Something in Between by Melissa de La Cruz

think.) No matter. I’ll have fun anyway. Dance a little. Get outside of myself.
    â€œLook at all the cars,” Kayla says. “We’re going to have a good time. You ’ re going to have a good time, right?”
    â€œSure,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”
    â€œThere’s a bag behind my seat. Can you get it for me?”
    I reach back for the bag. As I pick it up, I hear bottles clink. I turn to her, trying not to sound accusatory. “I didn’t know you were planning to drink.”
    â€œIt’s only a couple of beer bottles. Barely anything. Don’t worry. If I drink a little at the beginning, I’ll have a chance to sober up before we go home.”
    I haven’t even thought about drinking. My parents would kill me if I took even one sip. Filipinos believe “nice girls” don’t even think of drinking.
    Our house has been quieter than normal since the news. Most of the noise comes from either Danny and Isko shouting at each other about dumb little brother things like who will grow up to be the tallest or smartest. No one has told my brothers anything.
    Even though they’ve figured out I’m fighting with Mom and Dad—which happens like never , so they know it’s about something serious—I don’t have the heart to tell them what it’s about. I can’t. It seems wrong to worry my brothers when they’re still so young. I don’t want them to have to live in fear like I am now. I think of those scruffy guys we sometimes see ambling outside the Home Depot, and how we felt bad for them, because they would take any job, do anyone’s dirty work—they were illegal and had no choice. Is that who we are now? Is that where I’m going to end up?
    Instead of sulking, Mom has gone into full-on detail cleaning mode—like washing the miniblinds and wiping down the doors, which she does to keep herself calm and focused when she’s too emotional. When her life feels like it’s spiraling out of her grasp, she has to find something to control. That would usually mean telling her kids what to do, but she feels guilty, so now she’s spending her energy on cleaning and cooking. We always eat well when she’s bothered by something. If the problem is really big, she cooks bibingka , my favorite rice cake. The buttery, sugary coconut scent means one of two things. It’s either Christmas morning, or Mom’s stressed out. Let’s just say it’s not Christmas and there’s a ton of bibingka in the house right now.
    School’s not much better. Everyone’s talking about colleges, even the slackers who didn’t really care about school until a week or two ago. Now everybody’s obsessed with their lists—ranking first, second, third, seventeenth choice. I’d always dreamed of going to Stanford, and had planned to apply to a few schools back east as well, although I’m worried that’s too far from my family. I was supposed to apply to Cal Berkeley and UCLA too, with UC Santa Barbara as my safety. I’d taken the Regent’s Scholarship for granted just a few days ago, but what’s the point of applying to the UC system if I don’t have any papers? If I’m not a citizen or a green-card holder, I’m not eligible for federal or state grants or loans, which makes the UC schools just as expensive as private colleges and totally out of reach.
    Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore, because if I’m not legal, I don’t even know how long I can stay in this country. Maybe I should just go home right now and cry myself to sleep. Why am I even here at this dumb party?
    I’m about to say forget it, let’s go back, when Kayla finds a parking spot. “Here,” Kayla says. “You can hold my keys.”
    Walking across the street are two boys from school, Carl Thompson and Alan Chen. “Science geeks?” Kayla whispers.