Something in Between

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s a congressman, Jas, I don’t think you understand how powerful he is. He really could help you. He could help your family,” Royce says intently.

  “So let me get this straight—you’ve been avoiding me because you’re interning for him, and you’re interning for him because you think it might help me?”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much it. I know, it sounds messed up.” He gnaws on his thumbnail. We have the same bad habits. “But also because it was easier to say yes. I was tired of fighting him. I didn’t want you to think I was a coward. I’m not like you. You always go after what you want. I thought you would be ashamed of me, that I caved so easily.”

  “I would never be ashamed of you,” I say. “I’m sorry you felt you couldn’t tell me, and that you would give up your own dreams to try and help with mine. But you don’t have to do that. I didn’t ask you to.”

  “Yeah, well.” He shrugs.

  “I have something to tell you too. The deportation trial’s coming up.”

  He turns and looks at me directly for the first time. I liked looking at his profile, but this is much better. “It is? You never told me!” he says, his eyes flashing.

  “I know. I was mad, so I kept it from you.”

  “So when is it?”

  I tell him. It’s so soon. Too soon.

  “Is it too late to get my dad involved?” he asks.

  “I think so.”

  He puts his head down on the steering wheel.

  I reach over and tentatively put a hand on his back. Mason and Kayla and his internship for his dad aren’t our real problems. I have to talk to him about what tore us apart—about what I said about his family. What I said about him.

  He doesn’t shake off my hand, which is a good sign. I keep it there, and put on a little more pressure, so that I’m rubbing his back, trying to console him.

  “You broke up with me anyway—why do I care if you have to leave the country,” he says, his voice muffled.

  “I know you care.” I know he does, because I feel the same way. I don’t want to leave him. “And if we’re broken up, why are you here?”

  “You asked me to meet you,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “And you just do whatever I ask you to do?” I say, amused.

  “Pretty much.”

  I laugh. It never occurred to me before that I have so much power over him, and that it was equal, if not more, than the power he holds over me.

  He was just as miserable as I was. He missed me just as much. At least I had my family, my friends to fall back on. Who did Royce have? His parents are always traveling. His brother is a snake. His sister is sweet, but young. He had Maria, I guess.

  Once, he had me.

  He’s still slumped against the steering wheel, and so I continue to rub his back. I’ve always liked his back. It’s so broad, so manly. It’s one of his nicest physical features, and he has many. “Higher,” he says. “I have an itch right there. Right between my shoulder blades.”

  I scratch it. He sighs in relief.

  I wonder if this is what it would be like when we’re old and married. Having someone to scratch your back. Who’s got your back.

  “I didn’t mean what I said that day,” I tell him. “About your family. About you. I was just angry and stressed. I lashed out more from my own insecurity about my background than anything you or your parents have done to me. They’re great. You’re great.”

  As an apology it’s lame, I know. But he’s the writer, not me.

  Royce doesn’t say anything. I can feel him breathing under my hand, like a wounded animal. One that I shot.

  “I know I’m always telling you to stop putting yourself down,” I tell him. “But I was guilty of the same thing. I put myself down. I convinced myself everyone else was the one doing it, that it was your family that was judging me, that you were judging me, but I was the one who found me and my family lacking. I was the one who was embarrassed to be who I was, embarrassed about where I came from.”

  He raises his head from the steering wheel and looks at me. “Jas...”

  “Let me finish,” I say. “Because I have to say it. I was embarrassed that I was embarrassed, if you know what I mean. I hated that I felt that way about myself. I work so hard to hold my head up, to be proud of my culture, my background, my history. I would never change my skin color, the shape of my eyes, or the color of my hair, but inside, I was worse than anyone out there who calls me a chink, or a FOB.”

  He sits up straight now. “Jas, really, stop. I know you didn’t mean what you said when we were fighting.”

  “Do you forgive me?” I ask, hugging my knees to my chest on the seat next to him.

  Royce reaches over across the console so that he can wrap his strong arms around me, and I curl into him, feeling safe again for the first time in weeks. He buries his head in my shoulder. “Always,” he murmurs. “You don’t even need to ask.”

  I raise my head so he can see me smile. I don’t deserve someone like Royce, I think, and then I squash the thought. There’s no “deserving” when it comes to love, when it comes to relationships. You just accept the love you get and you count yourself lucky.

  And I am so, so, so, so lucky.

  “I love you,” I tell him. I’d wanted him to say it first, like it was a competition or something, because that’s the kind of selfish person I am. But I don’t want to be that person anymore. I want to be open and generous and vulnerable, and I want to tell him how I feel about him. I should have said it earlier. I should have said it when he came back from Aspen and he was wearing that silly tie. I should have said it all those times we were kissing. I should’ve texted it to him a hundred times a day.

  “I love you,” I repeat, because he’s just looking at me, smiling.

  “Yeah?” he says, turning pink, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Well, guess what? I love you too. But you already know that, right?”

  I do. I’ve lived in his love for months now, have basked in it, have been warmed by it, have been supported and buoyed by it.

  “I love you more,” I say.

  “Not possible,” he says. “I love you most.”

  When he leans down, I stretch to meet him halfway and we’re kissing again. It’s soft and sweet and a little sad this time, licking wounds, trying to find our way back to each other. That beautiful thing between us, it was tarnished a little, and it’s going to take some work, some effort, to bring it back to where it was. Maybe it’ll always have a scar in it, but scars heal—that’s what love does. It breaks things open and puts them back together again.

  “You know, I knew you were the one for me when I heard you interviewing that old guy in the hospital,” he says. “You listened to him and asked questions, and you were so interested. You were such a good friend to him. It made me realize I didn’t have anyone like that in my life—someone who just listens to me. You’re beautiful, Jas, but I fell in love with your beautiful heart.”

  “So you’re saying you think of yourself as an elderly hospice patient?” I tease.

  He kisses my head.

  “Hey, I almost forgot,” Royce says when we’ve stopped kissing and we’re just sitting in the car holding hands, listening to the crickets and cicadas. “There was another reason I came out to see you.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  He opens the glove compartment, hands me a present. When I open it, I see it’s a copy of Armies of the Night. Inside the book, he’s inscribed, For Jas, my hero. Happy Valentine’s Day. Love, Royce.

  “I forgot it was Valentine’s Day,” I tell him, admiring the book. “I have a present for you too.”

  “Yeah?” he asks happily.

  “I was still working on it, so I have to print it
out.” But I take out my phone and show it to him. It’s a photo I took of the two of us, and over the picture I’ve written a quote from one of our favorite poems.

  I have spread my dreams under your feet.

  Tread softly because you tread upon my dreams.

  -William Butler Yeats.

  He studies it for a long time. “It’s beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful,” I say.

  “That’s my line.” He smiles.

  We’re kissing again, until Daddy knocks on the glass. When Royce rolls down the window, Dad tells me it’s time to go to bed.

  “She’s not a sucker fish,” Dad says. “Go home, Royce.”

  Embarrassed, I tell Royce good-night.

  But I smile all the way to bed.

  31

  You show people what you’re willing to fight for when you fight for your friends.

  —HILLARY CLINTON

  I’M WEARING ALL BLACK. Not because I’m in mourning, though I am terrified. It’s just more professional. It makes me look older. Mom wears a lavender sweater over a nice gray tweed skirt. She really looks like she could own an entire estate. Dad wears his old suit. Even though it’s the same one he’s worn for years, he doesn’t wear it very often, so the navy blue fabric still looks brand-new. He’s handsome in it. He could be a doctor or a lawyer. My brothers stand behind us, completely silent. Mom has coached them to be on their best behavior. They don’t want to go back to live in the Philippines either.

  I think we all look sharp. A real all-American family.

  Royce sends me a text: Don’t worry. America was made for and by people like you. I love you.

  His words make me feel braver about what’s going to happen. Our deportation hearing isn’t in a courtroom, like I was expecting. We’re standing in a small chamber with a long wooden table and lots of chairs. Mr. Alvarado wears a black suit. A representative from the government who specializes in these kinds of hearings chats with him. Next to him is a bailiff. I don’t know why there’s a need for one. We’re not threatening anyone. I mean, I don’t particularly expect Dad to go crazy.

  The door swings open suddenly, causing the bailiff to shout over our heads. “All rise for the Honorable Judge Reynolds.”

  The judge comes in wearing a black robe. He carries an armload of papers. Though he’s nearly bald, the judge has bushy eyebrows and a fierceness about him that makes me want to disappear. Instead of sinking into my seat, I focus on my posture. I need to look like the National Scholar and National Cheer Champion I am.

  Mom and Dad are silent as the judge takes a seat.

  “Counsel Alvarado,” Judge Reynolds says. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  Mr. Alvarado coughs. “I’ve had to take fewer cases. My back isn’t as agreeable these days. Too many years of litigation.”

  “That’s unfortunate. At least you lawyers don’t have the problems we judges do. When I first started, I thought the robes were there to create an air of authority and formality. Turns out they’re only good for hiding how fat we get from sitting all day.”

  Mr. Alvarado meekly laughs. It’s strange how the judge doesn’t say anything to us or look at us. It’s like he wants to pretend we don’t even exist.

  “Shall we get started? I’d like for this to go as quickly as possible,” Judge Reynolds says.

  “I’m ready,” Mr. Alvarado replies.

  The government representative nods. His narrow face seems expressionless. I try not to dislike him. I’m sure he’s just doing his job. But he still represents everything that doesn’t want us here, and that I’ll never forget.

  “Well, then,” says Judge Reynolds as he picks up a paper from the stack in front of him. “The Government asserts that the de los Santos family are in violation of United States law.” He turns to my parents. “The purpose of this hearing is to determine whether you are aliens and, if so, if you are in violation of United States law. The Court must also determine whether there are any provisions of law that would permit you to remain in the United States permanently and, if that is not possible, whether you will be leaving the United States under an order of removal or an order of voluntary departure. These questions will be answered after we hear the facts of the case.” He pauses. “Clearly—and I say this to move the trial forward as quickly as possible—there has been a violation. That is not in question as I have seen no document that can verify your citizenship or any temporary or permanent status as aliens.”

  I’m terrified. It’s true that our family doesn’t have documentation, but how can the judge not even give us a chance to state our case first? It’s already feeling like a slap in the face.

  Mr. Alvarado turns to Judge Reynolds. “Your Honor, I have presented to you and the federal counsel the work history of both clients. They have exceptional records within their areas of employment. I also have presented letters from current and past employers asserting their impeccable behavior as model workers. I have gathered other witness accounts, including letters from friends—”

  “Friends?” Judge Alvarado cuts in. “You know, Mr. Alvarado, that you have to do better than that. I read these ‘friend’ letters. Are there no written statements from California assemblymen or assemblywomen that you could bring me? How about US senators or representatives, for that matter?”

  Representatives? He means congressmen, right? Oh my God. Royce kept offering to ask his dad for help. Why didn’t I accept it? Why didn’t I ask his dad to write a letter on our behalf? What was I thinking? Why was I so stubborn? Why do I always think I’m right about everything and that I don’t need anyone’s help?

  “Our friends are important people. US citizens,” Dad says.

  The judge doesn’t like this at all. “Mr. de los Santos, you will speak only when spoken to. There’s an order to these hearings, and that begins with me having a dialogue with the counsel you have chosen as your representation. Please honor that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dad says. Mom gives Dad one of those looks.

  The government representative asks for the floor. “Excuse me, Judge. I’d also like to submit documentation concerning the plaintiffs’ ‘work history,’” he says, getting up and giving a stack of papers to the judge. “Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. de los Santos forged their work documentation for a number of years after their initial temporary work visas expired four years ago, which allowed them to steal jobs that are meant for legal residents and citizens of the United States.”

  Ugh. That can’t be good.

  Mr. Alvarado speaks up. “Your Honor, while forgery is never advisable, please take note the unique case we have before us with the daughter being recognized as a National Scholar by the White House. It would be unprecedented—”

  “Actually,” the government representative says. “School records also reveal that the middle child, Danilo de los Santos, has a history of antisocial behavior. He was recently in a fight at his school. If you allow this family to stay, Judge, you must ask yourself whether this boy will carry out this tendency toward violence into adulthood?”

  Danny yelps in protest, and I can barely keep myself from jumping up and throttling the other attorney. Danny is the sweetest and most sensitive kid out of all three of us. How could he twist the facts about what happened so much to make Danny into a juvenile delinquent? And how did he find out about the fight anyway?

  Then I remember—Dad made sure to tell the school to protect the boys from further harm.

  “Becoming a National Scholar is impressive,” says Judge Reynolds. “However, I don’t believe Ms. de los Santos’s accomplishments forgive her parents’ violation of the law.”

  Mom and Dad look at each other. I think Dad’s about to walk out of the courtroom, but he patiently holds Mom’s hand. She can’t even look up from the floor.

  “Your Honor, I have included ma
ny letters from the girl’s teachers, her principal, her coach—”

  “Yet not one politician has written a statement on this family’s behalf,” says the judge.

  Again, I kick myself for failing to accept Royce’s offer of help.

  The government representative is still straight-faced, though the hint of a smile in his eyes terrifies me. He clicks a pen and makes a note, then goes back to watching the judge. Judge Reynolds is making his case so easy that he probably won’t even have to say anything himself. I don’t know whether to be angry at him, the judge, or our lawyer. This doesn’t seem to be going in our favor, but I don’t know what to do except continue to silently sit and pray. I’m sitting between Danny and Isko, so I squeeze their hands, letting them know that their big sister will be there for them no matter what happens to our family.

  “But, Your Honor,” says Mr. Alvarado. “A student who is a National Scholar should be a prize in the eyes of this great nation. To turn one away at this point, when she’s on the verge of attending one of our great collegiate institutions, would disrupt this very community. Please also take into account the recent National High School Cheerleading Championship Jasmine de los Santos’s team won. Not only that, she’s the captain. She led her team to victory. What does that say about her future leadership capabilities?”

  The judge gets a smirk on his thin lips. He seems to find our case completely amusing. “Oh, I see, Mr. Alvarado,” he says, mocking him. “Yes, yes. You’re right. Our country is in dire need of more cheerleaders.”

  I’m instantly ashamed. What do they call the feeling? Belittled? To be made small? No wonder the bailiff is here.

  “Your Honor,” Mr. Alvarado says. “Jasmine de los Santos has shown great academic promise. You can’t ignore her remarkable achievements as a scholar.”

  “If that’s so, why didn’t you file for her separately? She’s eighteen isn’t she?” The judge smirks.