12

I smiled at him. America, I said quietly, just like that.
What is it? The sweepings of every country including
our own. Isn’t that true? That’s a fact.

—JAMES JOYCE, ULYSSES

WHEN I OPEN my eyes the next morning, I forget where I am. Am I late for school? Light streams through the windows, blinding me. I can’t see a thing, and the alarm is going off. My heart feels like it’s beating through my chest. Where am I?

Then I remember. I’m in the Ritz-Carlton. I’m in Washington, D.C., for the National Scholarship Program.

Finally, I lean way over, trying to get out of bed. I haven’t gotten any sleep; I was with Royce all night. We kissed up there on the roof for a while. Until after midnight, actually. I touch my lips as if I could touch his by touching mine, smiling to myself a little. I’m away from home for the first time, I got a little tipsy on champagne, and I kissed a boy. And not just any boy. A sweet and handsome boy. One of the nicest guys I’ve ever met.

Royce couldn’t be more wrong about himself. That he’s Congressman Blakely’s son is the least interesting thing about him.

I check my phone. Kayla left a message, thankfully. She says she won’t quit the team, she was just emotional, but she’s okay now. Good. I want to tell her all about my night with Royce, but it’s way too early back home to call.

There’s also a text from Royce at half past midnight, after he walked me back to my hotel room when we left the roof. I smile to myself and text him back, tell him I’ll see him later. Then I hear the sounds of girls chattering in the bathroom on the other side of the suite.

Ugh. Mallory, Nina, and Carrie. My roommates...

I pull the pillow back over my head, dreading talking to them. When I got back last night, they were all in the other bedroom, Carrie on one bed, Nina on the other and Mallory in a pullout, with sleeping masks pulled over their eyes.

While the girls talk, I finally take the pillow off my head and look around the suite, my eyes adjusting to the daylight. It’s a disaster, with clothes strewn all over the couch and the floor. There’s only one bathroom, despite the two bedrooms, so I grab my things and sit on the couch to wait for my turn in the shower.

Carrie steps out of the bathroom. Mallory and Nina follow behind her. All three of them look perfectly put together. Plucked and filled-in eyebrows, tousled hair, classy boots that go up over their knees. Carrie slips her bag over her elbow and looms down at me. “So, I heard you were with Royce Blakely last night.”

I nod warily. “Do you know him?”

“We’ve hung out,” she says, with a possessive air. “I’ve known him for a long time. Our parents are friends.”

She’s so eager to point out that he’s from her circle. I want to ask Carrie what she means by “hung out,” but she’s the one with the twenty questions it seems. “So did he take you somewhere nice? His dad knows everyone in Washington and gets the best tables.”

I really don’t want to answer Carrie’s question, but she’s not going anywhere until she gets an answer. Meanwhile, Mallory and Nina just stare at me, googly-eyed. I must look awful, I barely got any sleep.

“No, we just stayed here,” I tell her. “He had to go to an early breakfast with his family.” I don’t know why, but I’m feeling defensive about this all of a sudden.

“You stayed in the hotel? Why didn’t you guys come to the after-party?” Carrie asks, looking overly confused. Then she elbows the girls with a knowing smile.

I feel my cheeks burning, as if I should be ashamed, even though I didn’t do anything wrong. Carrie and the girls are acting as if I did something tawdry and scandalous, when last night was one of the best and most magical nights of my life.

“Guess you guys had a party of your own, huh?” Carrie snickers.

Thank God Nina interrupts. “Let’s go, I need coffeeeeee.”

“Fine,” Carrie says. “Let’s go.”

As the girls file out of the room, Carrie stops at the door and turns back to me. She’s not done sticking her knife in yet. “I’m just trying to watch out for you, Jasmine,” she says disingenuously. “Royce Blakely isn’t what he seems like. I’ve been there. He’s a total player. Trust me on this one.”

The door clicks shut.

I’ve been there?

What does that mean?

Were they...? Did they...?

Ugh. Why would she say that? She’s just trying to get into my head. She can’t mean he was her boyfriend or something. How could that be? He lives in LA and she lives in D.C. She’s probably just jealous.

Determined not to let Carrie ruin my beautiful memory of last night, I go to look out the windows. Morning light bursts over the beautiful, busy city, highlighting people bundled up in coats, hurrying to their jobs, and early-morning traffic. The hotel is only a few blocks from the White House to the southeast, and just a few blocks north from Constitution Gardens, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, Washington Monument, Potomac Park.

Half an hour later, I’ve showered, dressed, and eaten, and I barely make it to the tour in time. Part of me can’t wait to see Royce again, no matter what Carrie said about him, but the other part wants to be able to see this place on my own, to not worry about anything other than enjoying the present. I’ve also remembered to bring along my empty little glass bottle, for my own souvenir.

The tour group approaches the outside of the Capitol and I feel myself getting emotional. My eyes burn with tears. Why am I like this? Is this awe of the history before us? Am I anxious about whether or not the reform bill will pass? Or does it have to do with last night?

Suzanne is leading our small group, peppy as a cheerleader at her first football game. She doesn’t look tired. No bags around her eyes. Does she even sleep? She must be so busy running the scholarship program, rushing from meetings to parties to cocktail hours. You know who needs sleep though? Me.

Guilt washes over me. What would my parents think if they knew I’d been alone for most of the night with a boy?

I try to stop thinking about Royce and focus on the tour. I’m amazed at all the artwork inside the Capitol. The architecture. The sound of footsteps in the wide halls. The rotunda is my favorite place. I gaze up at the Apotheosis of Washington like I’ve been frozen into the center of everything.

“It was painted at the end of the Civil War,” Suzanne says.

The other students and I crane our necks.

“Who is that up there?” Richard Morales asks. “God?”

“The guy in the royal purple coat most toward the center?” Suzanne laughs. “Not quite,” she says. “Try George Washington. As you know, he was the first US president and commander in chief of the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War.”

“But who is that with him?” Richard asks. “Those aren’t people from the Constitutional Convention. Only men signed the Constitution. Women were still second-class citizens in those days.”

“You’ve been doing your homework,” Suzanne says. “Figures from classical mythology. Everyone up there is exalted. That’s Liberty and Victory on either side of him.”

Some of the students have lost interest. I knew they would. Half the students in our group go to private schools. They’ve been here before and so act bored, except when they spot certain political figures power walking around the Capitol.

Carrie, Nina, and Mallory are turning their backs on the art and noting who’s walking by our group. When the Secretary of State passes through the hallway, Carrie whispers to one of her friends, “My mom threw a fundraiser for her last year when she thought she’d run for president.”

“Remember that night? I thought I was going to hurl right in her lap,” Nina says.

Mallory joins them. “You almost did.”

I wander away from them, trying to take in the immensity of the fresco. The way the painter did the perspective makes you think the Capitol’s rotunda reaches all the way up to heaven. It’s overwhelming. Even though I’ve never been to the Sistine Chapel in Italy, I imagine that looking at this is a little bit like they describe looking at Michelangelo’s painting of God and Adam. I’m thinking about a lecture my AP Art History teacher, Mr. Lee, gave once about this weird thing that happens when people look at great pieces of art and start to feel sick. Like they’re going to pass out.

But I think my symptoms are more from last night. I’m still light-headed and not quite awake. Staring up at the painting, I hear a few voices chattering behind me.

“You remember that party. Don’t you?” Carrie asks.

A boy’s voice responds. “Yeah, that was epic.”

I turn around. It’s Royce. He doesn’t see me, and I duck away. My head hurts and now my heart does too. Of course he knows Carrie.

I was so stupid to assume Carrie was lying to me. How could she not know Royce? He must spend a lot of time in D.C. with his dad. He and Carrie have probably known each other for years. Maybe they’ve even dated, like she hinted. He was at that “epic” party, right? Ugh.

Suzanne has moved into one of the corridors. Royce is still chatting with Carrie and her private-school clique and I hear them laughing, telling inside jokes. I don’t recognize any of the names they throw around, or the places they talk about. I haven’t been to Vail or to Jackson Hole, have no opinion on whether Parrot Cay is overrated or if the service at the Breakers is better than ever. They’re like a real-life version of Rich Kids of Instagram. I bet they’ll talk about private planes next. Their whole insider vibe makes me want to puke.

Carrie invites him to go to some party with “the group” later and he says sure.

“Can you believe we have to do this?” Carrie sneers. “I’ve been on private tours of this place, where they take you to the places the tourists can’t go. I wish we could go find a bar or something.”

Her friends titter, but I don’t know if Royce agreed with her or not and I don’t want to stay and find out, so I purposefully lag behind, gawking at a row of female portraits. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong with them, with him.

Of course, right then, when I’m feeling the most alienated and out of it is when Royce finally sees me.

“There you are,” he says, beaming. He doesn’t look any worse for wear. His eyes are a little hooded, maybe, but they just serve to make him look mysterious rather than tired. “Hey.” He gives me a sly smile, like we share a secret. Images from the night before begin to flash: Royce kissing my forehead, tracing kisses from my nose down to my lips and my neck, Royce putting his arms around me, and how good he smelled, so clean and boyish. It hurts.

My heart rate is going up again, but I try not to let it show. I nod hello but don’t return the smile.

“Those are the first female US senators,” he says, meaning the paintings. “Rebecca Latimer Felton and Hattie Caraway.”

“Interesting,” I say, even though I try to make myself sound bored. My skin feels electric at the sight of him, which makes me madder. I thought I knew what last night was all about, but this morning, I’m not so sure. He moves in that circle of rich, connected kids and speaks their language. I’m not part of that world; I’m just a visitor for the weekend. I walk away from him.

“Hey. Where’re you going?”

I don’t turn around.

He catches up. “Is something wrong?” he asks. “I came to the tour to see you. I’m sorry I’m late.”

Royce is only on the tour because he wanted to see me. But I’m too upset about what Carrie said and how chummy he was with them. I can’t look him in the eye. “It’s nothing. Look, I have to catch up to my group. Let’s talk later.”

“Okay.” He sounds hurt.

I don’t look back, but I can imagine him standing there with his hands in his pockets, like when he was waiting to talk to his dad the night before. I’m mad at myself too. Sure, I’m a National Scholar, but it just occurred to me that Royce is from one of those families that probably funds scholarships in their name. Why didn’t I think of that to begin with? What’s he doing with me? Shouldn’t he be with Carrie and those kinds of girls? It’s obvious he should.

Still. It’s hard to walk away from him.

* * *

The group of honorees gathers at the Washington Monument before lunch. I try to stop thinking about Royce. I convince myself it was just a one-night thing. People make out all the time—it didn’t mean anything to him, and it sure doesn’t mean anything to me. As if.

Oh my God, I need to stop lying to myself. I can’t stop thinking about him. I like him so much, and if he doesn’t feel the same, I don’t know what I’ll do.

I try to concentrate on the docent who’s giving us all the juicy details. These are the facts: It’s an obelisk. It commemorates George, who is up there with the gods in the rotunda. It’s due east of the reflecting pool. It’s made of marble, granite, and some kind of blue metamorphic rock called gneiss, which is related to the German word gneist, which means to spark. I walk up to the Washington Monument while the docent is still talking and put a hand to the marble. It feels softer than I imagined. I run my hand along the bumpy texture, then pull out my phone and text Mom.

She doesn’t answer for a little while. I picture her putting her phone down and yelling to everyone in the house. “Can you believe it? Our baby is touching the Washington Monument!” This thought makes me smile along with the idea that Dad is probably saying something stupid like, “Tell her not to bring it home. It’s too big for the yard.”

Finally I get a text.

Whatever, Mom. I love you, I write, smiling.

We walk along a semicircle path, cross a street, and pass through the World War Two Memorial, where I see Royce again.

His dark eyes meet mine, but I turn away as soon as he starts walking toward me. I pretend to be interested in what Suzanne is saying.

How can everything change so fast?

Because he’s not for you, I tell myself. You’re not from his world, and he wouldn’t understand yours.

It’s not just that he’s rich. It’s everything. Carrie is just one example. What did his brother say? You’re not his usual type. So what was he doing with me, then? Slumming? A booty call? I wish I had more experience with boys so I could figure it out.

I follow close behind Suzanne past the Reflecting Pool and toward the Lincoln Memorial. I look back at the water and see the monument perfectly reflected upside down. I think it looks like a great sword in the earth and wonder why anyone would put it there. Suzanne reminds us of the 1963 March on Washington, when a quarter of a million people gathered around the pool for one of the greatest speeches in modern history.

Suzanne has part of the speech memorized and recites it as we walk. “I still have a dream, a dream deeply rooted in the American dream—one day this nation will rise up and live up to its creed, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.’”

I’ve always loved that speech, was so proud to be from a country that produced Martin Luther King, Jr. But now I know better.

We’re not all created equal. There are the Carries and Royces of the world, high up in their gated mansions and their fancy schools, and then there’s me and my family, who are just struggling to keep our footing. Though our paths may cross momentarily, maybe it’s better to stick to our own circle, so we don’t get hurt when we crash into each other.

Because that’s what’s happening here, isn’t it? I’ve crashed into Royce, and I’m bound to get hurt.