tuition. It almost takes my breath away. I can see it so clearly. My future.
College. Graduate school. I don’t know yet what I want to do, but I do know that winning at the meritocracy is my American dream. A successful career and a handsome husband. A family. I’m old-fashioned that way, maybe because I’m Filipino, but ever since I was a kid I’ve wanted a family of my own and a marriage like the one my parents share. Corny, I know, but hey, I’m an American girl, and I want it all.
I worked hard for this, gave up everything. Some of my friends tease that I’m seventeen going on thirty-five. It doesn’t matter now. What’s certain is that I’m not going to be stuck with my parents’ limited options. My mom graduated top of her class in the Philippines, but in America she cleans up vomit in a hospital, and my dad, the smartest man I know, drives a bus for a living. But they always believed if their children became American like I am now, the sky’s the limit.
And here it is. The sky is on fire.
This is it. My year. My shot (thanks, Hamilton).
The exhilaration is almost as good—if not better—as sticking a killer landing at Nationals.
It was my father who taught us that an immigrant must work twice as hard as anybody else, that he must never give up.
—ZINEDINE ZIDANE
“WHAT WAS THAT all about?” Kayla asks when Mrs. Garcia leaves. She raises her eyebrows and waits expectantly.
I can’t hide my elation, but I want to tell my parents first. The news is too precious, too hard-earned to share with even my best friend right now. It’s not that she won’t be happy for me; she’ll be ecstatic. But Mom and Dad deserve to be the first ones to hear.
“Just some good news about college apps,” I tell her. “She thinks I’m eligible for a Regent’s at the UC schools.” The Regent’s Scholarships are California’s answer to the National Scholarship Program. They cover thousands of dollars of tuition a year for the top percentage of applicants, and I’d known I’ve been eligible for a while as UC applications are due at the end of November.
“Well, duh, I could have told you that,” she says, as I pull the scholarship letter out of my sports bra and slip it into the front pocket of my backpack.
When practice is over, we run into Lorraine Schiana leaning against her car with a couple of boys in the parking lot. She’s twisting her dark red hair around one of her fingers. Lo is drop-dead gorgeous but never looks as if she’s trying. You know the type. Glamorous. Bohemian. Like a rock star’s famous girlfriend. She’s a total scene queen, always dating a different hot musician at least a year or two older, and dyeing her hair these amazing unnatural colors—pink, blue, lavender, and silver. Right now she’s wearing her hair au naturel, as she told me all that dye was drying out the ends too much. We’ve been friends since junior high, but Lo started running in different groups once we got to high school and my class load meant I didn’t have as much free time as I’d like. Even though we’re not as close anymore, I still love her. Her world always seems so much bigger than mine. She knows so many people and has so many fun things going on that it makes me feel a little jealous sometimes.
As I pass by, I give her a little wave, not wanting to interrupt her conversation.
Kayla leans over and whispers, “Who are those guys? Dibs on the one in the Bob Marley shirt.”
It’s like the boys can sense she’s talking about them because they train their eyes on us, which makes Lorraine look over too. “Hey, Jas,” she says. “What up, girl? Haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“The usual,” I say, smiling back. “What’s up with you?”
“Hanging out with these losers.” Lorraine gestures to the guys at her side. “This is my boyfriend, Julian. That’s Dylan. They play in a band together,” she says.
Julian is African American, incredibly good-looking, with cappuccino-colored skin and dreadlocks. He’s wearing a red beanie and has tattoos all over his forearms. Kayla smiles at Dylan, the surfer-type boy with messy blond hair wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses and a T-shirt with Bob Marley’s face on the front. I can tell she’s already developed a massive crush on him.
“Cheerleaders, huh?” Dylan asks.
I sigh a little. “Good guess. How can you tell?”
It’s not like we’re wearing our uniforms or anything, and I don’t like the way he said cheerleaders, as if we’re just chicks who shake their pom-poms. Our squad won Regionals last year. We’re just as much athletes as the guys in helmets we supposedly “cheer” for. (They lose every year. Our squad has a better winning percentage. Burn.)
Dylan smirks. “Dorky white tennis shoes are pretty much a dead giveaway.”
“Leave her alone, Dylan. She’s a friend of mine,” Lo says.
“My older sister was a cheerleader,” he says somewhat apologetically.
“It’s okay,” says Kayla, who’s practically drooling over him even though she’s trying to appear disinterested. “Where do you guys go to school?”
“We graduated last year. Dylan’s at Valley College. I’m taking some time off and focusing on music,” Julian says. “I might go back to become a sound engineer. I’m still figuring things out.”
Lo tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Want to come over on Friday?” she asks. “I’m having a few people over for a kick back. It’ll be chill. My parents are out of town.”
“I don’t know,” I say, hesitating to commit, even as I feel Kayla’s intense stare on me. “Midterms are coming up and you know what my parents are like. And Kayla and I already have plans that night.” To sit at home and bake chocolate-chip cookies, but I don’t mention that.
“We can change them!” Kayla chirps.
“Yeah, come on, Jas,” Lorraine says. “It’ll be fun. Hang out for a change.”
“Fine. Maybe. Message me the details?” I hate letting people down and I do miss Lo.
“Will do,” Lorraine says. “See you guys then. Bye, Jas. Bye, Kayla.”
Kayla seems shocked Lorraine even knows her name but recovers quickly. “Cool, thanks, Lo.” She looks at the boys. “Are you guys going to be there?”
Julian seems amused. He exchanges glances with Dylan. I’m not sure what they’re trying to say to each other. Boys. I can never read them.
“Yeah, we’ll be there,” says Julian, and Dylan nods.
“Excellent,” says Kayla.
* * *
Kayla and I walk to her brand-new pearly-white Dodge Charger, which her parents bought her for her seventeenth birthday. We throw our backpacks onto the backseat and plop into the front seats, overheated and exhausted, although I can tell Kayla’s in a good mood from the party invitation and meeting those guys.
I’m
