We walk back to the hallway between the entryway and the family room, where I see a large painting of a ballerina wearing a flowing red dress that looks like flames engulfing her body. She’s standing on her pointe shoes and reaching out toward something beyond the painting. The painting’s passion surprises me, especially because everything else seems to be decorated with neutral colors. I vaguely remember Royce telling me his mother was a dancer when she was younger.
I decide not to be afraid of his mother. She can’t be that different than me. We both understand the pain of training and caring for and punishing your body to find grace and beauty. If she was a dancer, she knows what passion means—what wanting something so much you think you might die of want feels like.
Royce leads me to the doorway of the family room, where Mrs. Blakely is cradling a phone between her shoulder and her ear as she sits on a leather chair, watching the stock ticker on the television.
“She’s working,” Royce whispers, turning around. “We should leave her alone. Let’s go sit in our other family room. She’ll come around when she’s ready.”
“You have another family room?” I say.
When he takes me there, I see that it’s more of a library. Books line shelves from floor to ceiling. There are couches and chairs. Coffee tables. Odd artifacts in cases. Statues, mostly. Busts of important political figures and old documents framed on the walls. “Mom started collecting these when dad first started getting into politics.” He points to a case. “Here’s a statue of Theodore Roosevelt she bought off a collector just last year.”
He sits on the couch, clearly expecting me to sit next to him. I do, but not too close. Not like we were in the car earlier. I don’t want Mrs. Blakely to get the wrong idea about me, and I don’t want to mess anything up, especially with his parents.
Suddenly I hear, “May I interest you in something to drink?” I look up to see a housekeeper wearing pressed slacks and a tasteful purple sweater waiting for our reply.
I know immediately that she’s Filipino, and she looks like she’s in her early fifties. She smiles shyly. I wonder where her family is from. I want to ask, but I worry that it would be weird. A lot of Filipino immigrants work as housekeepers; some of my mom’s friends do. My own mother is cleaning someone’s house right now, I remember uncomfortably.
“I’m okay, Maria,” Royce says. “Our guest might be thirsty though. Jas?”
He motions to me. I’m uncomfortable, but I try not to let my feelings show. It’s not fair, but the sight of Maria is unnerving. If I don’t go to college, what if I have to work a job like this for the rest of my life? Then I realize that I’m being a jerk. Who am I to judge this woman I’ve barely met?
Maria comes closer. She has a sort of sparkle in her eye, like she’s watching me and not the other way around. This time she smiles more bravely and I like that. I smile in return. Filipinos sometimes do this with each other. It’s like we’re communicating telepathically. Still, I’m too embarrassed to ask for anything. I’m not used to being served.
Maria looks like she could be my aunt or an older cousin. I shift on the couch, adjusting my skirt over my knees. How is it that I’m dating someone and I have more in common with his house staff than with him?
“Thank you for the offer, but I’m not really thirsty,” I say.
“I’ll check back in a little while,” she says, then leaves us alone together.
“She’s only been here a few years,” he says. “Her family’s from the Philippines too. We found her through an agency.” It’s almost like he’s saying, She’s not illegal. It’s then that I remember I haven’t told him about my undocumented status. Should I? Is that something people tell each other?
Before I start feeling too guilty, Royce’s mother steps into the room. “Hi, darling, I thought I saw someone with you,” she says. “So who’s our guest?”
Wait, Royce didn’t tell her I was coming over? Has he even told his parents anything about me?
Royce stands up and I do too. “Jasmine. This is my mother, Debra Blakely, the Art Collector.
“Mom, this is Jasmine, the girl I met in D.C.”
He doesn’t call me his girlfriend, but maybe it’s because he’s nervous too.
She takes my hand. Her fingers are soft and smooth, but she shakes my hand assertively. “Royce is always calling me the art collector. He’s too embarrassed to say I buy and sell stocks and art. Two of my loves. Besides my children, of course, though I have to admit I haven’t seen much of my two boys lately.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Blakely,” I say. “I’m sorry to take Royce away from you.”
We all sit back down and his mother leans on the side of the couch next to us. “It’s quite all right. I hear he’s in good company. He says you’re one of the recent honorees for the National Scholarship Program?”
“I am,” I say.
“He told me you were Filipino. How nice. Like our Maria.”
I don’t know how to take her comment. I don’t need to have my Filipino-ness pointed out to me. Maybe she’s as uncomfortable as I am that I’m the same race as their help? Maybe she doesn’t know what to say. So I play nice. I’ve been taught to smile, to hide my inner fire when not appropriate. Be polite, Jasmine.
I smile at Mrs. Blakely.
Royce interrupts our moment. “Aren’t you meeting Dad in Washington tonight?”
“Oh, dear Lord, I forgot!” she says. “Thanks for reminding me. I better pack. Nice meeting you, Jasmine. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask Royce or Maria... Oh, Royce? Liv’s coming with me. And can you please tell Mason to call me if you see him? His midterms must have started already, but that’s no reason not to call his mother.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll let you know when he comes home.”
After she leaves, Royce turns to me, his eyebrows raised like a little boy. He looks so hopeful and excited, but I can’t get rid of the nagging feeling that I don’t belong here. We come from such different backgrounds. My mom doesn’t even have a steady job right now.
How are we ever going to make this work?
He scoots closer to me on the couch so that our knees are touching. “You all right? You’re so quiet.”
“Your mom is nice,” I say, still working over the Filipino like our maid comment and wondering how I should take it.
“Too bad she had to go. You haven’t even seen half the art. And once she starts talking about it... In college, she and a bunch of her classmates protested at a museum in Chicago for exhibiting Renoir. I don’t know what they had against the guy. ‘Aesthetic terrorism’ they called it. It was probably just a prank. They wanted attention, don’t you think?”
I don’t know what to think. Aren’t there more important things to protest than hanging a famous, beautiful piece of art on a wall? But I just nod and continue to let him talk and try to feel more at ease in his home.
* * *
We’re back at my house a few hours later. My parents are home this time and, yep, this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for. I’m anxious, but Mom and Dad are perfectly normal and greet Royce like I bring boys home all the time.
Mom asks him a few questions about school and what he thought of D.C., and Royce is right. I can tell she’s charmed by him. She smiles and laughs at his jokes. She also doesn’t mention his dad and what he does, so I count it as a win.
Then Dad corrals Royce into helping him change the oil on his truck. Royce is wearing clean, pressed khakis and a nice blue-and-white-checked button-down shirt, but he swears he doesn’t care about getting dirty. We head to the garage, where he rolls up his sleeves and hops under the truck. Apparently my world doesn’t seem strange to him like his world did to me. Maybe I’m the one who’s the snob, the one who thinks we’re so different, when we’re not.
“Who taught
you how to change oil?” Dad asks.
“My dad hired a mechanic to teach me,” he says, filling the oil pan. “He said every guy needs to learn.”
“Daddy, Royce is here to hang out with me,” I say. “You have two sons to help you with that.”
Dad’s arm pops out from under the car. He shakes a wrench at me. It looks like the arm isn’t attached to a body, which makes me giggle. “If you were a good daughter you would fetch us some lemonade,” he says.
“Fetch, Dad? Dogs fetch things. Not daughters,”
Royce peers up at me with a pouty face and a puppy dog look.
“Fine,” I say, but in truth I can’t resist him.
When I enter the kitchen, I find Mom counting the cash from today’s work. I think of Maria doing the same job over at Royce’s house and feel a mixture of shame and irritation at myself for feeling strange about the whole situation, like I’m embarrassed about her, which I’m not.
Opening the refrigerator, I reach for a big pitcher full of juice. “What do you think of Royce?” I ask, pouring the liquid into a couple of glasses for Royce and Dad.
“He’s very nice, like you said, que guapo,” she says distractedly, even as she notes how handsome he is. She finishes counting the bills, then turns her attention to me. “But you watch out you don’t get hurt.”
“Is that what your mother told you when you brought Dad home for the first time?”
“Not at all. Your Lolo took Dad outside and was about to chop the head off a chicken. But your father stepped in, took over, showed Lolo that he wasn’t afraid of a chicken without a head, or of blood, that he knew how to take care of business.”
“Gross, Mom. Are you trying to say Royce needs to impress Dad by chopping off the head of a chicken? The Blakelys live in Bel-Air. They’ve probably never even seen a live chicken. Well, maybe on TV or something.” I laugh, thinking of Royce beheading a live chicken.
I head back to the garage with the glasses of juice. My dad comes out from under the car, wiping the sweat from his head with an American-flag bandanna. He takes big gulps from the glass.
“Thanks,” he says, after greedily finishing it. Without saying anything more, he starts to leave.
“Where’re you going?” I ask.
“Wherever the next chore is,” he says, leaving us alone in the garage.
Royce pops out from under the car too and washes the grease from his hands. He tucks his shirt back inside his pants and finally takes a drink. He’s sweaty, and there are grease marks on his clean pants and shirt. “Thanks,” he says. “Wow, this is really good, what is this?”
“It’s calamansi juice. It’s a Filipino key lime, I think?”
He guzzles the rest of it down. “Yum.”
“You know that was a test,” I say.
“What do you mean?” Royce crinkles his forehead.
“My dad, making you change the oil—that was him trying to see what you were made of.”
His face brightens. “Oh yeah? And did I pass?”
In answer, I tiptoe and give him a quick kiss. Somehow, I know he’d behead a chicken for me if he had to.
17
Long, long ago, I learned the heart cannot live in two places. I had to choose. My heart is in America.
Where is yours?
—MARIVI SOLIVEN, THE MANGO BRIDE
THE END OF November comes and goes, and the deadline to apply for UC schools passes. I didn’t turn mine in, since it seemed like a waste of the application fee. I know I made the right call, but I’m still down about it.
Also, on Tuesday evening, the House of Representatives fails to pass the immigration reform bill.
I’m watching the news with my family, stunned. We’d been counting on that bill passing, and now it feels like yet another nail in the coffin. Worse, it failed largely because of Mr. Blakely’s leadership. I feel sick to my stomach. How can I see Royce and his family without thinking of the bill and freaking out about it in front of them? I need to tell him the truth about my situation, but I’m too scared.
I was stupid to think that the bill would ever pass with the way politics are right now.
I’m sitting next to Mom and we’re holding each other, staring as a dumb furniture store commercial blasts from the television.
Dad sighs.
“It’ll be okay,” I tell Mom, who’s dangerously close to crying.
“What’s wrong?” Danny asks.
He and Isko are confused about why we’re all devastated by the announcement. They’re concerned about Mom. No one really quite knows what to do when she gets upset. I’ve seen her this way only a few times in my life.
“We’re not supposed to be here,” Mom chokes out.
“What do you mean? In this house?” Isko asks.
His eyes are watering. I don’t think he’s seen Mom so upset before either. “Come here, Koko,” I say, holding out my arms.
He comes to me like he did when he was a toddler, and I throw out my arms around him, hugging him as tight as I can.
Danny is usually the levelheaded one, but he starts to raise his voice. “What do you mean we’re not supposed to be here?”
Mom sniffles. “We’re undocumented. We’re not supposed to be in the United States. We’re here illegally. We have been for a long time.”
“I thought we had green cards? What are you talking about? You lied to us!” Danny shouts.
“Don’t talk to your mother that way,” Dad says.
“It’s not his fault,” I say. “We should have told him sooner.”
Danny stands up from the couch. “You knew?”
I nod. “I’m sorry, Danny.” I think about trying to explain to him that I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want him to worry, but then I realize I’m being a hypocrite. That’s the same reason Mom and Dad gave me when I found out.
“What’s going to happen to us? We can’t leave LA!” Danny yells. “I don’t want to go back to the stupid Philippines!”
I can tell that Dad’s about to send Danny to his room, but he stomps off anyway. As the news starts up again, Isko starts asking a million questions that I barely know how to answer.
He looks at me. “Does that mean we’re going to jail?”
“No, Isko,” Dad says. He’s annoyed. “They don’t put you in jail.”
“Does that mean we’re criminals? Are we bad people?”
My heart is breaking for my brothers. I have no idea how I would have handled this at their age. I probably would have gone completely off the deep end.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Do you think you’re a bad person?”
Isko smiles a little. “Only when I play mean pranks on Danny...”
“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” I say. “We’re not criminals either.”
Mom shakes her head. “I hate this. We wanted to do things right. We came here on legitimate work visas, but when they expired we couldn’t find jobs that would sponsor us.” She looks at me pleadingly. “What were we supposed to do? Pick up you three and move you back to Manila? You’d already been through so much. And Dad and I figured out a way to stay. We survived. We made a life here. A good life. Isn’t that worth something?”
I let go of Isko and turn to give Mom a hug. “It’s okay, Mommy. We’re not mad at you. Danny’s not mad at you. He’s just hurt.”
“Do we have to leave?” Isko asks.
“I don’t know, Ko,” I say.
Of course my brothers don’t understand, but now that they’re witnessing our broken hearts, they’re sad because we’re sad. At least that’s a start for them.
The news is back. “That same ex–weather girl is still the political analyst?” Dad complains. “I don’t understand. Did she go to college for this? I cou
ld do her job.”
Mom’s smeared her mascara all over her cheeks from wiping her tears. I hold her even tighter, remembering how she would scoop me into her arms and hug me tight every time I fell off my bicycle and skinned my knees when I was learning to ride without training wheels.
“Will you stop that?” Dad says. “The weather girl talking politics. Now that’s something to cry over.”
“If you say that again, I’ll put chili powder in your meat loaf.” Mom sniffs.
I guess she hasn’t lost her sense of humor quite yet.
“I just want to talk about what we’re going to do,” Dad says. “Crying isn’t going to help.”
“It’s going to be okay,” I say again, but I don’t even believe my own reassurance.
The bill not passing doesn’t mean my family will automatically be deported, but we’ll have to continue to lie low. Maybe I’d be better off if we did end up going back to the Philippines. How can I hide the fact that I won’t be able to vote because I’m not a US citizen? How will I explain that my driver’s license will be a special one for undocumented immigrants? That’s not the kind of thing you can hide forever.
If the bill had passed, at least my family would have been able to apply for green cards and then citizenship. We could have become real Americans at some point. Now it feels like everything is spiraling out of control. Like everything I’ve been trying to do with my life, including dating Royce, is getting grounded before it even has the chance to take off.
Mom’s keeping her eyes trained closely on the news anchor.
“The vote wasn’t even close,” she says. “Why does America hate us?”
“They don’t, only some of them do,” I say. It’s too depressing to sit in the living room with my family. I leave for the comfort of my room, look at the bottles on the shelf and the quotes I’ve pinned to my wall.
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