Something in Between

by Melissa de la Cruz

  I’m so excited to see him that I spent a longer time than usual doing my hair, fixing my makeup, trying and discarding every outfit until I found the perfect one.

  He gets more handsome every time I see him. But today he looks even better than usual, because when he holds the car door open for me I notice he’s wearing the tie I bought him for Christmas. It has the flag of the Philippines on one side and the US flag on the other. He’s got it Philippines side out. The tie was one of those cheesy knickknacks my parents used to sell at Tito Sonny’s store. I thought Royce would find it funny, and I was right.

  That’s what I love about him. Not that he’s taking me to a fancy dinner, but that he’s wearing the silly gift I gave him. He’s a good sport.

  He gives me a long wolf whistle when I take off my sweater before sliding into the seat. I didn’t want my parents to see the dress I’m wearing, and I blush a little.

  It’s a tight-fitting, low-cut, red knee-length cocktail dress that I bought at an after-Christmas sale. Lipstick to match. I was worried I couldn’t pull it off—I’ve never worn anything so outwardly sexy before—but he seems to like it. (Okay, he seems to like it a lot.)

  “I didn’t think you would actually wear that tie,” I tell him, as he settles into the driver’s seat. It was just one of those whims. A self-pride moment. Okay, I admit it. I wanted the last laugh. I wanted him to go the extra mile for me, to be willing to be uncomfortable for my sake, to wear a funny tie to prove he cares for me. He’s doing a great job.

  He fidgets with the tie. “I really like how the flip side is the US flag. It’s sort of like us.”

  “Ha,” I say. “Have you thought about relocating to Manila?”

  “I’ll go if you do,” he says lightly. And with the roar of the engine, we’re off.

  * * *

  When we’re at Spago, I tell him I’ve never been to a restaurant this fancy, other than the time I was in D.C. for the award. I’m a bit intimidated, but I feel more confident as the night goes on, especially since Royce is so self-assured that we belong there.

  The waiter takes our order and leaves, and for a moment we kind of just stare at each other. Then we both look down and laugh. But there’s a slight distance between us now, and he’s not reaching for my hand across the table the way he used to. He’s all the way over there, and I’m all the way over here, and even though we’re easy with each other, it’s not quite the same.

  “I’ll start,” he says. “Aspen was a bore.”

  “Liar,” I say.

  “No. Seriously. I was bored out of my mind. Have you ever felt that way? I mean, gone someplace really fun, someplace you always look forward to going, then when you get there, there’s sort of this big letdown?”

  “Yeah, sort of, I guess.” I admit I’m kind of happy to hear this. If he’d had a great time I probably would have wanted to leave the table right then. “We haven’t seen each other in a while, and I was looking forward to this. But are you disappointed now?” I ask, because I like to tease him.

  “Right now I’m pretty much the farthest from disappointed anyone can be,” he says with a serious look on his face. “What about you?”

  “Ditto,” I say.

  He smiles. “It’s good to know I’m not such a disappointment to other people like I am to my dad.”

  “He’s not disappointed in you!”

  Royce shrugs. “He was when I told him I wanted to be a journalist.”

  “Oh man, I’m sorry. If it helps, I’m always trying to please my parents too. It’s a Filipino thing.”

  “Then I’m Filipino too.” He grins, the shadow leaving his face. “I’m wearing the tie, aren’t I?”

  “Are your parents okay? You said they were fighting about Mason.”

  He sighs. “Yeah, they just disagree on what to do about him. Mom thinks Dad should be harder on him, but Dad thinks Mason will shape up eventually. He wants him to transfer out of USC next year, but Mom thinks it’s better if he’s close to home.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “It’s all right. Like I said, it’s nothing new. They’ve been fighting about Mason for years now.”

  The waiter comes over with our food and refills our waters. I thank him. Royce fidgets again, this time with his napkin.

  “So your dad wasn’t too happy about journalism, huh?” I ask.

  “Nope. He keeps sending me links to all these articles about how it’s a dying profession and all these ex-journalists now drive for Uber.”

  I grimace. “Yikes.”

  “Yeah, well. Dad wants me to major in political science, which means I’ll probably have to intern for him at some point,” he says, getting that look on his face again.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “The worst.”

  “Well, in other news, I turned in my Stanford application,” I tell him.

  He raises his eyebrows and he talks all in a rush. “That’s great! You said it’s your first choice, right?” he says hopefully.

  “Yeah.”

  “That would be cool if we both ended up there,” he says. “We could probably room together or share an apartment if we wanted. I think they let you do that. Not freshman year, but later.”

  “Are you asking me to move in with you already?” I tease.

  He blushes. “Oops.”

  “No, I like that you always make plans for us,” I tell him. I do like it. I like that he’s so sure of me, of what he wants, and that he wants me. I indulge in a fantasy of the two of us at Stanford, walking the quad, going to the library. Sharing an apartment senior year maybe. How much fun it would be, to wake up in his arms—to be with him all the time. We’ve only been going out for a short time and already he’s got us shacking up. What would my parents say about that?

  We’re Filipino, and we go to church every Sunday. They don’t approve of premarital sex. My dad would probably insist we get married before we moved in together. Shotgun shack-up, I think with a laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks.

  I tell him about the image of my dad with a shotgun and he gets a strange, nervous look on his face, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “Don’t worry, I won’t let him shoot you,” I say.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Much,” I say, and then we’re both laughing.

  I tell him what’s going on with Mr. Alvarado, about all the risks involved with a hearing, and how Mom and Dad have been arguing constantly about what to do next.

  “I guess once you throw it out there, anything can happen. You get on the government’s radar and that’s a two-edged sword for sure,” he says, between bites.

  “Yeah. Even though I’m dying to visit, I don’t want to go to the Philippines to live. There’s nothing there for me. My life is here.” I push my fish around on my plate, having lost my appetite a little.

  “What are your chances?” Royce asks. “When it’s said and done, if you don’t have near-certain chances, your family shouldn’t do it. It’s too risky.”

  “It’s awful, isn’t it? No one who’s been in America as long as us should have to go through this. I’ve been here most of my life. I can barely remember the Philippines. I used to think I belonged equally to both cultures, but I’m not really Filipino, and now I’m not quite American either.”

  “You’re who you’ve always been, Jas. That doesn’t change,” he says. “Like I said the other night, I really think we should ask my dad to help. He can do a lot, he knows so many people.”

  “I still don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say. “I don’t want to put you in the middle of all this. Do you even trust him to know about my status?” I ask nervously, the butterflies returning to my stomach.

  “There has to be some way I can help,” Royce says. “Look, I know you think my dad’s a ba
d guy, but he’s not really. He would do this for me.”

  “I don’t need anything from you except to just be there for me,” I say. I want to reach across the table and touch him, but I don’t. I’m still a bit shy after our sort-of-breakup.

  “I am,” he says. “You know I am. But you need to tell more people what’s going on.”

  Suddenly, I recall someone else saying the same thing.

  “What’s up?” Royce asks.

  “My friend Millie told me that recently. That I need to build a support group. I can’t do it alone.”

  “Great minds think alike,” he says. Royce hasn’t met Millie, but he’s heard all about her.

  “You know what though? If I’m only going to be here for a little while longer, I want to make it count. Live it up a little,” I say, an idea dawning. Royce is back in LA, and we’re back together. We’re eighteen years old—what are we doing in this stuffy restaurant?

  “Live it up? You? I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” Now he’s the one teasing me.

  “Let’s get out of here. Take me somewhere.” I lean over and look into his eyes. I reach for his hand and slowly scratch a nail under his palm in a seductive gesture I never realized I was capable of making. Maybe it’s because I waited so long to kiss a boy, or maybe it’s just because it’s him. I think it’s because it’s him. Like Royce, I know what I want.

  His face turns bright red, and he throws the napkin down on the table along with enough cash to cover the meal. No need for dessert.

  Royce stands up. “Where do you want to go?”

  “I don’t know. How fast can you drive?”

  * * *

  Royce grins as I’m hanging on to the side of the car door for dear life. We’re going top-down in the Carrera. I’ve never been more attracted to him. This is it, I tell myself. Speed. The edge. Roaring curves. Mulholland Drive. This is a metaphor for life, and I’m completely trusting Royce with mine.

  I embrace every turn, every leap of my stomach. Royce tells me not to worry—he’s had speed-driving lessons. I didn’t even know you could get those, but apparently you can if you’re rich enough.

  “I can’t believe you’ve never driven fast on Mulholland,” he says. “This is me taking it easy!”

  “Don’t take it easy,” I say, loving the wicked, dangerous thrill. “Go as fast as you can.”

  “Oh, I will,” he says. I love the way he focuses. Eyes on the road. Carefully shifting and downshifting on the curves, then hitting the gears again so we’re really soaring. We’re going faster now. Faster. The car roars; it was made for this.

  When he turns to me, his handsome face is full of joy. He’s totally lost in the moment, not caring about anything but the speed, the ride, wind in his hair and the speakers blasting Kanye’s “All of the Lights.” My heart is bursting for him. This is exactly what I wanted tonight.

  The curves come faster, harder. If my parents were here, I’d never see Royce again. The car screeches on a turn and I scream at him to slow down. In my defense, I want to live.

  He laughs and shakes his head. “No way! This is what you wanted!”

  Damn, he’s right. Through the howl of the wind, I manage to squeak out a few words. “The city is so beautiful from here!”

  He laughs again. “You want me to watch the lights or the road?”

  I laugh nervously and nearly throw up.

  “You don’t look scared enough!” he yells. “Maybe I should go faster!”

  He’d better be joking, or I’ll kill him before he kills me, but I stay quiet, gripping the edge of my seat, taking in the dangerous, iridescent beauty of Los Angeles. Below us are cascades of city lights like swirling jellyfish in a sea of bioluminescence. I’m above the darkness and the lights on the swells of this road. I’m a little carsick, but I don’t tell Royce.

  Somehow I know I need to feel scared. Somehow I know, that tonight, I need to feel everything.

  * * *

  He parks the car at a secluded spot, high on the hill, where we can see the whole city. We don’t say a word to each other. We don’t have to; we know exactly what we’re about to do. He’s breathing heavily and so am I, and as soon as he cuts the engine I literally leap into his arms, scooting over from my side of the seat to get nearer to his. With the top down on the car, I should be cold, but he’s so warm, and pressed against him like this, so am I.

  We’re kissing now, our arms wrapped around each other, as if we can’t get close enough to each other, and we want—we need to be closer. I tug at his shirt, run my hands underneath, so I can feel his skin, and I notice he’s trembling.

  “What?” I whisper.

  “I want you so much,” he says.

  “Let’s do it,” I say, feeling so powerfully feminine at the moment, and my hand goes to his belt, and he tugs down on the straps of my dress, and I think, this is it, I want this. I want him. I want this with him.

  Now he’s lying on top of me, his body heavy on mine, and I like its weight, like having him on top of me. I start to unbuckle his belt, but suddenly, and with a drawn-out groan, he stops me. Puts his hand on mine.

  “We shouldn’t,” he says hoarsely. “Not like this, not here.”

  I wiggle underneath him, and he catches his breath again. I can make him change his mind, I know I can. “But I want to.” I want to show him how much I feel for him, how much closer I want to be. Yet I’m a little nervous too, and maybe he senses that because he shakes his head.

  “Jas,” he breathes. “We can’t.”

  “Why not?” I say, my heart pounding, my breath shallow, but feeling relief as well.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he says. “But...”

  I know what he means. We’re not ready. We just got back together. It feels right, but it’s way, way, too fast.

  He pulls away a little and we both settle down. That’s when I realize the seats in the car go all the way down. So that’s how we got in this position, I think, and laugh to myself.

  Royce pushes up on one elbow and looks down at me. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, and I push his bangs away so I can see his eyes.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks, looking worried.

  I smile to show him there’s nothing to worry about. “The seats. I didn’t realize until just now that they recline all the way down.”

  “They have to,” he says, with a serious look on his face. “Otherwise how else are we going to have sex in this thing one day?”

  “Oh my God,” I say, hiding my face in my hands. I almost had sex with him. I wanted to, so badly, but I’m glad he stopped us.

  When he gently pulls my hands away from my face, I know he’s telling me there’s nothing to be ashamed of, and I know he’s right.

  I want to know all of him, and I want him to know all of me. One day we will.

  Everything is beautiful in the moonlight.

  23

  Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be.

  —CLEMENTINE PADDLEFORD

  IT DOESN’T TAKE long for Mom and Dad to catch on that I don’t want to be at home. At all. Since Royce and I got back together, I just want to spend as much time with him as I can to make up for all that time when we weren’t together. We take it slow though, and go back to kissing a lot. He sends me love letters (okay, love emails) and writes me poetry. I take endless portraits of him with my phone. I used to be really into photography, and I am obsessed with capturing every angle of his handsome face. I want to show him how I see him, how beautiful he is to me.

  But every moment we’re together is an anxious one too. Who knows how long we have to be together? If my family does end up having to leave America, I don’t want to lose out on any time left that I might have with him. Tonight, I’m halfway to the front door,
trying to sneak out for the evening, when Dad stops me. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Out,” I say.

  Dad puts his arm across the doorway. “With who? Kayla?”

  “You know who, Daddy.” I inch closer toward the door. It’s not that I don’t want to spend any time with my family anymore, but come on, I’ve spent eighteen years with them staying home almost every single night.

  “But Lola Cherry’s coming over for dinner. You know she’ll want to see you.”

  He had to say that. He knows I love Lola Cherry.

  It’s probably a trick though. “I already made plans,” I say.

  “Bring your white boy in for a while,” Dad says, resolute. “Lola wants to meet him.”

  I recall how I wanted Royce to know more about me, about my family. But I know how Lola Cherry can get. Royce has no idea how loose-tongued older-generation Filipinos are.

  I try a new tactic. “We have reservations,” I say. “And his mom is Latina, by the way. He’s not a white boy.”

  “Sure looks like one to me,” says Dad. “And I don’t care about reservations. Un-reserve them.”

  I’m not giving up yet. “We made them a week ago, Dad. Royce said they were really hard to get.” I’m stretching it a little—we’re just going to the movies and grabbing burgers—but Dad doesn’t have to know that.

  “So?” he says. “You’ll save money if you eat here.”

  “I wasn’t paying,” I say, trying to go around him, but he blocks me from leaving.

  “Neneng. Don’t waste that boy’s money.”

  “I’m not. I didn’t ask him to spend it!”

  I give Dad the eternal look of daughter disapproval, but he doesn’t budge. It’s so unfair—I’ve been such a good girl my whole life, and he still won’t let me be a regular teenager for a few months. Not that I’m ever going to tell him about Royce taking me drag racing on Mulholland Drive, of course. Or what almost happened after. Filipinos think all brides are virgins, or should be.

  Although Mom surprised me the other day. Out of the blue she said she hoped Royce and I were “being careful” and that “there are a lot of diseases out there” which I think is the code for “make sure you don’t get pregnant or catch an STD.” I wanted to tell her that we weren’t having sex! At least not yet. How does she know it’s on my mind? But then, moms always know, right? I was too embarrassed to say anything, but I promised her I was taking care of myself. She seemed okay with that.