didn’t you tell me?” I yell. “I can’t believe you guys kept this from us for so long!” My knees are locked too tight. I feel dizzy. I just talked back to my parents.
“Jasmine!” Dad stands from his chair and reaches to steady me.
It feels like there’s no ground beneath me, like everything I’ve ever done has been a lie. Like Los Angeles has never really been my home. I’m breaking apart, shattering. Who am I? Where do I belong?
I’m not American. I’m not a legal resident. I don’t even have a green card.
I’m nothing. Nobody.
Illegal.
There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.
—PAULO COELHO
FRIDAY NIGHT. Our football team lost again, but we cheered them on anyway. We change out of our cheer clothes at Kayla’s. She’s excited and nervous, bouncing up and down as she curls her lashes and puts on her lipstick. I’m edgy too, but I’m not ready to tell her what my parents told me the other day. I’m too embarrassed, and if I don’t tell anyone, maybe it won’t be true. To be honest, I just want to forget about it for a night. Just thinking about it makes my head hurt.
Royce and I have been texting a little, and the other day he sent me a friend request on Snapchat and on Facebook. I accepted both. He hasn’t posted a new story on Snapchat, so I scroll through his FB feed again, impressed and annoyed at the same time. There are all these photos of him skiing in Mammoth with friends and boating in Newport with his family. When he smiles, his teeth are blindingly white, like an actor in a commercial. He’s way too handsome to be any good for anyone. Especially me.
His life looks like a cooler version of a Ralph Lauren ad. I squint at a photo of his mother. She looks like a less bombastic Sofia Vergara.
Is your mom Latina? I text him right then, out of the blue. Because I’m curious and jealous at the same time. Because just a few days ago, I thought I was just like him. Mixed race. Hyphenated American. But American.
royceb: My grandfather is Mexican. Mom is Mexican-Italian. Why do you ask? My dad is Norwegian-German by the way. English-Irish too I think. Who knows? Aren’t we all just American?
Not me, not anymore, I can’t help but think. Annoyed, I don’t text him back. What’s the point? He’s just some cute rich guy I’ll never see again. Let’s be serious. Guys like that don’t date girls like me. They only hook up with girls like me, and I’m not about to be anyone’s booty call. Not even for someone as cute as him...
Besides, his dad is a congressman who thinks all undocumented immigrants should be deported. Frightening. Another reason to steer clear.
Kayla comes out of the bathroom and sees me holding my phone. “Who’s that?” she asks, looking over my shoulder.
“Remember I told you about that cute guy I met at the hospital the other day?”
She perks up. “Yeah. Hey, you should invite him to the party!”
I’d thought of that earlier, when he asked what I was doing this weekend, but decided against it. “No.”
“Why not?”
“He lives on the other side of the city all the way in Bel-Air. By the time he gets here, the party will be over.” In truth, I was embarrassed about inviting a rich Westside kid over to the Valley. I look at all the photos on his FB page again. It confirms everything I assumed, from the way he dressed to the confident way he’d gotten my number. He’s a total player, and I’ve never even had a boyfriend. Besides, what if he thought the party was lame? That I was lame?
“God, Jas, you make it sound like Bel-Air is a different planet,” says Kayla with a sniff.
Kayla drives us past Lo’s place. Cars are bunched in the driveway and along the curb; kids are milling on the streets. I told my parents I’d be staying the night at Kayla’s house. After the blowup at the dinner table on Wednesday, they let me sleep over without asking any questions. I’m glad I’m going to this party and doubly glad my parents have no idea where I am. I’m going to have fun—the kind of fun that I’m never allowed to have.
I deserve to let my hair down. Maybe even meet a boy. (But I’ve already met a boy, I think.) No matter. I’ll have fun anyway. Dance a little. Get outside of myself.
“Look at all the cars,” Kayla says. “We’re going to have a good time. You’re going to have a good time, right?”
“Sure,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”
“There’s a bag behind my seat. Can you get it for me?”
I reach back for the bag. As I pick it up, I hear bottles clink. I turn to her, trying not to sound accusatory. “I didn’t know you were planning to drink.”
“It’s only a couple of beer bottles. Barely anything. Don’t worry. If I drink a little at the beginning, I’ll have a chance to sober up before we go home.”
I haven’t even thought about drinking. My parents would kill me if I took even one sip. Filipinos believe “nice girls” don’t even think of drinking.
Our house has been quieter than normal since the news. Most of the noise comes from either Danny and Isko shouting at each other about dumb little brother things like who will grow up to be the tallest or smartest. No one has told my brothers anything.
Even though they’ve figured out I’m fighting with Mom and Dad—which happens like never, so they know it’s about something serious—I don’t have the heart to tell them what it’s about. I can’t. It seems wrong to worry my brothers when they’re still so young. I don’t want them to have to live in fear like I am now. I think of those scruffy guys we sometimes see ambling outside the Home Depot, and how we felt bad for them, because they would take any job, do anyone’s dirty work—they were illegal and had no choice. Is that who we are now? Is that where I’m going to end up?
Instead of sulking, Mom has gone into full-on detail cleaning mode—like washing the miniblinds and wiping down the doors, which she does to keep herself calm and focused when she’s too emotional. When her life feels like it’s spiraling out of her grasp, she has to find something to control. That would usually mean telling her kids what to do, but she feels guilty, so now she’s spending her energy on cleaning and cooking. We always eat well when she’s bothered by something. If the problem is really big, she cooks bibingka, my favorite rice cake. The buttery, sugary coconut scent means one of two things. It’s either Christmas morning, or Mom’s stressed out. Let’s just say it’s not Christmas and there’s a ton of bibingka in the house right now.
School’s not much better. Everyone’s talking about colleges, even the slackers who didn’t really care about school until a week or two ago. Now everybody’s obsessed with their lists—ranking first, second, third, seventeenth choice. I’d always dreamed of going to Stanford, and had planned to apply to a few schools back east as well, although I’m worried that’s too far from my family. I was supposed to apply to Cal Berkeley and UCLA too, with UC Santa Barbara as my safety. I’d taken the Regent’s Scholarship for
