Something Inbetween. Литагент HarperCollins USD

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ my secret good-luck charm, my talisman, is a small piece of amber-colored glass my grandmother found inside a big balete tree when she was a young girl. She gave me the glass for good luck before I left for America. It was a secret between us, because Mom doesn’t like her mother’s superstitions. I love the story Dad tells about how Lola Baby demanded that Mom and her entire family travel to Dad’s village a whole month before their wedding because she was convinced that couples who are about to get married are prone to accidents, so they shouldn’t travel before the wedding.

      I hear my brothers shouting, barely muffled by the thin walls. Rolling off my bed, I get up and walk into the hallway. They’re still yelling as I open the door to the room next to mine, which they’ve shared ever since we moved to California. They’re playing Call of Duty. The bullets are ripping through the television speakers. It’s so loud I can barely hear myself think.

      “Danny! Isko!”

      They can’t hear me, or are pretending not to.

      I quietly sneak up behind Isko and pinch his neck.

      “Ack! Ate!” Isko complains. They both call me “big sister.” Mom and Dad do too—it’s another Filipino thing.

      Not wanting to take his hands off the controller, Isko twists his neck to try to get me to stop while Danny laughs at him. On the screen, I watch Danny shoot Isko—his side of the screen turns red with blood. Isko throws down his controller, whining, “You made him kill me. He always wins anyway.”

      Isko’s only nine years old. He’s the baby and the one who takes after Dad. He’s skinny and has little chicken arms and legs. Danny and I tease him sometimes, calling him our little runt, but Isko isn’t just short. He’s short even for a little pinoy boy. What he doesn’t have in height, Isko definitely makes up for in personality. If he enters or exits a room, you’ll always know. He’s louder and more dramatic than anybody else, which really means something when you come from a Filipino family.

      “Thanks, Ate.” Danny grabs the controller from Isko. “You should do that more often.”

      I smile at them with fake sweetness. “You guys need to help Mommy set the table. Dinner is ready.”

      “I thought it was your turn.” Isko pouts.

      “I still need a shower. Get going. She’s about to start calling for you.”

      Danny switches off the television and both boys sulk down the hallway, pinching and punching each other, as they head to the kitchen.

      Danny’s the classic middle child. I know he feels like he can’t live up to the same expectations my parents have for me. He’s smart, but Dad gets down on him because Danny’s always drawing and doodling instead of doing schoolwork. He’s really good though. Way better than you would expect. You’d never believe he’s only eleven years old by looking at his drawings.

      “Ate! Go take your shower. I don’t want to wait for you to eat my dinner,” Dad shouts from down the hallway.

      “All right! I’m going, Daddy!”

      Heading toward the bathroom, I think about the day our family moved to California. We boarded a big jet plane at the Manila airport. Daddy was worried sick about our belongings not showing up in Los Angeles. It’s crazy how much our lives have changed since that day. I don’t remember much about life there now, mostly that we were hot all the time, and sweaty, since the Philippines is near the equator. I take my shower, washing off all the sweat from practice, letting the water fall over my face and shoulders, warming my skin, relaxing my muscles. The shower is my sanctuary, the one place I can be alone and think without interruptions.

      I think about the National Scholarship, how it means I can most likely go to any college now—and the reception will be the first time I’m away from home and on my own. I’ve traveled with the cheer team, but we’re always together. I imagine Washington, D.C., and the fancy reception and all the people who will be there—diplomats, activists, congressmen and women, scientists, artists, the president and the first lady. I’ll be around people who actually run the country, people who influence history and who have the power to make other people’s lives better. I hope I’ll be one of them someday. I don’t really know what I want to do yet—something to do with medicine or law, but I’m still unsure.

      I decide I’ll tell my parents my good news by showing them the letter and letting it speak for itself. Then I’ll ask them to fill out the acceptance form with me tonight, so that I can send my information back as soon as possible.

      * * *

      As I’m brushing my hair, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Royce.

      royceb: hey good-looking.

      So cheesy! But I’m charmed anyway. I can’t help but grin as I text back. I forget about seeing his dad rail against illegal immigrants on TV.

      jasmindls: Hey yourself.

      royceb: are you around this weekend?

      royceb: wanna hang out?

      jasmindls: Maybe.

      It’s not that I’m playing hard to get—I do have a lot of studying to do, and Kayla wants to go to Lo’s party, so that doesn’t really leave me with a lot of free time. I feel a flutter in my heart at the thought of seeing him again. Weekends are difficult, but maybe there’s another way.

      royceb: maybe?

      royceb: did you google me or something?

      royceb: i swear that wasn’t me in the angry bird costume scaring the children.

      jasmindls: LOL are you sure?

      royceb: Okay, okay, that was me. The pigs made me do it.

      He’s funny, I think as I type back.

      jasmindls: Weekend’s tough but I volunteer at the hospital on Mondays and Wednesdays.

      royceb: okayyyy. Not quite what I was hoping.

      royceb: But I do hear the hospital cafeteria is delightful.

      That makes me giggle out loud.

      jasmindls:

      Glowing, I head to the kitchen. Everyone is gathered around the stove, spooning rice and adobo into their bowls. I slip the scholarship letter under a book on the counter and grab a bowl of adobo for myself.

      Mom notices I filled the bowl only a little. “What? You don’t like my cooking?”

      Isko perks up. “Don’t you know, Ma? Jasmine is on a diet,” he says. “So she won’t get taba like you.”

      “How can such a little boy have such a big personality?” Mom says, pretending to be annoyed that he called her fat, even if it’s an СКАЧАТЬ