Dad is another matter.
“Fine,” I say after our standoff. “I’ll get him. When’s Lola coming?”
“Your mother’s picking her up. Show some respect. She’s a lonely old woman.”
“She’s not lonely,” I say. “She hangs out with old Filipino women at the home every day.”
“Sounds like a hard life to me,” Dad says. “If you knew my mother, rest her soul.”
I laugh. My dad can always crack me up. I’m glad we’re staying in now. I have missed hanging out with my family. I walk out to the driveway, where Royce is waiting in his Range Rover.
He rolls down the window. “Why aren’t you getting in?”
“I can’t go,” I sigh.
“Oh,” he says, flummoxed. This hasn’t happened before. “Are you grounded or something? Do I have to leave?”
“No!” I say. “They want you to come in and have dinner with us. Is that okay?”
“Sure, of course. Why didn’t you just say so earlier?” he says. “You know I like Filipino food.”
Just then Mom rolls up with Lola Cherry. Mom gets out and opens the door for Lola, who starts arguing with Mom about something in Tagalog.
“You think I can’t open a door?” Lola barks.
“I was already here,” Mom says.
“You’re treating me like a cripple.”
As they walk toward the house, Lola leans on Mom’s arm. Suddenly, Lola Cherry sees Royce and me. “Neneng! What are you doing outside! Come in here with that handsome boyfriend of yours!”
I wave to her. My stomach has tied itself into a big knot. Oh well, Royce has to meet her sooner or later.
Inside, Lola sits down at the kitchen table with Dad, who’s drinking coffee. Mom starts cooking lumpia over the stove. I notice Lola has her curved wooden cane sitting at her side.
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. de los Santos,” Royce says.
Mom claps her hands. “Royce!” she says. She doesn’t usually act this way. It’s something she’s putting on for Lola. She wants to show us off. She turns to Lola. “This is Jasmine’s boyfriend, Royce. He goes to Eastlake Prep.”
I sit down. Royce continues to stand.
“Where’s that?” Lola says.
“It’s in Brentwood,” I tell her. “Private school.”
“Ah, one of those.”
“Lola! You went to Catholic school in Cebu City,” Mom says before Royce can say anything. We’re all talking at the same time.
“St. Theresa’s was a long time ago,” Lola says. “And the nuns were stupid.”
Royce and I laugh. I hand him a Coke. He smiles his thanks.
“Don’t say that!” Mom says. “God in heaven will strike us all dead.”
“It’s true,” says Lola. “They were dumb as bricks. They thought we were all good girls, but we were smoking, drinking, and meeting the boys after dark. We could stay out until 6:00 a.m. because those nuns were so old, dumb, and blind.” Lola takes off her trifocals. Her eyes suddenly look tiny. “I can’t see through these,” she says, reaching for her purse.
“Let me get that for you.” Royce reaches down.
Lola is quicker than lightning and smacks Royce on the hand with her cane. “Don’t touch that. What are you? Some hooligan?”
Royce yelps, pulling away his hand from Lola like she’s some kind of poisonous snake who snapped at him with her forked tongue. I hold my breath, waiting to see how he’ll react.
“Is that all you’ve got?” he says to Lola with a raised eyebrow.
Dad starts laughing. “Good one, Royce.”
“Lola!” Mom says. “What if he’s going to become a surgeon? You can’t break his hands!”
Lola opens her purse and takes out a handkerchief to wipe her lenses. “I can’t help if he’s slow,” she says.
Royce winks at me while he rubs his hand.
I smirk at Lola. She pretends to be so innocent, but she’s always been a prankster.
“How’s your knee?” I ask Lola.
“It’s fine, but my dancing days are definitely over.”
“Were you a dancer?” Royce asks.
“She likes to think she was,” Dad says.
Mom rolls the last lumpia and puts it on a sheet with the others to fry.
“I was a great dancer,” Lola says. “I may not be a blood relative of Jasmine, but she wouldn’t be cheerleading if I hadn’t shown her how to shake her hips.”
Royce raises an eyebrow and looks intrigued. I try not to blush.
“Oh, come on,” Mom says.
“It’s true! Tell her, neneng. You know the truth.”
“Lola was a traditional dance leader for the Filipino community here,” I say. “And before that, according to legend—and by legend I mean from the mouth of Lola herself—she also taught ballet at some dance school for fifty years.”
“You exaggerate,” Lola says. “I’m not even fifty years old...”
“Try more like a thousand years,” Dad says, as Danny and Isko enter the room.
“When’s dinner going to be ready?” Danny asks.
Isko kicks Royce in the back of the knee. Royce almost goes tumbling to the floor. Poor Royce. He’s always so abused when he comes over to my house.
“Isko!” Mom says. “Tarantado! Apologize to Royce!”
“Oh, that Francisco,” Lola laughs. “Maybe he should wear a black dress for the rest of the day and say Hail Marys. You have black skirts, Jasmine. Maybe you can lend him one.”
“I’m not wearing a dress!” Isko says. “It’s Danny’s fault! He dared me to see if I could make him fall!”
“How about I make you fall?” Dad says. “You and your brother get out of here.”
The boys dart out of the room.
I turn to Royce and hug him. “Don’t worry. I’ll get him back for you later.”
“Or I will.” He grins. “Don’t forget, I have an older brother. I can defend myself.”
Lola has her glasses back on her face. “Neneng. You didn’t tell me your friend was white.”
Oh no, I think. Here she goes. Lola may be wild, but she’s also still more traditional than my parents in some ways.
This time Royce speaks up. “Italian-Mexican-Norwegian-German-English actually,” he says. “Oh, and some Irish.”
Lola gives Royce a bizarre look. “Running for politics like your fancy dad?”
I glance at Mom. She shrugs apologetically. She must have told Lola Cherry everything about Royce. And Congressman Blakely.
“If my dad had his way, I would be just like him,” Royce says.
“Then don’t be a fool. Be like JFK. Now there was an American president! He looked good in a suit too. Charming. Handsome. He was a playboy though. Are you a playboy?”
Royce laughs. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so? You sound like JFK already. Maybe you should run for president.”
“Nah, that’s my dad, not me.”
“Lola,” I interrupt. “How are your friends in the home?”
“Oh, them,” she says. “They’re fine. Boring. Same old stories every day. My son’s family is doing this. My daughter’s family is doing that. My son’s family is wealthier than your son’s family. My hip is going out. I can’t eat pork anymore. I get tired of it all. I just want to watch movies and dance, but this knee hurts too much. I watch some of them dance and I say, ‘Hey, you got two left feet. What’s wrong with you?’ But it does no good unless I can show them.”
I sometimes feel bad for Lola. Old people in the Philippines never go to a home. Their families take care of them. But then I remember not to feel so sorry for her, because Lola actually seems to like being social with the other old people. She might complain about them, but they
allow her to constantly be the center of attention, which is her favorite thing to be.
Lola turns her attention to Royce again. “Why are you here? Why aren’t you taking Jasmine out?”
I give Dad a told-you-so look. Royce glances at me and smiles.
“He wanted to meet you,” Dad lies. “He heard so much about you.”
“Do you want me to hit you with my cane?” she says to Dad.
Dad chuckles. “You look like Charlie Chaplin when you walk with that.”
“You say that again,” Lola says like she’s daring him.
“Tell us about the boys you snuck out to meet in Cebu City,” says Royce. “What were they like?”
“You don’t even know,” Lola says. “There was this military man on leave taking classes nearby. He was in World War Two. There was a scar hole on his shoulder you could put your finger in from a Japanese bayonet. Oh, and there was a French scholar who liked my dancing. Wild days, those were. He came to the ballet to see me once. He was studying birds and politics. Can you believe that? He called me his falconet. You ever see one? Glossy. Blue black. They yell kek-kek-kek-kek when they’re diving between the trees.”
“Stop it, Lola,” Mom says. “You’re giving Jasmine ideas.”
Lola’s eyes brighten. “Oh, I don’t have to do that. She’s young. She has her own ideas. Don’t you, neneng? I don’t need to help you come up with those.”
“Not if I can help it,” Dad says.
I try to see if Royce is squirming as badly as I am, but he doesn’t seem to be. He’s smiling, going with the flow.
“Why did you move to the United States, Lola Cherry?” Royce asks.
“Ah. You want to hear this story?” Lola asks. Before Royce can respond, Lola leans toward the table, clasping her hands together as if in prayer. “In the Philippines, I used to... When I was around Jasmine’s age, I was quite a looker, just like her. If I do say so myself. There was one night I put on my best dress and snuck out of my family’s compound to go to a dance at a bar. There was a handsome man drinking whiskey, leaning against the bar, but he didn’t talk to anyone. Well, you know me, I couldn’t let him go through the whole night not talking to anyone, so I went up to him and asked him to dance. He agreed, but I was soon regretting my choice because he had two left feet!”
Royce seems enthralled by her story. I guess it is kind of funny. “What did you do? Did you ditch him? Did you whack him with your cane?”
Lola laughs. “I wish I’d had my cane then. I could have taught him a thing or two about rhythm. To answer your question—no, I didn’t abandon him. In fact, I discovered that he was Filipino, but he had been born in the United States. His reason for coming to the Philippines was to find a wife. And, well, how should I say this? He found me. So here I am.”
“You knew he was the one for you, just like that?” Royce asks. But he’s looking at me, not Lola, and I can feel myself blushing and smiling.
“Yes, I knew he was the one. Just like that.” Lola nods. “But enough about me,” she says, uncharacteristically. I can tell talking about her late husband is making her sad. She turns around in her seat, pointing her cane at Dad. “What are you doing about your citizenship problem?”
I’m glad she’s changed the subject, but not really sure I want to hear this argument.
“We came to a decision,” Mom says.
I’m surprised. “You did? How come I didn’t hear about this?”
“Because you’re never home,” Dad says. “Huh, Royce?”
Royce’s ears turn red and he chokes down the last of his Coke.
“What did you decide?” Lola asks, tapping the kitchen table with her cane. “If you’re going back to the Philippines, you can take me with you. I’d rather be buried there than here. I don’t like American cemeteries.”
“What’s wrong with the cemeteries?” Dad asks.
Mom interrupts. “We’re going to go through with the deportation hearing.”
“We are?” I ask. My stomach heaves.
“Might as well take our chances,” Mom says.
Royce and I catch each other’s gaze. I can’t tell which of us looks more anxious.
24
I’m inspired by failure. The process of defeat—picking yourself back up again is the hardest thing in the world.
—LOLO JONES
“YOU NEED TO spend more time doing schoolwork,” Mom says the next Saturday night as I’m getting ready to go to Lo’s for another kick back.
“Why? What’s the point?” I ask.
Even though our family has been through a lot together, I’m starting to get bitter about the possibilities for my future. The more research I do about the success of deportation trials, the angrier I get. It turns out Mr. Alvarado was being overly optimistic about our chances.
“Quit being so angry,” Mom says. “You weren’t born in America. You’re not entitled to its privileges.”
I can’t believe she just said that to me. If that’s really how she feels, then I don’t even want to be home right now.
“You don’t get it,” I say. “I put in my hard work. I did what you told me to do. And it won’t do any good—it won’t help us stay here. Now, I finally have something in my life that you didn’t pick out for me. You can’t control me for forever, Mom. I’m already eighteen.”
“You’re with that boy all the time,” she says. “It’s not good for you to be so serious with someone at this age.”
“Are you really going to start calling Royce ‘that boy,’ Mom?”
What happened to “be careful” and trusting that I can take care of myself? It’s so dumb, because I know that she actually likes Royce. And too bad, we are serious about each other.
When Mom leaves my room, I text Kayla to see if she and Dylan are on the way to pick me up. We haven’t seen each other much, since she spends most of her time with Dylan and I’ve gotten back together with Royce. Coming in second at Regionals, we don’t have as much cheer practice anymore—mostly we just perform for basketball games—so it’ll be nice to hang out.
Kayla texts back and says they’ll be there soon. Royce is going to meet me at the party, since he’s coming from some thing he had to do for his dad. I’m excited for him to meet my friends, to see what I’m like around people who aren’t my family.
“Hey, guys,” I say, when they arrive. Dylan gives me the thumbs-up and Kayla has a huge smile on her face.
“What up, girl,” she says. “Wait till you hear their new song, it’s amazing.”
“Can’t wait,” I say. I’m a senior in high school, it’s Saturday night, and I’m going to have fun with my guy and my friends.
This kick back is much smaller than the first one we went to. Just the guys in the band and their girlfriends hanging out in the backyard, sitting in a circle around a fire pit and drinking a few beers.
I take a seat on a patio chair and drink a little beer, which makes me feel light-headed. I wish Royce would get here already, but I know that he’s going to be a while. It’s at least an hour drive for him. Maybe less, if traffic isn’t too bad and he’s driving fast like he usually does. I listen to the conversation, mostly about where the band should tour next.
I don’t say much. I’m thinking of the deportation hearing that’s coming up. If we win, we get to stay, but if we lose, we lose everything. I’ve also been thinking how frustrating it is that a law can somehow define who you are or how you see yourself. It’s like I’m somehow less of a person because I’m not in America legally.
Maybe my frustration is showing because Kayla knocks me with her foot and mouths You okay?
Dylan notices and says, “Yeah, you look bummed. What’s up with you?”
I shrug, but suddenly I find myself strangely close to tears. “It’s nothing,” I say.
“Jasmine recently found out she’s an illegal immigrant,” Kayla says after taking a long pull of her beer.
I want to feel betrayed that she’s telling people my big secret like it’s no big deal, but I know better. She’s just trying to do what she thinks is good for me, and I already know she thinks I should be more open about what’s wrong. I’m actually surprised she hasn’t told Dylan yet, especially since I didn’t tell her she couldn’t.
“Undocumented,” I correct.
“Oh man,” Julian says, overhearing. “How could you just find something like that out?”
“Her parents didn’t tell her. They were too scared to,” Kayla explains.
“Man, that blows,” says Dylan. “I can’t imagine waking up one day and finding out I’m not American. That’s crazy. Are you okay? I mean, that’s a stupid question.”
Lo reaches across the circle and puts a hand on my knee. “Jas, we’re here for you. Is there anything we can do to help?”
I shake my head.
“So what are you going to do?” Julian asks, concerned.
“I don’t know,” I say. I smile weakly, but I do feel better having told them.
The back door of Lo’s house opens. Her younger brother, Eric, and Kayla’s brother, Brian, come into the backyard. Both of the boys are around Danny’s age. They’re a little bit older but go to the same middle school. Danny mentions them every once in a while, but I don’t think they hang out.
“You’ve got more guests, Lo,” Eric says.
I turn and see Royce and Mason walking up behind them.
Mason? What’s he doing here? Why would Royce bring him?
Brian walks up to Kayla and puts his arm around her. “Hey, sis. Can we hang out here with you guys for a few minutes? You and Lo are supposed to be watching us after all.”
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