Page 52 of Something in Between

Maria comes closer. She has a sort of sparkle in her eye, like she’s watching me and not the other way around. This time she smiles more bravely and I like that. I smile in return. Filipinos sometimes do this with each other. It’s like we’re communicating telepathically. Still, I’m too embarrassed to ask for anything. I’m not used to being served.

Maria looks like she could be my aunt or an older cousin. I shift on the couch, adjusting my skirt over my knees. How is it that I’m dating someone and I have more in common with his house staff than with him?

“Thank you for the offer, but I’m not really thirsty,” I say.

“I’ll check back in a little while,” she says, then leaves us alone together.

“She’s only been here a few years,” he says. “Her family’s from the Philippines too. We found her through an agency.” It’s almost like he’s saying,She’s not illegal. It’s then that I remember I haven’t told him about my undocumented status. Should I? Is that something people tell each other?

Before I start feeling too guilty, Royce’s mother steps into the room. “Hi, darling, I thought I saw someone with you,” she says. “So who’s our guest?”

Wait, Royce didn’t tell her I was coming over? Has he even told his parents anything about me?

Royce stands up and I do too. “Jasmine. This is my mother, Debra Blakely, the Art Collector.

“Mom, this is Jasmine, the girl I met in D.C.”

He doesn’t call me his girlfriend, but maybe it’s because he’s nervous too.

She takes my hand. Her fingers are soft and smooth, but she shakes my hand assertively. “Royce is always calling me the art collector. He’s too embarrassed to say I buy and sell stocksandart. Two of my loves. Besides my children, of course, though I have to admit I haven’t seen much of my two boys lately.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Blakely,” I say. “I’m sorry to take Royce away from you.”

We all sit back down and his mother leans on the side of the couch next to us. “It’s quite all right. I hear he’s in good company. He says you’re one of the recent honorees for the National Scholarship Program?”

“I am,” I say.

“He told me you were Filipino. How nice. Like our Maria.”

I don’t know how to take her comment. I don’t need to have my Filipino-ness pointed out to me. Maybe she’s as uncomfortable as I am that I’m the same race as their help? Maybe she doesn’t know what to say. So I play nice. I’ve been taught to smile, to hide my inner fire when not appropriate.Be polite, Jasmine.

I smile at Mrs. Blakely.

Royce interrupts our moment. “Aren’t you meeting Dad in Washington tonight?”

“Oh, dear Lord, I forgot!” she says. “Thanks for reminding me. I better pack. Nice meeting you, Jasmine. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask Royce or Maria... Oh, Royce? Liv’s coming with me. And can you please tell Mason to call me if you see him? His midterms must have started already, but that’s no reason not to call his mother.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll let you know when he comes home.”

After she leaves, Royce turns to me, his eyebrows raised like a little boy. He looks so hopeful and excited, but I can’t get rid of the nagging feeling that I don’t belong here. We come from such different backgrounds. My mom doesn’t even have a steady job right now.

How are we ever going to make this work?

He scoots closer to me on the couch so that our knees are touching. “You all right? You’re so quiet.”

“Your mom is nice,” I say, still working over theFilipino like our maidcomment and wondering how I should take it.

“Too bad she had to go. You haven’t even seen half the art. And once she starts talking about it... In college, she and a bunch of her classmates protested at a museum in Chicago for exhibiting Renoir. I don’t know what they had against the guy. ‘Aesthetic terrorism’ they called it. It was probably just a prank. They wanted attention, don’t you think?”

I don’t know what to think. Aren’t there more important things to protest than hanging a famous, beautiful piece of art on a wall? But I just nod and continue to let him talk and try to feel more at ease in his home.

* * *

We’re back at my house a few hours later. My parents are home this time and, yep, this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for. I’m anxious, but Mom and Dad are perfectly normal and greet Royce like I bring boys home all the time.

Mom asks him a few questions about school and what he thought of D.C., and Royce is right. I can tell she’s charmed by him. She smiles and laughs at his jokes. She also doesn’t mention his dad and what he does, so I count it as a win.

Then Dad corrals Royce into helping him change the oil on his truck. Royce is wearing clean, pressed khakis and a nice blue-and-white-checked button-down shirt, but he swears he doesn’t care about getting dirty. We head to the garage, where he rolls up his sleeves and hops under the truck. Apparently my world doesn’t seem strange to him like his world did to me. Maybe I’m the one who’s the snob, the one who thinks we’re so different, when we’re not.

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