There’s the one from Armies of the Night, the one Royce let me “borrow.”
There is no greater importance in all the world like knowing you are right and that the wave of the world is wrong, yet the wave crashes upon you.
I wiggle my phone out of the pocket of my jeans and text him. I have to tell him the truth about me, and I can’t put it off anymore. Especially since I want to confide my fears in him. We’ve been dating for a while now, and spending every weekend together. He drives over and we hang out at my house, eat at Denny’s, go to movies, go bowling. When we hang in his neighborhood, we go to the Brentwood Country Mart and gawk at celebrities. Once we even ran into his famous reality–TV show cousin. She was sweet and we took selfies.
I talk to him every day; he’s the last voice I hear before I go to sleep. Sometimes I fall asleep clutching the phone to my ear. He knows everything about me, how much I want to win Nationals this year, that I already wrote my valedictorian speech, because I’m so confident I’ll be number one, that I’m worried that my mom still doesn’t have a job. Although I didn’t tell him why she lost it. And I know everything about him—that he had a dog when he was little and that, when it died last year, he buried it himself in his backyard, and that he wants to get another one but is worried he won’t be able to love it the way he did the first. I know that he’s turned in his Stanford application, deciding to go Early Decision for the best shot, since he’s worried he doesn’t have the grades, that he had to take the SAT at a special place because people with learning disabilities are allowed more time, and how embarrassed he was, that he felt like he was cheating or something. He knows Stanford is my first choice too.
So I text him. I refuse to believe he wouldn’t support a reform bill like this one, even if his dad was the main architect of its demise. It’s Royce. Sweet, wonderful, amazing Royce, my Royce. He can’t believe in his father’s politics, can he? He hates politics, he’s said so more than once.
His number is the first one on my phone. I send him a quick text.
jasmindls: OMG. The immigration reform bill didn’t pass. Can you believe it?
Royce hits me back immediately.
royceb: you’re worried about that? the immigration bill? why?
jasmindls: America needed this.
My phone buzzes again. Another text. My stomach churns as I read it.
royceb: maybe, but you know my dad was working against it.
royceb: he went through a lot of trouble lobbying to help kill it and put a lot of hard work into it.
jasmindls: That’s what you call hard work? Immigrants work hard too you know.
royceb: yeah, and so does my dad.
I don’t know what to say to that. I put on my coat and go outside. I don’t want Mom or Dad to see that I’m totally devastated and not just by the news, but by Royce’s reaction to it. I knew what his dad’s position on the bill was, what Congressman Blakely stood for, and I know that Royce is loyal. It’s one of the best things about him.
Of course he’s loyal to his dad, to his family.
But it still makes me feel ill. Maybe he doesn’t think like his dad does on the issue, but that doesn’t mean he would deliberately choose to be with someone who’s exactly the kind of person his father has fought so hard to keep out of the country. Once he learns the truth, he’ll probably be furious with me for not being honest with him in the first place.
I should have told him when we met in D.C. I should never have let it go this far.
What was I thinking?
My phone buzzes again.
royceb: Jas? Are you there?
royceb: That was rude of me.
royceb: I know immigrants work hard too, but it was an important victory for my dad.
royceb: I’m sorry I snapped at you.
I start typing a reply then hit Delete. I don’t know what to say to him.
I always text him back within seconds, but since I don’t, he knows something’s wrong. My phone rings this time.
ROYCE BLAKELY pops on my phone, with that goofy photo of him crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue.
I hit Ignore.
I can’t do this right now. I’m scared about what happened with the bill, and I’m mad at him too, even if he did apologize.
So instead, I text Kayla. I need a friend, an old friend, someone who’ll accept me no matter what.
jasmindls: Are you busy? Want to hang out? I need you.
kaykayla: Coffee? I’m here.
jasmindls: I’ve got a better idea. Donuts?
* * *
We’re at the doughnut shop drinking green tea and sugar-free raspberry lemonade. In front of us are four big, fluffy doughnuts, two covered in frosting and sugar cereal, and two slathered in chocolate.
“Coach Davis would kill us if she knew we were about to eat these,” I say.
Kayla has the same terrified smile. “I know.”
“But you’ve taught me something, K. It’s an important lesson I’ve had to learn this year. Something I didn’t really think about until the last few months.”
“What’s that?” Kayla asks, considering the doughnut covered with crispy cinnamon-swirl cereal.
I grab a chocolate one and ravenously tear off a huge bite. “You only live once.”
As if given permission by my indulgence, Kayla dives in to the doughnut she’s been eyeing. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun eating something I shouldn’t in my entire life. The chocolate is smooth and coats my tongue, and I feel the bliss of a sugar high. These people must make a killing off sad girls.
We devour every crumb within minutes, every bit of frosting and cereal. I point to the corner of Kayla’s mouth where there’s a chocolate smudge, and she wipes it away.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“For what? Getting me fat?” Kayla jokes.
I pick up my glass of green tea, leaving a ring of condensation on the table. “Well, now I guess I have two things to apologize for.” I put down the glass without taking a sip.
Kayla looks out the window. “Nah.”
Honesty is the best thing sometimes. If you’re never honest with someone, then you’re pretending to be perfect all the time. That’s what people expect from me, and I don’t want to be that girl anymore. I’m tired of it, of having too much pride.
But I don’t know how to start, and because she knows me so well, Kayla talks first. She says that her dad served her mom divorce papers, so it’s official. They’re definitely not getting back together.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her.
“It’s okay. At least they’re not yelling at each other all the time anymore. The house is peaceful for a change. And now that Dad has to see us on the weekends, we actually end up spending more time with him.”
“How’s Dylan? Is he back?”
“Yeah, and he told me I shouldn’t worry about groupies or anything. Not that he would cheat on me, but also that when they’re on the road all they do is eat at vegan restaurants and do yoga. They don’t party that much. That’s not what they’re about. It’s the music. I guess some rock bands really are different.”
“I guess so. He is a nice guy, and he adores you.”
“Yeah,” she says happily. “He told me not to quit cheer and keep going so we can kick butt at Nationals. But we’re not here to talk about me. What’s up, Jas? What’s wrong?”
My phone buzzes.
“You’ve got a text,” she says, sipping her tea. “Aren’t you going to read it?”
I sigh and glance down at my phone. It’s Royce again.
royceb: Hey, did you get my text?
royceb: Are you at practice or something?
royceb: Why aren’t you picking up your phone?
royceb: I don’t get
it. Are we fighting over politics?
royceb: Or did I do something wrong?
I shove the phone deep into my purse.
“Out with it,” Kayla says.
I’m finding it difficult to get any words out. It’s like there’s this awful lump in my throat paralyzing my neck muscles.
“Jasmine?” Kayla says. “What’s really wrong? Is it Royce? Did something happen?”
“Yes. But it’s not just Royce.” I have to start at the beginning. “I can trust you, right?”
“Of course you can. Duh!”
“Okay, okay, I know. But this is hard for me to say. You know the day Mrs. Garcia came to the gym during cheer?”
Kayla nods, waiting patiently.
“She gave me a letter telling me about the National Scholarship. But when I went home and told my parents, I found out that our visas expired years ago. That’s why I didn’t tell you about the scholarship at first—I didn’t know what to say. We’ve been living here without documentation the whole time I’ve been in high school. That’s why my Dad wouldn’t let me get my driver’s permit. That’s why we don’t go back to the Philippines to visit family anymore. I’m not an American, Kayla. I’m not here legally.”
Her face pales.
“But that’s not all. Royce’s dad is Congressman Blakely, the house majority leader. He hates illegal aliens and just killed the big reform bill that would have let my family stay in the US.”
Kayla is now so pale that she’s the same shade as the napkin.
“I saved the best for last. Royce has no idea I’m undocumented.” I don’t like the term illegal; it feels too much like a brand, like a pejorative, like a sneer, whereas undocumented just states the fact of our situation without prejudice.
She gets up from the table. For a second, I’m afraid she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore.
“Where’re you going?” I say. “Don’t leave.”
“I’m not leaving,” she says. “I’m buying more doughnuts.”
18
You can waste your lives drawing lines. Or you can live your life crossing them.
—SHONDA RHIMES
KAYLA TOLD ME yesterday that I shouldn’t be embarrassed by our legal situation, that I should tell more people what’s going on with me. There’s no shame in what happened, it wasn’t my fault, and I should let people know so that they can support me, at least. She says I owe Royce the truth as well. I know she’s right about everything, but I’m not ready to deal with him just yet.
But being with her reminds me that I do have friends who care about me, and that I haven’t asked for any help, even from those who’ve offered it.
I pick up my phone and scroll through my contacts.
Because there is someone I can call. Someone who might be able to help with one thing.
I dial Millie’s number. After a few rings, she answers the phone. She’s excited to hear from me. “Jasmine! I was starting to think you weren’t going to call.” I can hear Millie shake ice in a glass and picture her sitting there, drinking her scotch.
I feel a burst of happiness at hearing her raspy voice again. I’ve missed my friend and I tell her so. “I’m sorry. Things here—”
Before I can finish my sentence, Isko flings open my door and runs inside the room, then slams the door behind him. Panting, he attempts to hold it shut while Danny pushes on the other side.
I pull the phone away from my mouth. “Ack! Get out of here! I’m on the phone...”
Danny finally succeeds in pushing the door open and pulling Isko out into the hallway. As they wrestle with each other, I get up and slam the door.
“I’m so sorry, Millie. My little brothers are being super annoying.”
Millie laughs.
I tell her about my trip to D.C., and I thank her for encouraging me to go. We talk about the defeat of the immigration reform bill. She tells me she’s so sorry it didn’t pass—she knows how much I was counting on it.
“I can’t even turn on Facebook,” I say. “I hate seeing all the political rants and people hating on families like mine. If people only knew that people they talk to every day are probably illegal immigrants...” I pause, considering my sentence. “Maybe they would be nicer. Or maybe not. Maybe they really think we don’t belong here.”
“Maybe you should tell them the truth of your situation,” she says. “Don’t be afraid. Maybe when they see it happening to someone they know, they’ll have a change of heart.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“What about your friends at least? Have you told them? I think you should. If you give them a chance, I think people will surprise you with their kindness.”
How can Millie believe in the goodness of people when so many spend so much time hating on each other? She comes from a different time. The news used to be more balanced. People couldn’t just get on social media and say whatever’s on their mind without looking people in the face. Although it’s an easy way of telling where people stand, I guess.
“I’m just not ready to tell everyone about it,” I say. “I know my family isn’t. My little brothers don’t even understand what’s going on. They’re in denial most of all. All of their identity is as Americans. To think of themselves as anything else is alien to them.”
“Your brothers may not understand for years,” she says. “Listen, your story is incredibly moving. It will inspire others if you share it. I was listening to a report last night on the News Hour about the difference between those who have been undocumented immigrants and those who have not. Who’s more compassionate on average? Those who have been undocumented, they said. Who experiences more joy in life? The undocumented. Who is better at establishing community? The undocumented. They band together. They support each other.”
“You know that, Millie, but other people don’t—they think undocumented immigrants are criminals and liars. That they’re the leeches of the American economy.”
I hear the clink of Millie setting down her glass. “Show them, then,” she says defiantly. “Show them the truth of who you—and your family—really are. Shine light on their ignorance.”
I think about Millie’s words. How can I get the word out? Identifying ourselves could put us at risk.
“I just feel like I’m in a kind of limbo,” I say. “Mom is contacting immigration lawyers to see what our options are, but more and more it looks like we’re going to either have to hide our status, which will change our whole lives and limit what we can and can’t do. Or we have to risk being deported to try to get documentation.”
“I really wish you didn’t have to go through this. I wish there was some way I could help.”
Before I lose my nerve, I get to the point of why I called. “Actually that’s why I’m calling,” I say. I explain that my mom still hasn’t found another job, and that I recall that when we were kicked out of the hospital, Millie had offered to help her.
“Yes, of course! I’m so glad you asked. She can come to work for me. Or my son, I mean. I don’t have a personal office anymore, but I think we can find her a place in the company.”
“Are you sure? You’ll be breaking the law.” I’m so happy I could cry.
“Oh, I don’t care about her status. There are ways of getting around the papers. I want good workers, people who care about other people. That’s your mother. That’s you. I knew as soon as I met you in the hospital.”
“What kind of job is it? Are you sure she can do it?”
“Of course she can,” Millie says. “You underestimate your mother. It’ll be mostly administrative office work. She’ll be fine.”
“I’ll tell her to call you,” I say. “But I’m not sure she will.”
Millie sighs. “Can you give her a message for me, then?”
I promise I wi
ll.
“Tell her I’m not offering her a job because I feel bad for her, or because I want to feel good about myself. She’s a smart woman, and her job at the hospital didn’t let her use her skills. Believe it or not, I’ve been there before. I want to help her out.”
I thank her, and hope I can convince my mom to take this opportunity.
* * *
It’s our last day of cheer practice before winter break. Kayla and I are stretching outside next to each other. Practicing for Regionals has made us so in tune with one another that we do our stretches in unison without even thinking about it.
“I can’t believe you still haven’t told him,” Kayla says.
“I don’t know what to say,” I say. “What’s the use anyway?” It’s been almost an entire week now and I haven’t answered Royce’s texts or calls. I can’t even listen to his voice mail messages, even though I miss his voice so badly.
“Oh man, don’t ghost him. That’s so not your style.”
“I know,” I say. I don’t know what to do, I want to see him, but I’m angry too. It was an important victory for my dad. It turns my stomach. “His family hates families like mine. I can’t be with someone like that.”
Kayla bends her arm over her head. “You’re being unfair. What if someone judged you on what your family believes? You don’t agree with them on everything. You need to tell him. Give him a chance.”
“How can I? What if he accidentally tells his dad? My whole family could be deported.” I don’t believe it would come to that, but the thought that it could scares me too much. I’d like to think Royce would protect us, but do I really know him?
I lunge with my right leg, feeling the soreness of my muscles. Even though I practice every day—and on the weekends too—the pain never fully goes away. I think I’m going to take a yearlong nap after Nationals.
Kayla lunges with her left leg, mirroring me. “Is he still texting you?”
“Only about ten times a day.” I want to delete his messages, but I don’t have the heart. I can’t read them either though. It’s too painful.
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