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I take a big gulp of the drink Kayla handed me. Some kind of punch-and-whatever concoction. I drink it all and set the cup down. Lo returns with a cable for the bass player. The group of boys who were in the front yard come inside too, and the dark-haired one glances at me as they crowd into the room. There are so many people crowding in that I push myself from the chair and move over to a wall. I look at the boys again. Maybe I should make out with one of them, just because. The dark-haired one is sort of cute.
The music is about to start. Lo takes one of the mics. Kayla is in the front of the room, clapping. Dylan holds a guitar, a sky blue Telecaster. Julian just stands there, and the drummer clicks his sticks together.
“Thanks everyone for coming,” Lo says into the mic. She’s holding a basket. “Yes, I’m taking advantage of my parents being gone. We need your support for Bob Marley Lives. They’re going to play a Greenpeace rally in San Francisco and need some travel money. So pass some cash into this basket I’m sending around!”
I take a few dollar bills from my purse and toss them into the basket. I try not to look at my phone to see if Royce has texted me again, but of course I check. No new texts, probably because I didn’t answer his. I sort of wish I’d invited him to the party now.
The music starts, and I listen to a few songs. But I can’t relax or escape my thoughts, and so I make my way to Kayla and tell her I want to go home. She downs the last of her drink, shoots a glance at Dylan playing guitar, and sets the bottle down on the bookshelf next to us. “Come on,” she says, taking my hand and leading me away from the crowd of partygoers surrounding the band. “We need to talk.”
“What? Why?”
She leads me to the upstairs bathroom. On the way up, I watch a group of guys pushing each other out the front door. The party is starting to get louder and louder. People are yelling drunkenly over the band.
Kayla pulls me inside the bathroom, then closes the door, shutting out most of the sound from the party. “What’s up with you?”
“Huh?”
She lifts up her hair, trying to cool down her neck. It’s stuffy inside the bathroom. “I’m not going to lie. This party is getting a little crazy. But I know you. There’s something else going on. You never go to parties, and suddenly, here you are at a party. You like that guy from the hospital, and you’re never interested in anyone, so that’s a big deal, but then you don’t invite him out tonight. And you’ve been really quiet all day.”
My parents warned me not to tell anyone. It’s too dangerous. I know I can trust Kayla though, and I start to tell her, but right then, we hear a banging coming from the first floor.
“Ugh,” Kayla says. “Hold on a sec.” She opens the door and peeks out.
I don’t hear music anymore. “What’s going on?” I ask.
Kayla comes back in. “Lo turned the lights off. Everyone’s quiet. I think the police are here to shut it down,” she says.
“The police!” I panic. “What are we going to do?”
Kayla shuts the door. “I don’t know. I’ll figure out something.”
Oh God. Thoughts of police turning my family over to immigration officers all because I went to a dumb party start spiraling through my imagination. If any of us are caught doing something illegal, we could be kicked out of the country. How could I be so stupid as to come to this stupid party?
“I can’t get caught by the cops!” I say, panicked.
I don’t realize how much I’m raising my voice until Kayla puts her hand over my mouth. “If you don’t stop shouting, they’re going to hear us.” She paces the tiny bathroom floor. We can hear loud knocking from down below. “Okay, I have a plan,” she says.
Kayla opens the bathroom door and pulls me into the hallway. I try to go back to the bathroom, but she drags me along. She’s taller and stronger than I am, and I can’t resist her. “Why are we going out there?”
The knocks are getting louder. “Open up!”
Hiding beside the front door, Lo spots us upstairs and points to the kitchen, gesturing for us to go that way. Kayla pulls at me. “Come on, Jas. I don’t have time to explain. Do you trust me?”
I’m too scared to run from the police, but I trust Kayla more than anyone. Probably even more than my parents right now. She’s been there for everything. The tears after a B minus. The schoolgirl daydreams about our crushes asking us out to winter formals and the prom. Not that I ever got to go, of course. I wasn’t allowed. My parents are too protective—they wouldn’t even let me go to the junior prom. Kayla went, of course.
Before I have a chance to respond, she pulls me down the stairs. The band’s instruments are lying on the floor, which is littered with empty red cups and crushed cans. We pass through the living room to the kitchen, where through the window I spot partygoers hopping over the back fence and fleeing through Lo’s side gate.
“Let’s get out of here,” Kayla says.
“But you can’t drive,” I whisper. “You’ve been drinking.”
Kayla puts her arm around my shoulders. It’s supposed to be calming, but I feel anything but calm. “I had two light beers,” she says. “I get more buzzed off my grandma’s rum cake on Christmas Eve.”
“I just want to be safe,” I say.
Kayla can tell I won’t budge. “Fine,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “If you had your license this wouldn’t be a problem...”
“This isn’t my fault. I didn’t call the cops.”
She takes her phone out of her purse and taps on the screen.
“Are you texting your mom?”
“For real?” Kayla asks. “Of course not.”
She extends her forearm, showing me Dylan’s number next to a silly smiley face scribbled on her skin. I guess boys are never really as grown-up as they might seem. We start giggling a little, then catch ourselves.
The knocking finally subsides and Lo returns to the kitchen. “Where’s Julian? It’s not even the cops. Just one of my cranky neighbors. I doubt they’ll actually send police out here for a stupid noise complaint.”
I exhale. “Oh man, everyone must have assumed...”
“That the cops were here. Yeah, I know,” Lo says, finishing my sentence. I expect Lo to get mad that her boyfriend ditched her, but she just looks disappointed. “It’s ruined anyway. No one’s coming back.”
“That’s not true,” I say, even though she’s right, the party’s over.
“Thanks for coming, Jas. I’m sorry it went down this way.”
I give her a hug. “Thanks, Lo. We can help you clean...”
Lo waves me off. “That’s okay. My parents won’t be back until the end of the weekend. Do you guys have a ride home?”
Kayla looks down at her phone. “I texted Dylan. He’s going to drop us off at my place.”
“That was fast,” Lo says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” says Kayla.
Lo shrugs.
Kayla frowns.
Sensing tension building between them, I try to end the conversation. “We don’t want to keep you up. Let’s wait outside, Kayla.”
“He’s outside anyway,” Kayla says.
Lo crosses her arms. “Is Julian with him?”
“How should I know?” Kayla asks, pushing past Lo toward the front door. I give Lo a little wave to say I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s up between her and Kayla. I didn’t think Lo was the territorial type.
As I follow Kayla outside, Dylan pulls up in a beat-up, rusted-out Camaro. “How are you going to get your car back?” I ask her.
“He’ll pick us up in the morning. Then I’ll take you back home.”
“Isn’t your mom going to notice the car’s gone?”
“Probably not. Since Dad left, Mom doesn’t really care what I do. She doesn’t have the same expectations of me that your parents do for you, Jasmine.”
“Yes, she does,” I tell her. “Stop talking like that.” I guess sometimes I am lucky—my parents can be pains about rules and they’re way too strict, but at least they’ve always pushed me to do well.
When we walk up, Dylan gets out and puts his arm around Kayla, leading her to the passenger side. I follow behind them, thinking over what Kayla said about expectations.
Until now, I thought everything I did—the grades, student council, cheer—was because my parents expected me to do it. Watching Kayla flirt with Dylan in the front seat, I realize that’s not quite the truth.
I did all those things for me. I did them because I love them. Because they make me who I am. I like studying, I like doing well in school. Academics have always been easy for me, and I like pushing myself and topping everyone else. I’m super competitive and I always have to win. Whether I get to go to D.C. or not, I am a National Scholar.
I’m not going to lower my expectations of myself because the law and some politicians say I don’t belong. I deserve that scholarship. The United States Department of Education thinks so too.
I’m going to figure out a way to go to Washington, D.C. The president will be expecting me.
7 (#u4afabb2e-99d7-5a54-a074-ee1622a50d47)
It is never too late to be what you might have been.
—GEORGE ELIOT
IT’S A WEEK after Lo’s party and I still haven’t figured out how to put my plan to storm the Capitol into action. Royce and I have been texting again. He saw pictures of me from the party that Kayla posted on Instagram and tagged me in, and said it looked fun. But he never showed up during either of my volunteer shifts at the hospital, so maybe he was mad I didn’t invite him? Who knows. I have other things to worry about right now anyway, but I am disappointed I didn’t get to see him.
I haven’t really talked to my parents. I guess we’re living in détente and denial right now. We’re learning about the Cold War in AP European History, which makes me America and my parents the Soviet Union, I guess?
After cheer practice on Wednesday, Kayla drives me to the hospital again. She’s a different person since she’s met Dylan—bouncy and giddy and girlish. I’m happy for her. He seems all right. I thought he was too cool for school, but he’s sweet to her. On Monday he was even nice enough to drive me to the hospital when Kayla couldn’t because she had to pick up her brother from after-school care. Now that her dad’s moved out, her mom needs more help.
“Did Dylan say anything about me by the way?” she asks. “The other day?”
“He says he’s totally in love and wants to marry you,” I joke. “I don’t know. We didn’t really talk about you.”
“You didn’t!” she squeals. “Why not!”
“All right, we did. He thinks you’re a ‘cool chick.’”
“He likes me, right?”
“He wouldn’t drive your best friend to a hospital if he didn’t,” I say.
Kayla beams.
I hug her goodbye and go visit my favorite patient. I’ve known her for only a week and a half, but Millie is already high on my list. She told me the other day that she’s an immigrant too. Her family moved from Germany when she was a teenager, which is why she still has a slight accent.
“You look great today. Your cheeks are so rosy,” I tell her when I arrive. Sitting down next to her hospital bed, I notice that someone has styled her hair, and I can see the Beverly Hills socialite she used to be.
“You flatter me too much,” Millie says. “I was never what they call a great beauty. But I’ll tell you, I never lacked attention from handsome men either.”
“Was your husband handsome?” I ask, taking out my notebook. “You said he did something in politics. Right?”
“Yes, he worked for the city. And he was very good-looking! I would have never married someone I wasn’t completely attracted to—both intellectually and physically.”
I think about how handsome Royce is—and funny and smart too—and feel myself beginning to blush, which Millie quickly notices.
“I’m sorry, Jasmine. That’s always been a trait of mine. I’m terribly forthcoming. I think my husband loved that about me. My mother always said I never had enough tact.”
“My best friend Kayla’s like that too, although she’s too honest about some things. It gets her in trouble.”
Millie gestures for me to open the window blinds. “You don’t strike me as someone who’d keep her opinions to herself though.”
Opening the blinds, I consider what I mean about Kayla’s honesty. “I try not to lie. And Kayla lies about stupid teenager things, like where she’s going or which boy she happens to be dating that minute, but she’s honest about how she feels. I wish I could be more like her in that way.” I wish I could tell Millie about my family’s situation. I think about it all the time, and the secret is starting to weigh on me.
“You’ll learn. In some ways you get braver as you get older. That’s why old biddies like me get away with saying whatever they want.”
We laugh together.
“We’re supposed to be talking about you,” I say, sitting back down. “What made you fall in love with your husband?”
“He was a dreamer, I suppose. People tend to think of politicians as pragmatic, doing what’s sensible, what’s realistic. It’s all a myth. Every single one is an idealist. Politicians are more about all kinds of crazy ideas than they are about what actually works.”
Does Millie know Royce’s dad, I wonder. Would she call him an idealist? I consider asking her, but I try to remind myself of the purpose of the project. This interview is to help Millie heal; it’s not for me. She’s here due to some heart trouble, and she told me she’d been in and out of the hospital for months now.
“What kind of politician was your husband?” I ask.
“A district attorney.”
“How did the two of you meet?”
“He helped us with a permit we needed for one of our buildings,” Millie straightens herself in her bed.
“Do you miss your work?” I ask, because she sounded a little wistful.
“A little. My sons run the company now.” She leans up in her bed. “Could you help me adjust this pillow? I’ve had a kink in my back all day.” As I shift her pillows behind her, Millie turns to put her hand on my shoulder. “I’ve had something on my mind lately, Jasmine. May I ask you a question? It’s only a little personal.”
I nod. “Yes. Of course.”
“What’s your happiest memory?” Millie asks.
I think for a moment, scanning through my happiest moments. My grandmother giving me the amber glass. Being named cheer captain at the end of last school year. Falling asleep on a mattress on the floor my first night in America, snuggled up to Danny, his little toddler’s body warm against me. I was scared, but I was also so excited to begin a new life.
Before I can even answer her, Millie starts up again. “Do you ever sense a little silver sliver of sadness around your happy memories?”
“I’m not sure what you mean...”
“I do. There’s something about remembering that just isn’t the same as the real thing. No matter how happy it makes you feel. When you remember something, you have to recognize that the moment will never happen again.”
