Литагент HarperCollins - Something Inbetween

While the boy listens to his father, I sneak a peek at him. He’s tan, although maybe not so much tan as a natural golden-brown color. He must be mixed. Caucasian dad, Latina mom maybe? I can tell because I’m pretty mixed myself. Filipinos are a little of everything. (I’m Filipino Chinese Hawaiian French.) This guy has deep brown eyes and cut-glass cheekbones, and he’s wearing a navy suit with a green tie and brown dress shoes. Although his clothes are perfectly put together, his hair looks like he’s been running his hands through it too much. When he smiles at something his father says, I notice a dimple on one cheek. He glances over and catches me staring, and I blush, because he’s really cute. My heart rate immediately goes up and I’m lucky I’m not hooked up to a machine right now.

His father shakes Gladys’s hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Robertson. I appreciate your help.” He walks toward the elevator but the son lingers behind. “Go ahead, Dad. I forgot something.”

I say hi to Gladys and she hands me the folder with the list of today’s patients who’ve signed up to be part of the project. The boy is still standing next to me. When Gladys gets up from her chair, she raises an eyebrow in my direction, then makes herself look busy at the filing cabinet.

I can feel him looking at me, but he doesn’t say anything, so I finally do. “What did you forget?” I blurt.

“I forgot to get your number,” he says, his voice low and rich.

My blush deepens, and when our eyes meet, I feel a spark inside, like I’m all lit up from within. He smiles at me from under his long, floppy bangs. It makes me want to run my own hands through his hair, which looks so thick and glossy and inviting. I’ve never felt so attracted to anyone before, and I’m a little shocked at how much I want to touch him—a shoulder, an elbow.

Somehow I find myself digging for my phone. I don’t know why, but I can’t remember my number, let alone my name right now.

Gladys yells from the window. “Jazzy baby!” she calls. “I’ve got another patient for you!”

I’m mortified, but the boy’s smile grows wider. He takes my phone from my hand. I didn’t even realize I was holding it.

“Tell you what. Why don’t you text me? That way it’s up to you. I can tell your mother taught you never to talk to strangers.” He punches in his number, takes a quick, goofy selfie to go with his contact info and hands it back to me. His fingers are warm, but dry. My hand feels electric.

I pocket my phone, trying to look as cool as he does. I shrug, as if I could care less.

When he’s gone, Gladys comes back to the window with an amused expression and a slip of paper with another name for me. “What did he want? Although I can guess,” she teases.

“Who is he?” I ask, ignoring the teasing.

“Congressman Blakely’s son. His dad represents our district. They were here visiting a relative.”

I take a surreptitious look at my phone, at the mug shot he just took. He’s smiling like a doofus. A very handsome doofus who does things like take a girl’s phone on a whim. ROYCE BLAKELY, it reads. Royce? What kind of ridiculous name is Royce?

Gladys smirks. “Cute, isn’t he?”

I roll my eyes. “He’d be even cuter if he didn’t wear a suit. Who wears a suit in LA?”

“Be careful what you say,” Gladys says, tapping the counter with a pen. “When you’re older, you’ll want your man to dress better. Some can get pretty lazy. After enough years together, you could find yourself begging him not to wear sweatpants to the Christmas party. Like I know I’ll have to do with Bob again this year.”

I laugh and say goodbye to her, then take the elevator up to the floor where they keep the people who have chronic illnesses or have to stay at the hospital for long periods of time. Mom makes friends with a lot of these patients, since she cleans their rooms every day. When she comes home quieter than normal, I know she’s lost one of them.

Most of our family still lives in the Philippines, so I understand what it’s like to be away from people you love. But at least I know they’re still alive. I can’t even imagine what I would do if I knew I would never be able to visit them again. It’s been a few years since we were back in Manila, and I miss it. I miss my grandparents’ huge house in the province, where at any time of day you can find neighbors, friends and relatives gathered at the courtyard tables playing mah-jongg or cards. Their house is like the community center for the village, always open and welcome to all.

I look down at my phone again. His name is Royce. Seriously? Am I supposed to call him that? Why don’t you text me? That way it’s up to you, he said. He’s not a stranger. He’s a congressman’s son. I mean, you’re supposed to know your congressman, right? I can be a good citizen.

jasmindls: Hey it’s me, I send.

I get a text back immediately.

royceb: jazzy baby?

jasmindls: The one and the same, Rolls Royce.

royceb: original.

jasmindls: Is that your real name or did your parents just really want a car?

royceb: if you must know, I’m named after my uncle who died.

jasmindls: Oh god! Sorry. My bad.

royceb: no, it’s mine. my uncle’s alive.

jasmindls: You’re evil!!!

royceb: actually he just got in a car accident, that’s why we were at the hospital.

royceb: so you have a problem with my name huh?

jasmindls: I dunno I kind of like fancy cars.

royceb: cool. so should I call you Jazzy for short?

royceb: or do you prefer Baby?

jasmindls: It’s Jasmine, thank you very much.

royceb: nice to meet you Jasmine.

jasmindls: U too GTG TTYL, I type as I reach my floor.

royceb:

The nurses are chatting around their workstation as an employee pushes a food cart down the hall past me for the early bird dinners. Usually, I try to snag a Jell-O cup for myself. I’d never admit it, but I actually like the hospital food. But this time, I leave it. I was starving earlier, yet for some reason, I’m not hungry anymore. I’m excited and queasy-feeling, and I suspect it may have something to do with the boy who’s texting me.

I see my mother rounding the corner in her dark blue scrubs, dragging a bucket full of water and a mop behind her tiny frame.

“Mommy!” I say, skipping toward her. I never call her that except when I want to make her happy. It’s sort of a Filipino thing, and right now I’m bursting with news about the scholarship. “Guess what!”

But before I can say anything else she sets down the mop and leans against the handle. “Are you busy?” she asks. “I need you.”

I shake my head, disappointed not to have her full attention, and my good mood dampens a bit. She seems stressed. “What’s up?” I ask.

“Can you come help me with a mess? You don’t have to touch anything. I just need you to make sure no one walks on it.”

I nod and follow her. When the pressure becomes too much sometimes, when I feel like I’m about to burst with anxiety over my grades or get mad that I’ve never had a social life, I think about my mom and what she’s sacrificed for us so that we can have a better life. I’m so grateful to her and my dad for everything.

She leads me down the hallway into a large room. There’s a nurse bustling about the bed, giving a small, frail woman with white hair a sponge bath. I look down to give her privacy, but the woman complains loudly, “Nothing special to see here, honey. When you’re this old, there’s no such thing as dignity. Your body falls apart like a junky car, but you still have to have the mechanic take a look at the insides. Funny how young people are so modest when they have no reason to be. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, I say.”