Page 51 of Something in Between

“Olivia,” Royce calls after his sister. “This is Jasmine, my girlfriend.”

Olivia rides closer. She stops right in front of me. I finally get a better look at her face. She has long, wavy brown hair with blond highlights, golden-caramel skin, and dark eyes that look exactly like Royce’s. She’s gorgeous and knows it.

“Royce likes you,” she says with an evil little laugh.

“I do like her,” he says. “So watch it, Liv.”

“Hi, Olivia,” I say. “I like your scooter. Too bad you don’t have another one. I’d race you to the corner.”

“You wouldn’t beat me,” she says.

“But I’d try.”

Olivia lets out a laugh. “We’ll see,” she says.

She’s growing on me.

“You’re really pretty. I like your hair,” she says.

“Thanks, I like yours too.”

“Do you like Royce?” she asks, with the same devilish giggle.

“I do,” I say, smiling up at him. He winks back.

“Okay, okay, get out of here, Liv,” Royce says. “Where’s Mom?”

“In the house. Duh.” Olivia sticks her tongue out at him and speeds off.

“This way,” Royce says. “Told you.”

“I think she’s cute,” I say. “I was kind of hoping she would chase you around a little bit more with that scooter of hers.”

“I don’t think so,” he says as I follow him through the front door.

He gives me a whole tour of the place. The Blakely house is spacious. There are huge, vaulted ceilings so high I can’t imagine how they clean the cobwebs even though the rooms are spotless. The rooms are spread far apart between different wings, and the house sits on a landscaped hill partly covered with solar panels. Even though my house is smaller, I think it’s cozier. It’s definitely louder. His is much bigger, but I bet Mr. Blakely needs more room for parties and meetings. There’s a huge dining room. Massively amazing industrial kitchen. Paintings hang everywhere.

We walk back to the hallway between the entryway and the family room, where I see a large painting of a ballerina wearing a flowing red dress that looks like flames engulfing her body. She’s standing on her pointe shoes and reaching out toward something beyond the painting. The painting’s passion surprises me, especially because everything else seems to be decorated with neutral colors. I vaguely remember Royce telling me his mother was a dancer when she was younger.

I decide not to be afraid of his mother. She can’t be that different than me. We both understand the pain of training and caring for and punishing your body to find grace and beauty. If she was a dancer, she knows what passion means—what wanting something so much you think you might die of want feels like.

Royce leads me to the doorway of the family room, where Mrs. Blakely is cradling a phone between her shoulder and her ear as she sits on a leather chair, watching the stock ticker on the television.

“She’s working,” Royce whispers, turning around. “We should leave her alone. Let’s go sit in our other family room. She’ll come around when she’s ready.”

“You have another family room?” I say.

When he takes me there, I see that it’s more of a library. Books line shelves from floor to ceiling. There are couches and chairs. Coffee tables. Odd artifacts in cases. Statues, mostly. Busts of important political figures and old documents framed on the walls. “Mom started collecting these when dad first started getting into politics.” He points to a case. “Here’s a statue of Theodore Roosevelt she bought off a collector just last year.”

He sits on the couch, clearly expecting me to sit next to him. I do, but not too close. Not like we were in the car earlier. I don’t want Mrs. Blakely to get the wrong idea about me, and I don’t want to mess anything up, especially with his parents.

Suddenly I hear, “May I interest you in something to drink?” I look up to see a housekeeper wearing pressed slacks and a tasteful purple sweater waiting for our reply.

I know immediately that she’s Filipino, and she looks like she’s in her early fifties. She smiles shyly. I wonder where her family is from. I want to ask, but I worry that it would be weird. A lot of Filipino immigrants work as housekeepers; some of my mom’s friends do. My own mother is cleaning someone’s house right now, I remember uncomfortably.

“I’m okay, Maria,” Royce says. “Our guest might be thirsty though. Jas?”

He motions to me. I’m uncomfortable, but I try not to let my feelings show. It’s not fair, but the sight of Maria is unnerving. If I don’t go to college, what if I have to work a job like this for the rest of my life? Then I realize that I’m being a jerk. Who am I to judge this woman I’ve barely met?

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