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I don’t agree with Coach’s choice for captain. I think more responsibility might help pull Kayla back toward the team. Everyone likes her. They’ll listen to her, but Coach won’t change her mind. I hope Kayla doesn’t take the news too hard.
After Coach tells the team about my award and how I’ll be heading to D.C., all the girls come up to congratulate me and give me hugs.
“Don’t forget us when you’re rich and famous,” says Deandra.
“The little people,” agrees Emily.
Courtney, who’s almost six feet tall, laughs at that. The others beam—everyone’s so happy for me.
“I’d never forget you guys!” I tell them. “Otherwise you’ll throw me off the pyramid and won’t catch me!”
“Girl, you got that right,” they say and laugh.
They’re all here, except for Kayla. She doesn’t come up to hug me or congratulate me. And that’s how I know she’s mad.
* * *
After practice, I wait for Kayla to change out of her cheer clothes. Walking out of the bathroom stall, she brushes by me and opens her backpack on the locker room bench.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the scholarship?” She doesn’t look up from the floor. “I have to find out with everyone else?”
Right. I never told her about it. I’d meant to, but then with everything that happened, it just slipped my mind. I feel my cheeks burn. “I don’t know. The day I heard the news, I wanted to tell my family first, and then I sort of forgot...”
“But if you’re going to D.C. this weekend, haven’t you known for, like, almost a month already? Did you think I’d be jealous or something? That’s messed up.”
I walk over to her and sit down on the bench next to her backpack. “No, it’s not that. I’m sorry. Things have been weird. At home, I mean. I didn’t even know I was going to D.C. until a couple days ago.”
Finished stuffing clothes inside her backpack, Kayla zips up the sides. “Things are weird at home for you? At least your parents don’t hate each other.”
I gently grab her arm, turning her toward me. “There’s a lot going on that I haven’t told you about. First of all, my mom lost her job at the hospital.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh my God, Jas, I’m so sorry. Is she okay? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was embarrassed. I know I shouldn’t be, but I just... Ugh. And I’m so sorry I haven’t been there for you as much as I should have been. I told myself you were busy with Dylan and you didn’t need me. But I’m here now. Tell me what’s going on with you too.”
Kayla sighs. Tears are building up in her eyes. “I just thought you didn’t care. You’ve been totally MIA for the last few weeks. Things have gotten so bad at home. Dad’s gone, and Mom spends as much time out of the house as possible. And I’m stuck watching Brian on the weekends. I hate everything. I just want my life to go back to normal.”
I feel the same way, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I hug Kayla until she’s done crying. Then I go to one of the stalls to get a wad of toilet paper so she can wipe her eyes and blow her nose.
“How’s Dylan?” I ask. Talking about boys always makes Kayla feel better. She instantly lights up.
“He’s good.” She sniffles. “I really like him. He’s not like any other guy I’ve dated. He’s really chill and easy to hang out with. I just...feel like I can totally be myself around him.”
“That’s amazing,” I say, feeling wistful. It’s not as if Royce and I have been in contact lately. We sort of lost the thread—okay, fine, I dropped it. I’ll probably never see him again.
“What are you going to do on your trip?” Kayla asks.
“There’s a tour of the Capitol, and there’s this fancy reception for the National Scholars. And I’m supposed to meet the president, I guess.”
“The president?” She wipes her nose, then throws the tissue away. “Wow, Jas, that’s huge. How fancy is this dinner? What are you going to wear?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about that yet.”
Kayla pulls me up from the bench. “We have to get out of here,” she says. “We’re going shopping!”
* * *
By Wednesday afternoon, I’ve got my bags completely packed. I stuffed a little blue glass bottle inside my suitcase so I can scoop up some dirt from the capital to add to my collection.
We’re on the way to the airport. My brothers stayed home with one of Mom’s friends. Dad and Lola Cherry are along for the ride. Lola Cherry is in her seventies, wearing large Jackie O glasses, and has the demeanor of someone who was quite the looker in her youth. She dyes her hair black and wears bright red lipstick, but like the typical Filipino matron, lives in comfortable housedresses and flip-flops.
I’ve been sort of dreading this moment when I leave them. It’s the first time I’ll be on my own anywhere, and I know how Mom can be. She’s worried and talking a hundred miles an hour. “You need to be careful out there. Washington, D.C., is filled with strange old men. You keep them away from you. Button up your blouse. And no makeup.”
“A chaperone is picking me up at the airport,” I say, nibbling my nails. “You’re overreacting.”
“I don’t know this chaperone,” Mom says.
“Me either,” Dad says. “He could be a space alien for all I know.”
“Daddy,” I say. “Just stop. You’re being silly. And it’s a girl.”
Lola Cherry sits in the backseat, snickering. “If you were smart, Jasmine, you would take me along,” she says.
“Why? So you can flirt with all the old congressmen?” Dad says.
Lola clicks her tongue. “I don’t flirt,” she says. “I don’t have to say a thing. They’ll come to me because of my beauty. They’ll take me to dinner on the town. I want to see this Washington, D.C., nightlife.”
I laugh. I should probably take Lola Cherry—she’d probably have more fun than me.
“Lola Cherry!” Mom says. “You’re not helping. These people have no scruples.”
“I know,” Lola says, winking at me.
I grin back.
“Ay,” Mom says. “I knew we shouldn’t have let you come with us.”
“So you can keep torturing your daughter on your own?”
“I’m not torturing her,” Mom says. “She needs to hear these things.”
“Mom,” I say. “I’ll be fine. It’s perfectly safe. This is a huge award. There’s a ton of security. Nothing will happen to me! Quit worrying. And you know what? That reform bill is going to pass the House. I can feel it. Everything will be okay.” My heart begins to beat faster, as I think about everything that’s at stake.
“That bill better pass,” Dad says. “Or the UFO is going to pick us up and take us away.”
“Dad, quit with the space alien jokes,” I sigh.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting tired of them already.”
Mom joins in. “We’re all getting tired of them.”
Finally, Dad pulls up to the drop-off area at the airport. We say our goodbyes and Mom actually cries, which makes me cry too. Lola gives me a hug and tells me to put in a good word to any congressmen or senators who look like movie stars.
“If any look like Elvis, get their phone number for me,” she says.
I hug her tightly. I love my crazy family. I wish my brothers were here. “I love you so much,” I tell Lola.
Mom complains right away. “What about me?”
“Stop,” I say, kissing her cheek. “You know how much I love you. We’re practically the same person. I’m going to be fine. I’m going to meet the president of the United States.” I kiss Dad goodbye too.
Lola’s eyes brighten. “You didn’t say you were going to meet the president! He’s the best-looking of all!”
“I told all of you,” I growl. “You just don’t listen! I’m going to be late for the plane. I love you!” I add, and run off into the terminal and to the security checkpoint.
10 (#u4afabb2e-99d7-5a54-a074-ee1622a50d47)
There was nothing but land; not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.
—WILLA CATHER, MY ÁNTONIA
“MS. DE LOS SANTOS?” asks a young African American woman with straightened hair cut in a cute bob outside the terminal at Dulles International Airport. She’s holding a sign with my name on it.
“That’s me,” I say, with a big smile.
“Suzanne Roberts,” she says, shaking my hand. “National Scholarship Recognition Program Hostess and Department of Education Liaison. Right this way. You’ll be meeting some of the other students shortly.”
For being so young, Suzanne is all business. Her skirt and coat are a deep royal blue and her blouse is white. She’s perfectly put together. Not a wrinkle anywhere on her clothes or a hair out of place. There’s an insignia on her uniform for the program that looks like a blend with the presidential seal. I note the way she holds herself. The way she walks. She talks as if she graduated from some etiquette school in Switzerland where they teach you how to carry yourself with poise. She has a constant smile that seems real and not polished at all. She’s instantly likable. I want to be like her someday and tell her so.
“You’re sweet, thanks. I hear your essay and self-assessment was a particularly great read for the committee. Congratulations.”
“Thanks so much—it’s so nice to hear that. Are you on the selection committee?” I ask as we walk through the terminal.
Suzanne smiles. “No, those are all highly regarded scholars in the fields of education, law, medicine, the advanced arts, and other areas. Maybe one day. I was a previous scholarship recipient. I’m a congressional aide and for now, I’m just happy to assist the program’s candidates during their time here in Washington, D.C.”
“Cool,” I say, because it is. I can’t wait to meet everyone, to start making connections, to start being part of this great network that runs our country. For a moment, I feel like myself again, the person I was before I discovered the truth about our status.
* * *
I’m sitting in the backseat with two other students while Suzanne drives a black sedan toward the Ritz-Carlton on Twenty-second Street.
“This is Richard Morales,” Suzanne says, nodding toward the tall boy sitting in the front seat who has such large shoulders, he barely fits inside the car. “He’s from Arizona. And an incredible jazz musician, I hear.”
“What instruments do you play?” I ask.
Richard cranes his neck around to look at me. “A little of everything, I guess. But my favorite is the saxophone.” He curls his fingers and begins playing invisible notes. He’s already totally lost in his own imaginary world of music.
The other boy sitting next to me extends his hand, which I shake. His pale fingers are bony and long. “I’m Simon Sebastian,” he says in a nasally voice. “Did you know the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial was made in China? And that the FDR Memorial has a statue of his dog?”
“No,” I say. “You know a lot about Washington, D.C....”
While Simon continues to rattle off random trivia, I peer out the window for a glimpse of anything recognizable. I have the window rolled down a little so I can see better, and I’m shocked by how much colder the fall weather is here. Wrapping my coat tighter around me, I imagine myself walking across the campus of George Washington University or Georgetown, watching the auburn leaves falling off the branches of the old trees. I could belong here.
The buildings are so stately and old-fashioned. I’ve seen all the buildings on television before, of course, but I’m amazed by their size and significance upon seeing them in in real life. But when we finally see the Capitol dome, lit up like an earthly moon, I feel a pang, like it’s not for me. I want so badly to feel like part of this country. It’s the only home I know.
The Ritz-Carlton is a collection of dark buildings and many windows. It feels like a beautiful fortress. The ceilings are tall and lovely inside the hotel. I want to just sit in a chair and take it all in, stare at everything and everyone. Instead, I follow Suzanne to check-in, where we are each given a room. I’m sharing mine with a few girls, but they’ve already been there all day. Suzanne tells us to hurry. We’re the last group of arrivals.
She hands each of us a small folder, “This is your itinerary. Inside you’ll find where you’re supposed to be. I will be your guide through most of your stay here. The first Honoree Reception is in about two hours. Get some rest and meet me in the lobby at five, and we’ll walk to the main ballroom together.”
I’m relieved to hear that Suzanne will be with us the entire way. It makes me feel secure as I find my way to my room, which is just as elegant as I hoped. They’ve given us a two-bedroom suite with heavy floral couches and tables that shine like someone has recently polished them. In vases set next to each bed there are bouquets of white roses, which fill the room with a flowery scent that reminds me of Mom’s garden.
I toss my suitcase to the side and plop down on a bed in the room that doesn’t have clothes and jewelry strewn all over the place. It’s a dream, really, and the nicest hotel room I’ve ever been in. If this is a taste of my future, I want it.
I text Mom.
I’m here and in my room. Going to a reception in a couple hours. I have a chaperone named Suzanne. She’s smart and nice. Love you. Talk soon.
No reply; she must be busy.
I hear my roommates enter, but they all disappear into the other bedroom without saying hello. It sounds like they all know each other, and probably no one wants to room with the new girl. Fine, more room for me.
After showering, putting on my makeup and brushing out my long hair, I open my suitcase on one of the beds, unzipping the sides carefully to not catch any of my clothing. On top lies the dress I bought when I went shopping with Kayla. I put it on and fluff out the wrinkles. It’s as bright as a yellow gumamela flower, with an open back and a braid that twists over my shoulders and down to the bottom of the dress’s flowing fabric. I’m dark for a Filipino, nut-brown like my dad, and the color pops against my skin. From my suitcase, I take the amber glass my Lola gave me and feel the smooth sides between my fingers. Preparing my nerves for the dinner, I stick the stone inside my clutch and head out for the reception. I’m so ready for this.
* * *
The ballroom is decorated in layered white and gold bunting, and there are vases of white flowers everywhere. It’s like a wedding—everything is so pretty, and I can’t help but look around, wide-eyed and happy. The event is black-tie, so all the guys are in tuxes and the girls are in long dresses. The room is buzzing, lively. It’s clear everyone is thrilled to be here. There’s an hour before dinner during which we eat cheese and crackers and Suzanne introduces us to as many dignitaries as she can recognize. I stick close to her, as do Richard and Simon. We’re all a bit subdued, and when people congratulate us, we just smile and nod. I meet so many people, it’s hard to keep track of who’s who.
“Jasmine, may I introduce you to Senator Armstrong, Speaker of the House.”
“To Dr. Holly Villa, of the National Health Organization.”
“To the Honorable James Macgregor, Ambassador to Switzerland.”
“To Eugenia Rosenberg, editor in chief of the Washington Post.”
My head is swimming and my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. When it’s finally time for dinner and speeches, we go to look for our table, which is right in front. The head of the National Scholar Foundation speaks first and introduces the top ten scholars. They each give a short speech about their talents and ambitions, many of them in the scientific and technological arenas. In between, Suzanne engages us all with questions, but I can’t concentrate. The whole night is overwhelming, almost unreal to me. Then I cut into the chicken, which is rubbery and hard, and I fall back down to earth for a moment. Dad always says we eat better at home than most people do in restaurants, and he’s totally right.
Simon and Richard chat excitedly at our table. The other honorees seated with us include three girls who I find out are my elusive roommates. There’s Mallory Lynch, a preppie redhead, and Nina Chandra, a gorgeous Indian girl with a hilarious sense of humor. They’re both from Maryland. Then there’s Carrie Mayberry. She’s a classic all-American beauty with thick sandy-blond hair and cornflower-blue eyes who happens to be a Junior Olympics gymnast, a world-class sailor, and has already landed an internship with the New York Times and is a total shoo-in to Columbia, her first choice.
Carrie seems to be the leader of the three girls. Every topic of conversation revolves around what she thinks or whom she knows. Carrie is from D.C., but all three girls know each other because Nina and Carrie go to a boarding school together and Mallory plays on Nina’s water polo club team. All of their parents seem to be involved in politics somehow.
The girls are totally ignoring Richard and Simon, which doesn’t matter because the boys don’t even notice, they’re so engrossed in a super nerdy discussion about binary numbers.
“Are you excited to go to Columbia?” I ask Carrie, trying to make conversation. “Do you like New York?”
She crosses her arms. “Do I like New York? The city isn’t the kind of place that you like or dislike. New York is bigger than any single person. It’s the only place to live really.”
“Oh,” I say. “I guess that’s how Manila used to feel to me...that it’s more than a city.”
