Литагент HarperCollins - Something Inbetween

“Ate! Go take your shower. I don’t want to wait for you to eat my dinner,” Dad shouts from down the hallway.

“All right! I’m going, Daddy!”

Heading toward the bathroom, I think about the day our family moved to California. We boarded a big jet plane at the Manila airport. Daddy was worried sick about our belongings not showing up in Los Angeles. It’s crazy how much our lives have changed since that day. I don’t remember much about life there now, mostly that we were hot all the time, and sweaty, since the Philippines is near the equator. I take my shower, washing off all the sweat from practice, letting the water fall over my face and shoulders, warming my skin, relaxing my muscles. The shower is my sanctuary, the one place I can be alone and think without interruptions.

I think about the National Scholarship, how it means I can most likely go to any college now—and the reception will be the first time I’m away from home and on my own. I’ve traveled with the cheer team, but we’re always together. I imagine Washington, D.C., and the fancy reception and all the people who will be there—diplomats, activists, congressmen and women, scientists, artists, the president and the first lady. I’ll be around people who actually run the country, people who influence history and who have the power to make other people’s lives better. I hope I’ll be one of them someday. I don’t really know what I want to do yet—something to do with medicine or law, but I’m still unsure.

I decide I’ll tell my parents my good news by showing them the letter and letting it speak for itself. Then I’ll ask them to fill out the acceptance form with me tonight, so that I can send my information back as soon as possible.

* * *

As I’m brushing my hair, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Royce.

royceb: hey good-looking.

So cheesy! But I’m charmed anyway. I can’t help but grin as I text back. I forget about seeing his dad rail against illegal immigrants on TV.

jasmindls: Hey yourself.

royceb: are you around this weekend?

royceb: wanna hang out?

jasmindls: Maybe.

It’s not that I’m playing hard to get—I do have a lot of studying to do, and Kayla wants to go to Lo’s party, so that doesn’t really leave me with a lot of free time. I feel a flutter in my heart at the thought of seeing him again. Weekends are difficult, but maybe there’s another way.

royceb: maybe?

royceb: did you google me or something?

royceb: i swear that wasn’t me in the angry bird costume scaring the children.

jasmindls: LOL are you sure?

royceb: Okay, okay, that was me. The pigs made me do it.

He’s funny, I think as I type back.

jasmindls: Weekend’s tough but I volunteer at the hospital on Mondays and Wednesdays.

royceb: okayyyy. Not quite what I was hoping.

royceb: But I do hear the hospital cafeteria is delightful.

That makes me giggle out loud.

jasmindls:

Glowing, I head to the kitchen. Everyone is gathered around the stove, spooning rice and adobo into their bowls. I slip the scholarship letter under a book on the counter and grab a bowl of adobo for myself.

Mom notices I filled the bowl only a little. “What? You don’t like my cooking?”

Isko perks up. “Don’t you know, Ma? Jasmine is on a diet,” he says. “So she won’t get taba like you.”

“How can such a little boy have such a big personality?” Mom says, pretending to be annoyed that he called her fat, even if it’s an endearment. Filipinos don’t think being fat is the worst thing in the world, probably because it’s a Third World country where many people are starving.

I pat Isko on the head, which I know he hates more than anything. Isn’t that a big sister’s job? To drive her little brothers crazy?

Danny doesn’t say anything to back me up. He’s at the table sketching some kind of magical beast. Dad doesn’t even look up from his bowl.

“Mommy, I told you, I have to watch what I eat during the season. Otherwise they won’t be able to throw me up in the air.”

“I don’t understand you girls and your diets. In the Philippines, I never had to watch what I ate and I stayed skinny as a stick. I guess you think our kind of food will make you fat, but look at the Filipinos you know. We’re skinnier than Americans!”

Danny sighs. “In the Philippines...”

Mom ignores him. “When I was growing up, all of the children played outside all the time. We made up outside games and ran around our compound and climbed trees. At least Jasmine dances,” she says to the boys. “You’re always glued to the television.”

She always calls cheer “dancing” even though she knows better. I don’t think she ever got over the fact that I stopped doing the traditional Filipino dance classes in junior high. But I had to drop something to be able to keep my other extracurricular activities and still get all my homework done.

She walks over to Danny and grabs his sketch pad. “Tsk. And you. No drawing at the table during dinner. You’re as bad as your sister with her phone.”

I self-consciously check my pocket, to see if Royce has sent a new text, but he hasn’t. The thought of seeing him at the hospital next Monday gives me serious butterflies. I’ve had crushes before, and I can already tell this is the worst one yet. I’m really into him and I’ve only known him for, like, five seconds.

Isko stuffs a pork chunk into his mouth. “I like hearing about the Philippines,” he says, nudging Dad with his elbow. “Tell us the story about how you and Tito Boy used to fight spiders!”

Dad puts down his empty bowl and leans back in his chair. He loves telling this story. Tito Boy died a few years ago at his construction job in Manila, so I think talking about him helps Daddy remember his brother.

“Tito Boy and I would stay up all night before spider-hunting season opened. As soon as the first light came up, we hunted for El Tigre spiders in the jungle. They’re the best ones. We’d keep them in little boxes, any kind of small container, and let them out to crawl on our hands. Then we’d put them on long sticks, watch them crawl toward each other, knock each other off or fight to the death. We’d yell and scream for our favorite. Mine had only seven legs from a fight it survived. But let me tell you, that spider beat a hundred other spiders before I released it into a tree, retired to a new life. If only we could all escape this life with so few scars.”

By the time Dad is done with the story, Mom has brought over the turon for dessert. Danny and Isko swarm over the plate, grabbing two for each of them. Despite the warm sweet smell of burned caramel, I’m too excited about the scholarship to eat any dessert. I can’t wait any longer.

“Mommy, Daddy, I want to show you something,” I say, standing up and walking over to the book on the counter. I slip the envelope from underneath and hand the letter to my father. I’m grinning ear to ear. I’m so proud of myself, of my parents, of my entire family right now.

I can’t wait to hear them cry and scream and cheer when they read it.

I did it! I want to shout. I did it! I’m a National Scholar! And I couldn’t have done it without you!

5

I take issue with many people’s description of people being illegal immigrants. There aren’t any illegal human beings as far as I’m concerned.