Dare to live the life you have dreamed for yourself.
Go forward and make your dreams come true.
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON
JOURNALISTS SHOW UP at our house for the next couple of days, but no one in our family talks to them so, after a while, they finally leave us alone. There are a few mean-spirited articles online, but soon some married senator is caught sending nude pictures of himself online to a few young female constituents, and the hungry news media moves on.
At school the next day, Kayla tells me she’s called Dylan twenty times in the past forty-eight hours. “You really need to give it a rest,” I tell her. “Don’t you think you’re becoming a little obsessive?”
We’re walking through a hallway between classes. I’m headed to English, which has been a total bore. Chaucer feels as foreign as America these days.
“I only left five messages yesterday,” Kayla says, sliding on some transparent vanilla glitter lip gloss. “I’m starting to think Mason was better than nothing.”
“Don’t go there,” I say. “He’s bad news and you know it.”
“I know.” She pops her lips. “But why won’t Dylan forgive me?”
“People need time,” I say. “And you dumped him. What do you expect?”
“I thought I was doing him a favor breaking up with him since he was gone so much, you know, so he wouldn’t have to miss me,” she says, heading toward Calculus. “I guess I just didn’t want to be hurt and so I hurt him instead.”
I of all people understand that sentiment and tell her so.
Kayla stands by the open door to my class, she has a free period next and can hang around a little. “I miss him,” she says.
I squeeze her arm. “Maybe you can let him miss you a little more.”
“Why? Do I seem desperate?”
“A little,” I say, digging in my backpack for my homework. I can’t figure out where I put it. “Okay, a lot.”
“So you want me to pull back?” she says. “Play chase the rabbit?”
“Yes, little bunny,” I say, finding my homework folded inside my math textbook as if I’m in grade school. I’m so disorganized lately. Although I think it’s a good thing I’ve loosened up. I connect with people better. I don’t get so worked up about small stuff.
“Just do me one favor,” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, dropping my homework in the bin at the front of the room. “Depends.”
Kayla watches me. “What? You don’t trust me?”
“Just tell me,” I say.
“Will you come with me to Lo’s next get-together? I know she’s having one this weekend. Bob Marley Lives is playing it.”
“Of course,” I say. “But you and Dylan really need to have a conversation before the party. Otherwise everything will be super awkward. And you won’t be able to talk there that much.”
“How can I have a conversation if he won’t speak to me?”
“Let me try,” I say. “I’ll see what I can do. There’s a chance he’ll be open to talking. Right? Just don’t get your hopes up. I mean, what if he’s seeing someone?”
“We can fix that,” Kayla says, not accepting defeat. She twirls a lock of her curly hair and winks. “See you later.”
I say goodbye to Kayla, admiring her for never giving up on what she wants. I’ve always liked that about her. Then I realize, I could use some of that moxie too. And in my case, it won’t just be the affections of a slacker rocker on the line.
It will be our whole life.
When I get home, I tell my dad we have to call our lawyer. I have a plan.
* * *
Mr. Alvarado’s office hasn’t changed. Not a photo has been moved on his wall. Half of them are still hanging crooked. Dad’s reaction is the same as mine. He gazes at all the walls and squints disgustedly.
“Mr. Alvarado is Latino,” I say. “Why are you expecting Filipinos all over his walls?”
“He could hang a few more,” he says. “At least for while we’re here. I wouldn’t feel so small then.” As Mr. Alvarado enters the room, Dad grumbles audibly. Mom shushes him.
“So good to see you,” the lawyer says, greeting each of us. I wouldn’t blame him for not being nice to Dad. “How are you getting along?”
“We’re making plans to leave,” Dad says. “It’s not very exciting.”
“Terrible news about that private bill,” Mr. Alvarado says. “I heard about that recently. I’m very sorry I couldn’t do more.”
“Actually,” I say, surprised that I’ve spoken up, “there’s been a development.”
“Oh?” he says. “Are you the spokesperson today?”
“Apparently so,” Dad says.
I know Dad doesn’t want to be here. That’s why he and Mom are happy to relinquish this role to me. “Well...” I take a breath, building up my courage. “While we were negotiating with Congressman Blakely about the private bill, he said he’d already gotten the judge in our case to grant us an extension, a visa or something, so that we could stay longer. Only thing is, once he pulled back on the bill, we have no idea what happened with the visa.”
Mr. Alvarado takes a moment. “Have you tried contacting Congressman Blakely, then?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “But his office says it’s in our hands. They advised us to wait and not press the matter, actually.” I don’t mention that the congressman is my boyfriend’s dad. Mr. Blakely was sincerely apologetic but it was clear he was also rattled by the leak and there was nothing more he could or would do for my family.
“They said that? Politicians,” Mr. Alvarado says, shaking his head. “They duck and hide.”
“But the judge already agreed to the visa extension. We’re not supposed to be deported, at least, not yet.”
“Tell me what you know,” he says.
I tell him everything I remember about the judge supposedly being pressured by Congressman Blakely to grant the stay of deportation.
Mr. Alvarado sits back, takes it all in. He coughs, clearing his throat. “I don’t know if I can touch this,” he says, to our disappointment. “The judge may have already put a stop to this once Blakely backed out and denied the existence of the private bill. I don’t see how you would still be entitled to that. I’m sorry. I don’t think I can do anything for you.”
“Not even to call the judge to see if the visas were granted to us?” I ask, irritated.
“You chicken! You’re a little hen!” Dad suddenly says.
Mr. Alvarado is shocked at Dad’s words. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m no chicken!”
“Liar! I see your feathers!” Dad points. “Right there! Under your collar!”
Mr. Alvarado, still shocked, straightens his shirt.
“Dad!” I say, turning to Mr. Alvarado. “Sir, you can see the stress this has caused. You’ve seen our family in the news. In fact, don’t you think the media would be interested in our side of the story, especially when we tell them how our lawyer promised us a victory and encouraged us to ask for a deportation hearing? I think the exploitation of helpless immigrants for profit is a story that some news outlets would be glad to pursue.”
Mr. Alvarado’s eyes seem to prickle. “Are you forcing my hand, little girl?” he says.
“Call it what you want,” I say. “You need to keep your reputation as a pro-immigrant crusader, and we need you to contact the judge and remind him to make good on his promise. You need to tell him you know all about the favors he owes Congressman Blakely, and that he better get us our visa or we’ll go to the media and tell our side of the story, about how everyone has been in cahoots. They’ve been dying for us to talk to them. We’ve been quiet so far.”
“You would do that?” he says.
“We would,” I say. “It all depends though.”
“On what?” he says.
“On whether you do what’s right. We’re tired of being pawns.”
“And you would make me one?”
I smile sweetly.
* * *
When Dad and I get back to the car, Mom’s shocked at how I handled the lawyer.
“Neneng,” Dad says. “You almost sounded like a lawyer yourself.”
“Do you think he’ll do something?” Mom says. “He seemed to start listening.”
“He has to,” I say. “Or we’ll talk to those journalists who keep hounding us. They’ve been wanting us to talk.”
“Is that a good idea?” Mom asks.
“It would complicate things,” I admit. “But Mr. Alvarado doesn’t know that.”
Dad starts laughing. “Maybe you should work in a casino, Jasmine. You’re pretty good at gambling.”