“Yeah,” Lo answers before Kayla can. “Whatever. You guys are going to get bored soon enough. And absolutely no beer.”
I get up and give Royce a hug and introduce him all around. “Guys, this is Royce, I’ve told you all about him. And this is his brother, Mason. Royce, Mason, these are my friends,” I say, and name each of them in turn.
Lo smiles, Julian tips his beer. Dylan, Kayla and the others wave. Someone hands both the Blakely boys a beer.
I motion Royce over to my chair and he sits down so that I can perch on his lap like the other girls are doing. He leans in close to whisper in my ear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to bring Mason, but he wouldn’t leave me alone and I didn’t want to miss the chance to see you.”
I turn and give him a half smile. “It’s all right.”
He looks relieved. We haven’t seen each other as much this week in comparison to the weeks before. Both of us do still have to focus on school. When we’re together, he’s been quiet lately. I know he’s worried about the deportation trial, and I am too. But whenever he brings it up, I don’t want to talk about it, and it makes him frustrated. He keeps offering to help, but it’s my family’s problem—my problem—not his.
Mason is soon engrossed in a conversation with Kayla and Dylan about something, and they all laugh. I think maybe for once he might actually be an okay guy.
Turns out I’m wrong.
After about an hour or so, Mason has drunk so many bottles of beer—and finished his own flask of whiskey—that he’s stumbling around the backyard. He’s talking about the crazy parties he goes to at USC and how much money he’s going to make when he sets up his own hedge fund.
I lean over to Royce and whisper in his ear. “I’m glad you came, but maybe you should take Mason home. He’s had too much to drink...”
But the younger kids, Eric and Brian, think Mason is hilarious and practically hero-worship him. They keep asking him questions about college, but in between answers that crack them up, Mason seems to be drunkenly interested in Kayla, which is obviously getting on Dylan’s nerves. He tolerates the flirting until Mason puts his hand on Kayla’s thigh. She freezes and looks at Dylan, not knowing what to do or say.
“Hey, man,” Dylan says to Mason. “Things are wrapping up here. I think it’s time to go home.”
Apparently, I’m not the only one who wants him to leave.
“Yeah,” I say, scooting off Royce’s lap reluctantly. “It’s getting late. I’ll walk you guys out.”
But of course it’s not that easy.
Mason takes his hand off Kayla and sneers at me. “Oh, you’re still here? Little Miss National Scholar? Haven’t been sent back to your island yet?”
“What island?” Brian asks, as I’m trying to catch my breath.
“Treasure Island,” Mason laughs. “Wherever she’s from, it’s not America.”
“Shut up, Mason. Don’t mind him. He’s drunk and I’m taking him home,” Royce says. He looks at me apologetically, then gets up and walks over to Mason, grabbing his arm. I’m sorry, he mouths.
I nod. It’s okay. I can handle his douche-bag brother. But I’m bummed, because I’d hoped Royce and I could have some time alone tonight, and that’s not happening now. I also try not to be annoyed that he told Mason about my legal status. But I guess they are family.
“Aw, come on,” Eric and Brian whine. “Mason’s funny. Let him stay.”
Lo glares at them. Julian seems like he’s about to help her kick everyone out of the house. Kayla has a deer-in-the-headlights look on her face.
Mason violently shakes Royce off. “Fine. Let’s go. Why am I hanging out with a bunch of stupid high schoolers in the middle of nowhere anyway?”
Royce shoots me an intense look full of everything he can’t say.
Strangely, even though Mason was awful, I’m glad everyone knows about me now. Royce, Millie and Kayla are right, I need to let people know what’s eating at me, what’s happening to my family. I can’t shoulder this alone. There are so many haters out there. I need to start garnering support from the people who do care about me.
25
Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?
—FRIDA KAHLO
MRS. GARCIA’S OFFICE is freezing. She’s wearing a sweater, and I’ve already cooled down from exercising during PE. I silently count the goose bumps along my arms. My skin is a pincushion.
“Why do you need to see me, Jasmine?” Mrs. Garcia asks. “Have you already heard back from colleges? It’s pretty soon if you applied for early admission.”
“I didn’t apply early. I’m going through some things,” I say. “But, um, you said last time that I could talk to you if I needed to?” I want to kick myself for being so vague.
“Of course. What’s on your mind?”
I try to tell her, but it’s hard. I can feel my cheeks burn and my throat is suddenly dry. I force myself to spit it out. “I found out I’m undocumented,” I whisper. “I was born in the Philippines, but I always thought my family had green cards. It turns out they don’t. My parents told me we’re here illegally.” My eyes begin to water.
“Oh dear. I wasn’t expecting that,” Mrs. Garcia says. She gets up from her desk, comes over, and puts an arm around me. “I’m so sorry to hear that. When did you find out?”
I take a deep breath and try to control myself. “When I got the National Scholarship,” I confess. “I can’t accept it. I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“Oh, Jasmine, I’m sorry too,” she says, and she removes her glasses. She wipes her eyes as well.
I feel terrible. I know how proud she was of me. I’m her top student.
“I’m so glad you told me. That’s an awful burden to keep to yourself,” she says.
I nod and take a few more tissues. “I feel so alone. And I’m scared everyone will judge me if they know. Like they won’t want me here.”
“Is that how the people who know acted when you’ve told them?” Mrs. Garcia asks.
“No,” I admit. Sniffling, I wipe my nose with my sleeve when the box runs out of tissues. “You don’t think I’ll get in trouble with ICE?”
Mrs. Garcia rummages in her desk for more tissues and hands me a new box. “There are lots of kids who go to this school—and thousands of kids in LA alone—who are undocumented. The sheer number makes it impossible for ICE to deport everyone. You’re a good kid. They’re not going to bother you.”
She’s right. I’ve read the statistics of how many undocumented immigrants there are in California, but they didn’t seem real to me. They just seemed like numbers, not people. And talking to Mrs. Garcia is the first time that I really understand there are a lot of people out there facing what I’m going through. I’m not the only one. Or the first. And definitely not the last.
The tears start to well up again. How could I be so self-centered?
Mrs. Garcia puts a hand on my shoulder. “Just let it out,” she says.
I do. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.” I really don’t. I feel like a ghost in my own country. No matter what I do, I feel like I’m fading, like I’m becoming a shadow. I’m trying really hard to hang on, but I’m not sure I can. “But I wanted to tell you, in case you had any ideas for colleges that give out loans to people like me.”
Mrs. Garcia goes back to her desk and looks relieved that she has a task. “I’ll start looking into it. There’s got to be something for such a talented kid like you.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Garcia. I hope so.”
* * *
At the next practice, Coach Davis calls the squad together for an emergency meeting. She has a big announcement concerning me. Mrs. Garcia made me promise to tell Coach Davis. Your coach and your team can be a support system for you.
Everyone is gathered together in their s
treet clothes, chatting and laughing. Seeing them reminds me of how I let them down at Regionals. At the same time, I realize, all of these girls are my sisters. The entire team is family. This, I realize, is my American family. Lexie. Deandra. Emily. Anabel. Natalia. Taylor. Rosa. Kayla. We’d do anything for each other. But even though my sisters and I love each other, I don’t know what will happen when they find out the truth about me.
When I told Coach Davis, I barely got a response. She said, “Okay,” and then, “Let’s go,” and we walked down the hall into the gym.
Coach Davis takes me in front of the entire team. “Sorry I’m late, girls, but your captain came to me with an important issue.”
“Is she on her period?” Deandra says. “If one more of us syncs up...”
Several of the girls laugh.
I’m terrified. I wish my period were my problem right now.
“It’s nothing like that,” Coach Davis says. “It’s serious, Deandra.”
Deandra’s always funny. But she sees this is business and quickly apologizes. “Sorry, Coach.”
Coach Davis waits for the girls to quiet down. She clears her throat.
I want to die inside a little, but I stand strong, because the team expects that of me.
“I want to say to you something that I’ve said before,” Coach Davis says. “All of you girls need to lean on each other. You have to share your problems. Rely on your teammates to help you out. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” Kayla and a few of the others say.
Coach Davis continues, “When one of us hurts, all of us feel some kind of pain. When Chelsea lost her brother to cancer, didn’t we all rally?”
“We raised $20,000,” Deandra says.
Coach Davis doesn’t stop there. “When Denise came down with meningitis, weren’t we all there in the hospital? I saw all of you at her bedside.”
“We do it because we love each other,” Kayla says, glancing at me. Both Chelsea and Denise graduated last year, but we still keep in touch.
“That’s right. We do,” Coach Davis says. “Girls, something else has happened. Right now your captain needs you. I want to say I have never met someone who has been such a good citizen as Jasmine de los Santos. And neither have you. But she’s been carrying a heavy burden for a while now. It’s a sensitive issue and requires that she can trust each and every one of you not to take it out of this practice. Can you do that?”
Each of the girls nods. Lexie walks up to me and puts her arm around my shoulders, her braids brushing against my neck. “You could have said something, Jas.”
“I know,” I say, trying to hold back the tears.
“Jasmine only just discovered her family is undocumented, and right now, there’s no way for them to stay in this country legally, not with the current laws in place. How she kept this from all of us, I don’t know. This news has devastated her family, and she needs our support. So before we start doing anything today, we know what we need to do.”
Tears stream down my cheeks as everyone stands together. They come up one by one, and in twos and threes and hold me in their arms. They tell me that they will all carry my pain. “We love you,” Kayla says. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”
I swallow every tear.
“Thank you. I can’t say enough how your support makes me feel.”
As all the girls gather around me, Coach speaks again. “I also have another announcement. It’s why I originally called you to this meeting. The team that beat us out at Regionals. Foothill High School. They’ve been disqualified.”
“Yes!” Deandra shouts.
Kayla puts her hands on her hips. “Why?”
“Apparently they were working with a choreographer months before the season started. Someone reported them last week.”
“What does that mean for us?” I ask, hoping against hope that the news is good.
“Since our squad came in second place,” Coach explains, “they’ve bumped us up to first. We’re going to Nationals.”
I feel like I’m going to cry again. We’re going to Nationals after all!
* * *
The next day I visit Millie to thank her for encouraging me to come clean with everyone who matters in my life. She’s genuinely happy to see me. This, of course, makes me beam, but I’m also worried about her. She didn’t sound so good on the phone when she asked me to come visit her next time I had a chance. She said she had something to show me.
“Jasmine! What are you doing here?”
“You said to drop by if I was in the area. I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?”
“No, no, come in, come in. Of course I did. It’s good to see you.” She looks past me. “Is anyone with you? I’m not feeling too well. And I’m sure I don’t look like a dream either.”
She’s wearing a nightgown during the middle of the day. Is her heart okay? Did she have a bout of pancreatitis again? Is her son taking care of her?
“No. My boyfriend dropped me off. He lives near you. I told him I’d take a bus home.” Royce had a family obligation and was sorry he couldn’t drive me home after my visit with Millie. I’d told him he was my boyfriend, not my driver, and not to worry about it.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Millie says, opening the door wider for me to enter. “He could have come in too. As long as he doesn’t mind an old lady in a night shift.”
“It’s all right. He had to run to a meeting with his father. The only time he sees his dad is during meetings.” After Millie closes the door, I give her a hug, smelling her vanilla perfume. “I’m sorry. Should I have called?”
“No, honey. It’s nice to have someone drop by for a change. You know, there was a time people always dropped by. But now, because of all this technology, everyone texts or calls or emails, or sends a message some other way to say ‘I’m on my way!’ No, this is nice. How often are you surprised by a visit anymore? Come into the kitchen with me.”
She sets out a plate of cookies. “Tea?” she asks.
“Water’s fine, and I can get it,” I tell her, finding a pitcher of water in the fridge and pouring myself a cup.
We sit down at the kitchen table and eat sugar cookies. They’re the kind that come in a blue tin box. Do all grandmothers eat them? Mine did, and Lola Cherry does too.
I tell her my latest news, about the team going to Nationals and about how I finally started telling people about my undocumented status.
“Do you feel better now that everyone knows? Takes the pressure off, at least?” she asks, getting up to fetch more cookies.
“I guess. I don’t know.” I thought Millie was going to be happier for me, but she seems melancholy.
“Well, this is life, Jasmine. It’s filled with tough moments. There are going to be tougher times ahead too.”
Even though I don’t want to think about those times right now, I know she’s right. I need to prepare myself for the idea that we might not win Nationals. Or, even worse, that my family might lose the deportation trial.
“You said you had something to show me?” I ask.
“Oh, Jasmine,” Millie says, grabbing her side and doubling over in pain. It must the pancreatitis.
“Here. Come sit down on the couch,” I say, putting my arm around her shoulder.
She shakes her head. “No, no. The pain comes in waves. It’ll go away. I must have eaten something too fatty at breakfast.”
I hold her until she’s able to stand all the way upright again. She rummages in the kitchen drawers, looking for something.
While she goes through a stack of papers and documents, she asks me about our upcoming hearing. “Your mother hasn’t told me about a court date. Is there one?” Millie asks.
“Not yet,” I say. “I did some research, and the process used to take nearly two years in some cases
. The lawyer thinks we will have an expedited date though, which is good, but also bad, because if we lose, we have to leave sooner. But Mom thinks we can’t live in fear, that we have to try and win legal status. We have to risk it.”
“She’s right, your mother,” she says. “Without risk, there’s no reward.” She walks back to the table and shows me a yellowed piece of paper.
“What is it?” I ask, trying to read the faded letters.
“It was my acceptance to architecture school,” she says. “I really wanted to become an architect instead of an engineer.”
“Why didn’t you?” I ask.
“I spent a summer working in Jean Prouvé’s office in Paris. It was one of the happiest times of my life. But when I returned to America, I was too scared to do what I loved, so I ended up doing something safer and more commercial. My father was a builder, and I had an engineering degree, so I knew the business already. I wanted to make beautiful structures, work for Richard Neutra and Frank Lloyd Wright. Instead, we put up some boring strip malls. It’s the biggest regret of my life.”
She takes the paper and folds it back into a square. “Whatever happens with the trial, go after what you want, Jasmine. Don’t wait for life to make the decision for you.”
26
Remember, no effort that we make to attain something beautiful is ever lost.
—HELEN KELLER
IN MID-JANUARY, two nights before I leave for Nationals, I’m supposed to hang out with Royce. But he cancels at the last minute.
“I’m sorry, Jas,” he says. “I have a dinner for my dad.”
He’s spending a lot of time with his dad lately. I want to ask him why he can’t bring a date. Or is it that he doesn’t want to bring me, that maybe I’m not good enough for this fancy benefit he’s going to? But I don’t say anything.
“It’s all right. I’ll see you when I get back,” I say.
“You’re going to kick ass,” he tells me. “I wish I could be there.”