’s worried about money, worried about everything.

  “There are special programs,” I explain. “I can use our low-income status to get tuition fee waivers. There may be a few colleges that can afford to give scholarships for people like me, who grew up in the United States but don’t have citizenship. We might have to pay for a couple of applications, but I won’t know what’s possible if I never try. Most of the state schools are out, because they’re funded by the government, but I could try for a some of the private ones, like Stanford.” I can’t give up on Stanford, I have to keep trying, and if I don’t apply, I’ll lose a whole year.

  “Are you sure? I don’t want you t
o have any false hope. I feel bad for never telling you the truth.” She sounds disappointed in herself. It’s heartbreaking to hear my mother, who has always been so strong and such a go-getter, to feel like a failure. “What about the reform bill? Will that help?”

  “Even if it passes, it could take forever before it becomes law. There are deadlines coming up,” I say. “I can’t miss them or I might miss out on some of the schools. You don’t have to feel bad, Mom. Everything you did—how hard you made me work—wouldn’t be worth anything if I didn’t keep trying.”

  I read somewhere that a lot of kids of immigrants grow up quickly and are given more responsibility than other kids. Their parents tend to depend on them, mostly because the kids can speak the language better and can act as a conduit to mainstream American society. The child becomes the parent, and the parent, the child. I feel a little like that now, like I’m older and wiser than my mom.

  If I do go to college, my life will become even more different from hers. If I don’t go, I know I’ll never live up to her dreams for me. It seems like any path I take will lead us further apart. Maybe that’s part of what being a daughter means. Maybe that’s how the children of all immigrants feel.

  Still, I’m determined and happy to have a goal. I like goals. I tend to meet them.

  Dad comes in from the living room. He stares at my face, squinting his eyes. “There’s something about you I didn’t notice earlier,” he says.

  My little brothers brush past us. “Her face,” they both say in unison. “It stinks!”

  “You both stink!” I say, stretching out my arms.

  Both of them come to hug me. I love my brothers so much I think I’m going to cry as I squeeze them as tight as I can.

  Isko pinches his nose. “No, you stink!”

  Dad actually comes to my defense. “Your sister does not stink!”

  “Thanks, Daddy,” I say.

  “Well, something stinks,” Danny says, twisting away from my embrace.

  “Can you please just turn into a cat or something useful?” I say to him.