Page 106 of Something in Between

Mom clears the plates from the table. Danny helps, but he still teases Isko by winking when he picks up Isko’s plate. Isko growls at him. Mom gives them boththe look.

“I asked him if he could help us.” I push around the last shrimp on my plate but don’t have the stomach to finish, I’m too nervous to share my news.

“And?” Dad says. “Did he give you a lecture and a nice send-off? ‘Bon voyage! Thanks for dating my son!’”

“No, Daddy,” I say patiently. “We had a nice conversation. He wants to try to help. He wants to write a private bill.”

I tell Dad and Mom about how Congressman Blakely is going to get the judge to agree to a stay of deportation and issue a temporary visa or something while congress drafts us a private bill. I tell them how it will work.

“The US Congress is going to pass a bill just for us?” Dad asks, his eyes bulging. “And the president will sign it?”

“Yes.”

Neither of them looks excited at the news. I don’t understand.

“Jasmine, it sounds too good to be true, and here’s the thing—when it’s too good to be true, it usually is. Think about it. This bill would have to pass the House and the Senate, and the president’s desk? That’s a lot of what-ifs. Don’t you remember that he and his partyopposeimmigration reform?”

“It will work if we get a lot of lawmakers on our side.” I explain the stories about other private bills. I’ve done some research as well. “They’re so rare that I don’t see why we would be denied. This is what we were missing in the deportation hearing, remember? Having high-ranking officials on our side. Remember how the judge asked if there were any letters from politicians? It’s too bad we didn’t tell our lawyer we knew Royce’s dad. Apparently it’s how this sort of thing works. If you get enough politicians on your side you can get what you need—”

“That’s the problem,” Dad says. “Politicians are the last people to be trusted. And if you depend on them, you find out you’re just a pawn in some bigger game of theirs.”

“It’s not like that,” I say. “He’s really trying to help. They helped their Filipino housekeeper, Maria—”

“Oh great. Now we’re just like the help,” Dad says. “They’re going to want us to clean their house next?”

Once he makes up his mind about people, I can never get Dad to listen. It’s so frustrating. I get up from the table. “Why do you have to be so difficult?”

Mom is surprisingly quiet as she dries a dish and puts it away.

My brothers have long disappeared to another room, disinterested or too scared to follow this conversation.

“I’m not being difficult,” Dad says. “I’m a realist. If our deportation is stayed, and this private bill passes, I’ll be the first one to celebrate. But we need to be prepared for the worst. Mom and I are putting this house on the market, and making plans for what will happen when we do have to move back to the Philippines. We can’t depend on the imaginary games of politicians. We have to have a concrete plan. We can’t live like ostriches with our heads stuck deep into the sand.”

“But we don’t have to give up so easily either,” I say. “Don’t you want to stay?”

“Of course I’d rather stay. But sometimes I wish I’d never suggested moving us to this damn country,” Dad says. He gets up from the table. “It’s made me break all my promises to my children.”

* * *

There’s no cheer practice after school. Just a brief team meeting to say goodbye to the seniors and to let the returning girls know when practices will start up again during the summer. The meeting is already over. Coach Davis left in a hurry. I thought that our send-off would be a bigger deal, but no one really wants to linger. Everyone must feel the coming spring break in the air.

Most of the girls eagerly scatter. Kayla doesn’t. She comes up to me. “Hey, Jas, want a ride home?”

We haven’t spoken much since the movie-theater incident. I have no idea if she’s still dating Mason or not. I’m not mad at her for keeping it from me, but I am annoyed that she asked Royce to do so, and I’m still mad about what her little brother did to mine. I haven’t told her how Royce and I are doing, and what he’s doing for my family.

“No, thanks, I’ll walk,” I say.

“Please? We can get a coffee,” she says.

Even I can’t hold a grudge forever. “All right,” I say.

At the coffeehouse, we sit at a corner table and sip Americanos. The caffeine from the espresso wakes me up. I feel like I could go on a five-mile run or a shopping binge in Beverly Hills.

“Have you talked to Lo lately?” Kayla asks.

I already know where this is going. “If you want to know how Dylan is doing, why don’t you just ask him?”

“I don’t know,” she says.

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