Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take,
but by the moments that take our breath away.
—MAYA ANGELOU
THANK GOD NO one bought our house. Otherwise where would we have my graduation party? When Dad walks through the front door with some last-minute groceries, Bob Marley Lives has already sound-checked and is starting a set. Dylan is really rocking out. Julian’s vocals are scratchy and swoon-worthy.
“What is this noise?” Dad says.
I laugh. “It’s music!”
“These are your friends? Did they just get out of prison?”
“No, Daddy.” I hang on to him, which makes him soften. I’ve always been a Daddy’s girl. “Thanks for letting everyone come hang out.”
Royce arrives early. He’s beaming and partially hidden behind the second-largest bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen.
“Hi, baby,” I say, trying to kiss him without getting petals in my face.
“Am I late?” he asks.
“No, you’re right on time.”
Familiar faces fill the house. It seems like everyone I know is here. Coach Davis. Mrs. Garcia. My cheer girls. Lo and her posse. The student council. The math club. The California Scholarship Federation kids. A few guys from the football team.
Dad harrumphs. “Help your mother in the kitchen.”
Mom calls to me like clockwork. “Neneng! I need your help. You have to take these platters out to the table. You can’t let our guests starve. Haven’t I taught you any better?”
I wave to Dylan and Julian as I cross through the living room. My brothers rock out in front of the band while Kayla dances next to them. She thinks they’re hilarious, and I’m so happy to see her smiling and laughing. It seems like the past year has been so tense that often our laughter was forced. Not now. Not today.
I can’t think of anything I’m not grateful for.
The kitchen is filled with the usual mountain of food. Mom is teaching Mrs. Blakely how to stuff and roll lumpia while Lola Cherry and Millie sit together, telling stories about their long, crazy lives. Olivia is rolling around the living room on her scooter, a little dangerous given the size of the room (tiny) and the crowd (large), but no one seems to mind. Mason is still in that rehab center in Utah.
The other day Mom found out from some friends in the hospital that the “big donor” who wanted all the undocumented workers fired was none other than Congressman Blakely. It’s funny—he was part of our crisis, but he fixed it too. Things come full circle. With Royce’s help, I was even able to put the book of stories together and print a few copies for the patients.
Not to mention, when I thank Congressman Blakely once again for what he did for my family, he mentions that he was able to sway the judge with Senator Lauren Silverton’s help. As a high-ranking Democrat, she pulled some strings of her own. “I get by with a little help from my friends,” he says with a wink.
I watch as Lola hooks him with her cane and pulls him over. “I have a question for you,” she demands.
Surprised, Congressman Blakely takes her hand. “Well, aren’t you a beauty?” he says.
Lola raises her eyebrows. “Why, thank you.”
“What do you want to talk about?” he asks. “Health Care? Social Security?”
“Why would I care about that?” Lola shrugs her shoulders like she’s confused. “I want to know about the other good-looking congressmen! Are any available?”
Millie laughs with Lola.
As he passes by the table, Dad pats Royce’s dad on the shoulder. “Be careful with that one. She’s worse than a teenager.”
Congressman Blakely looks helpless.
“What do you need help with, Mom?” I ask.
“Get that thing out of the refrigerator,” she waves.
I twist around to reach for the fridge. “What thing?”
“That thing!” she says.
“Ay!” I say. “You can never say what you mean.” I start to open the door, waiting for more instructions, when I see a small package labeled with my name on it. “What’s this?” I take it out. It’s light.
Mom comes over and hugs me. “Don’t you know what to do with a gift?”
I look around. Mom and Dad are smiling. The music is blasting. I tear open the package. Inside is a small box. I lift the lid to find a gold ring with a deep red stone. It’s a class ring. The center is engraved with the Stanford Tree.
“Mom! Dad!” I yell. “Thank you!”
I look at Royce sitting next to Lo’s friends. He winks at me. “Look on the inside,” he shouts out over the music. “I told them to engrave something.”
Following his directions, I find Stanford’s motto etched on the band: Die Luft der Freiheit weht. I’ve been spending all my free time reading up on as much about Stanford as I can. I’ve already memorized the translation by heart.
The wind of freedom blows.
“We had a little extra money when we started saving up to leave,” Dad says.
I start tearing up just as Kayla enters the room.
“Bawling again?” she laughs. “Pretty ring. Put it on already. Your brothers and I want you to join us.”
“That music,” Dad says. “We’re all going to be deaf.”
“I like it!” Lola Cherry yells.
“Me too,” says Debra.
Mom suddenly goes frantic. She runs over to the stove. “The lumpia is going to burn!”
“Come on,” Kayla says. “It’s finally time to celebrate. Let’s dance!”
* * *
But it’s Royce I want, and I walk over to him.
“Hey,” I say. “Dance with me?”
“Sure. We made it, Jas,” he says, his eyes soft. “We’re going to Stanford together. It’s like some kind of fairy tale, isn’t it?”
“So I’m Cinderella?” I ask. “And you’re supposed to be Prince Charming?”
He smiles. “Something like that...” He’s always been the softer one of the two of us, the more romantic one. We complement each other. He’s strong where I’m weak, and the other way around. “Yup, just like a fairy tale,” he says. “Except hopefully there aren’t any talking mice in our dorm rooms at Stanford.”
I move to slap him on the arm, but he catches my hand. His touch still sparks everything inside me.
Royce holds my fingers up to the light, admiring my class ring. I think about how shackled I felt all year, about how hard I had to fight to get here, about the inscription on the inside of the ring—the wind of freedom is blowing through me—and how it perfectly sums up this moment.
“You’re wrong, love. It’s not a fairy tale,” I say, leading him to join the party so we can dance together. “It’s better. It’s our life.”
* * * * *