Dad lets out a long whistle. “His family can afford to live around here?”
“His grandfather founded some big steel company. And his dad’s a congressman,” I say. “I’ve told you that.”
“Congressman, huh. They should have to live on minimum wage,” Dad says.
“Dad. Please stop. They do a lot of hard work too. Maybe I’ll be a congresswoman someday. There’s no law against it if we ever become citizens! You never know.” I think of what Royce said to me once, how I should be the one to go into politics since I’m so passionate about issues he believes I can sway people to follow my lead.
“If you become a congresswoman, I’ll be the first one to move in!” he says, pointing through the window at the houses.
I laugh. “I think you better work on becoming an American first.”
When Dad parks on the street, I run up to the door and ring the bell. Royce told me Maria would be there for part of the day. Sure enough, she answers the door. When she sees it’s me, she doesn’t smile.
“Hello?” she says, a little coldly.
“Oh hi, Maria, I hope it’s okay—I wanted to drop off a gift for Royce,” I say, trying to sound casual and as if I drop by his house all the time.
“Royce is not here,” she says shortly.
“I know—that’s why I wanted to drop off his present.”
“You have a Christmas gift for Royce?” she asks, almost as if she didn’t hear me the first time.
“Yes,” I say.
“Did you two get back together?” she asks out of the blue.
Now I realize why she’s being so unfriendly. It’s obvious she’s wary because of what happened between us.
“Oh, did he tell you about it?” I say, trying not to blush.
She doesn’t respond, but it’s clear that he did.
“Yes, but, um, we’re together again,” I say.
Suddenly, she breaks into a huge smile. “How nice. Come inside, come inside.”
I’d planned to just hand over the gift, but now it feels like I have to say yes to be polite.
“Is that your dad? Would he like to come too? I can make some tea.”
I gesture to Dad to get out of the car, but he waves me off. He’s too busy eyeing all of the houses.
I enter the house and hand Maria the gift, which she sets on a table in the foyer. She doesn’t bring up my and Royce’s relationship again, and we make small talk standing there. Because she was so protective of Royce earlier, I don’t feel that uncomfortable around her anymore. It’s clear she cares for him, and since I do too, now we have something in common other than being Filipino. “What are you doing for the holiday?” I ask.
“I’m going to see some of my cousins tonight,” she tells me. “That’s very sweet of you to bring Royce a gift.”
“Thanks,” I say. “He’s sweet to me too.”
Just then the front door opens. I jump a little, especially when I realize it’s Royce’s mother. She doesn’t see me right away.
“Maria, is that one of your relatives outside?” she says as a driver follows her inside and places two suitcases against the wall. “I thought you were staying until five this afternoon?”
Why does Maria have to work on Christmas? And why is Mrs. Blakely home? It’s Christmas Day. Why isn’t she in Aspen with Royce and Mr. Blakely? What about Mason and Olivia?
“I am staying until then, Mrs. Blakely,” Maria says. “Shall I bring up your bags?”
When Mrs. Blakely looks up, she sees me and raises an eyebrow. “Jasmine? Dear, I wasn’t expecting you. Merry Christmas. You and Maria must have a lot to talk about.”
I’m not sure what she means, other than maybe she thinks, because we’re both Filipino, we’d have a lot to talk about no matter what. It makes me squirm, but I ignore her raised eyebrow and smile. “Thank you. Merry Christmas. I was just dropping off a gift for Royce,” I say, pointing to the package on the table. “I hope you had a nice time in Aspen.”
“I dread Aspen every year. Thank God it’s over for now,” she says. “I can’t stand all the cold and being cooped up inside, and I’m not much of a skier. I’m guessing you’ve never been to the snow though. Is that your father outside?”
“It is,” I say, slightly hurt by her comment. Sure, I’ve never seen snow fall, but I went tobogganing with friends at Big Bear in eighth grade. It was one of the greatest times of my life, but I decide it’s better to play the innocent young (and poor) girlfriend of her son. “Yes. I shouldn’t keep Dad waiting,” I say, thinking how funny it would be if I said we still had to go catch and pluck chickens for our Christmas dinner (which we don’t; it’s a joke but I’m sure she’d believe me). “I hope you have a good rest of your holiday.”
“Please,” she says, “don’t be a stranger.” She turns to Maria. “Be a darling and help me with my bags, then you can have the rest of the day off. I need to deal with this mess Mason has made of his finals. We just got notice that USC has put him on academic probation again. Apparently he hasn’t been going to his classes for weeks.”
Mrs. Blakely heads up the grand stairway that curves gracefully up from the foyer. Maria picks up both bags. “Just give me a minute, Jasmine, then I’ll take you up to Royce’s room. You can put the gift there yourself,” Maria says. “That way Mason won’t open it.”
Why would his older brother open a present that’s clearly not meant for him?
“I can help you with the bags,” I offer.
“No. That’s all right. I’ll be right back.”
Maria drags the suitcases up the stairs and disappears for a few minutes.
I stay where I am, feeling a bit awkward to be alone in Royce’s house without him. The house is lavishly and perfectly decorated for the holidays—I count no less than three Christmas trees, one in the living room, one in the other living room, one by the dining area. It looks as perfect as a magazine spread...and just as impersonal.
“The house looks so pretty,” I tell Maria when she returns. “All white and gold.”
“Mrs. Blakely has it decorated every year, although they’re almost never here for the holiday,” Maria explains.
“Meanwhile my house looks like a parol exploded,” I tell her, meaning the typical Filipino Christmas star lantern that we usually hang in the window. My parents tend to decorate in the typical red and green. Our house is so full of tinsel, you can’t leave without being covered in it.
We laugh. “Do you like working here?” I can’t help but ask. I’m most likely overstepping, but I’m curious.
“Oh yes, they’re very good to me. But Mr. Blakely is gone a lot. Mrs. Blakely has her work. Mason is...” Maria pauses, thinking of what to say. “Mason is Mason. I worry about Royce and Olivia. They seem to be the ones keeping this family together.”
“Why would Mrs. Blakely leave her children on Christmas Day? Are Mason’s grades that important? What’s she going to be able to do about it on Christmas?”
“I don’t think that’s the only reason she came home,” Maria says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Mrs. and Mr. Blakely haven’t had the easiest time since he became house majority leader. They almost never see each other. They probably had a fight,” she whispers.
Right. Royce mentioned his parents were fighting about Mason, but I hadn’t thought to ask him more. I wish I had now.
Maria looks like she’s regretting saying anything. She gestures to me to follow her. “Come on. Bring your present.” She leads me down a great hall on the second landing to Royce’s room. I’ve only been inside once before. Royce likes to come over to my house. It’s easier, since he can drive and I don’t have a license.
I walk in and look around. His room is fairly clean for a boy. Well, compared to Danny and Isko’s room. There’s a wrink
led suit hanging over his desk chair and lots of pairs of dress and athletic shoes that have been kicked onto the ground. On his bedside tables are stacks of books about the military and the history of wars and spy novels, all in various states of being read. I riffle through the pages of a book, stroking its pages, thinking of him absorbed in them.
I walk over to his desk to leave the gift while Maria stands near the doorway. On the desk, I see a picture of him and Mason from when they were little boys, horsing around on the beach. Mason seems to have Royce in some kind of choke hold, but the two of them are laughing. Mason’s only a couple years older, but based on what Royce has said about his brother, they seem so far apart now.
I pick up the picture frame and turn to Maria. “They used to be close, huh?”
“Very,” Maria says.
“But not anymore, right?”
Maria considers this. “I think both of the boys want their father’s approval, but they show it in very different ways. Mason rebels. Royce tries to follow in his father’s footsteps. As much as he can anyway.”
“I don’t know why he does,” I say, putting the picture back down on the desk. “He’s nothing like his father.”
Maria crosses her arms. “You know Mr. Blakely, then?”
“No. Not really. I’m sorry,” I say, realizing how horribly judgmental I just sounded.
“Royce is a good boy,” Maria says. “You be good to him.” She’s serious.
I look her in the eye and nod. Turns out I’m not the only one with a Filipino mother. “I’ll do my best,” I tell her, setting Royce’s gift on his desk. “Will you make sure he opens this as soon as he gets home?”
* * *
When I get to the car, Dad’s still being a Scrooge. “Filipino maid, huh,” he says.
“Maria is really nice,” I say, closing the door.
Dad gives the home one last glance as we drive off. “I hope he’s not just dating you so you can be his maid,” he says.
“Daddy, why do you always do this? No, I’m not going to be the help. Why would he think that? You’re being rude. Maria is nice, though I think Mrs. Blakely thinks I was there just to pry some kind of information out of her. She was surprised to see me.”
“This is getting good,” Dad teases. “Now you and the Mrs. are cat-fighting.”
“I didn’t say that! See? This is why I never tell you anything.”
“Aha!” Dad says. “So you admit you’re keeping secrets! No Christmas dinner for you!”
I lean my head on Dad’s shoulder while he drives.
He instantly pretends he feels sorry for me. “Okay, you can have bread and water.”
“I love you, Daddy,” I say.
“I love you too, neneng. Everything’s going to be all right.”
21
Those who deny freedom to others, deserve it not for themselves.
—ABRAHAM LINCOLN
WE MEET WITH the lawyer for our consultation the week after Christmas. Freddie Alvarado is Latino, in his midfifties, and has a close-trimmed beard and mustache. When he greets us, he’s holding a cup of green tea, which is my favorite drink. Dad, on the other hand, isn’t impressed and scowls at everything.
The office is filled with all kinds of photos of labor leaders past and present, including a shot of Mr. Alvarado standing between Larry Itliong and Philip Vera Cruz. I know who the two Filipino men in the photo are because Dad spent some time in the fields. Most Filipinos his age have worked, or have family who worked, in the fields at one time or another.
I can tell by Dad’s grimace that he thinks the picture is there to keep any potential Filipino clients happy.
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. de los Santos,” Mr. Alvarado says.
“Very interesting office,” Dad says, looking up and down the bookcases.
“I take great pride in meeting some of the political figures I’ve admired.”
While Mom and I sit on the chairs, Dad remains standing. “How much are you charging for this consultation? I want to know we’re getting a fair price.”
“Daddy,” I say, mortified. “We already know.”
Mom decides to speak up. “We would like to get started as soon as possible, Mr. Alvarado.”
“Of course,” he says. “You’ll be happy to know I’ve already begun researching your case. I believe with your work records and your children’s academic success, you have a good chance to prove you’re worthy candidates for a green card that can then lead to American citizenship.”
“How much will that cost?” Dad asks.
Mom steps on his foot.
Dad changes his tone. “I mean, what’s your well-counseled advice?”
Mom steps on his foot again. I make a mental note not to bring Dad next time. The way he’s acting right now, Mr. Alvarado will probably pay us to leave the country.
Mr. Alvarado seems to expect this kind of behavior and ignores the foot-smashing on our side of the desk. “I’d like to press for a deportation trial,” he says. “Your family also hasn’t committed any offenses, especially aggravated felonies.”
I’m a little nervous. The memory of running with Kayla through Lo’s living room to avoid the police flashes in my mind. Even though there weren’t any actual police, I still feel exposed.
“What exactly is a deportation trial?” Mom asks.
“It’ll mean you’ll be admitting fault that you have been living here without documentation,” says Mr. Alvarado. “But I’ll be able to argue that you should be able to stay and receive some kind of documentation in the meantime.”
I sense my parents are already feeling overwhelmed, so I speak up. “That’s a little scary, isn’t it? If we lose, couldn’t we be deported? Wouldn’t it be difficult to get back into the US if that happens? And wouldn’t my parents lose all their assets?”
Mr. Alvarado folds his hands. “You must have been researching this process, Ms. de los Santos.” I nod silently in agreement. Doing research seems to be my full-time hobby these days.
“That is a possibility...” Mr. Alvarado continues. “It’s always risky, even for the most seasoned of deportation defense attorneys, to win these types of cases. That’s also why I’m careful when I agree to take on a case. I’ve won about ninety percent of these types of hearings.”
“I can do simple math,” Dad says. “That leaves ten percent getting kicked out.”
“That’s not always the case either,” Mr. Alvarado says. “In some cases, there are appeals that can be made to the Board of Immigration Appeals. There are also short extensions via temporary permission to live and work in the US that can result.”
“We don’t want temporary visas,” Mom says. “What about just waiting for a new bill? We could get amnesty. Is there going to be another?”
“Laws are always changing, Mrs. de los Santos,” Mr. Alvarado says. He adjusts his bright green tie and buttons his suit jacket. “They depend on politics. And, as you know, politics are undependable. They can also take a very, very long time. In the meantime, any undocumented family runs the risk of deportation. And, of course, any infraction—even something as simple as a speeding ticket—while undocumented could put the entire family at risk of being housed in a detention center if you’re all in the car when it happens.”
In disbelief, Mom covers her mouth. Dad sits up in his chair. “A detention center?” I ask.
“They do exist, unfortunately. The government calls them family detention centers in the name of keeping families together, but my understanding is that they’re terrible, as one would assume, especially for children. I won’t let that happen to you. Most of them are used for those caught at border crossings.” Mr. Alvarado continues. “In some ways you’re lucky. The current administration recently passed laws to speed up the process of hearings. Just a few years ago, the
re was a backlog of more than 300,000 cases and a waiting time average of 1.5 years.”
“One and a half years!” Dad says. “All for a chance at eventual citizenship?”
“It’s a quicker process now,” Mr. Alvarado says. “And I believe your case will get a speedy hearing. Your daughter’s accomplishments and her meeting the president will really help your case. She’s a model citizen, as are all the members of your family. It would be even better if you could somehow bring more public attention to your case.”
“You think we should go around telling everyone?” Dad asks.
“Your daughter has been named a National Scholar. Surely she must know someone who could publicize her case.”
The only person I can think of is Mr. Blakely. Royce offered to ask his dad for help, but I don’t really see why the congressman would help us.
“Get the word out,” Mr. Alvarado continues. “The more political pressure, the better. The more support from the community. We can use help from all sides.”
“But we could still end up in a detention center or deported,” Mom says.
Mr. Alvarado looks each of us dead in the eye. “Like I said, there are risks. But you’re already technically taking them now. If you win, however, you’ll be deemed legal once and for all. You’ll be eligible for naturalization in a few years. You’ll all be United States citizens.”
22
Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim.
—NORA EPHRON
MOM AND DAD have been arguing nonstop about whether to petition for a deportation hearing. As important as that is to all of us, Royce’s return offers relief from the tension at my house. As soon as he gets back to Los Angeles, he picks me up in his father’s sweet little German sports car, which impresses my brothers to no end. He’s taking me out to dinner in Beverly Hills to celebrate our birthdays, like we’d originally planned.
Something in Between Page 19