Page 66 of Something in Between

“Listen to yourself,” Mom says. “You sound like some kind of Scrooge.”

“Iamsome kind of Scrooge,” Dad mumbles.

* * *

After we’re all done arguing—Mom and I insist we won, like always—I decide I’m going to stop waiting and text Royce. I can’t blame him for his father’s decisions. If he doesn’t care that I’m an illegal alien, why should I care that he’s the son of a conservative congressman?

I miss him something awful. The truth is, I’m not just his best friend—he’s my best friend too. Just like Kayla is, but in a different way. He understands the part of me that no one else in my life completely does. Kayla’s smart, but she’s not into books and art like I am, and my parents don’t like museums—when we went to the Getty, they stayed in the gift shop.

Sometimes Royce and I would just send emails with quotes to each other.

After we went to the beach once, he sent me:

royceb: Her fair hair had streamed out behind her like gold in the sun. TOWER OF IVORY. HOUSE OF GOLD. By thinking of things you could understand them.—James Joyce, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

I wrote back:

jasmindls: I am alive where your fingers are—Anne

Sexton, Love Poems

* * *

It’s nearly Christmas. And isn’t Christmas all about forgiveness and making peace with each other? All I can think about is him and when I’m going to see him again.

In the warmth of my bed, I pull my comforter over my head. The twinkly white lights decorating my room create a soft glow through the blankets. I think about what I should write. I try a few different sentences, but none of them seem quite right. I try to look for a quote, but nothing seems to fit.

Finally, I realize it’s because there’s only one thing to say.

jasmindls: I miss you.

He writes back right away.

royceb: what happened to waiting to talk till after xmas?

I smile. I can imagine him texting me under the table while he’s at some fancy party with his parents.

jasmindls: Close enough. Merry Christmas Eve.

My skin tingles when I see his next text.

royceb: I miss you too.

I’m typing a reply when my phone rings. It’s funny how we hardly talk to each other—our generation prefers sending messages for hours. But I’m glad he called. It’s so much nicer to hear his actual voice.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey. Where are you?”

“Out on the terrace, getting away from everyone, watching the snow fall. I wish you were here to see it.”

I smile. He likes looking out at views. “I wish I was there too. I’ve never seen snow fall,” I say. “What’s up with your family? Are they bugging you?”

“It’s nothing, just the same old stuff. Mom and Dad are arguing about Mason again.”

“That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing new,” he says. “Hey, I meant to tell you last time I saw you. I, uh, got into Stanford. Early Decisions were sent out.”

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