Page 98 of Something in Between

“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 ofArmies 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 Iamterrified. 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.

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