The knocks are getting louder. “Open up!”
Hiding beside the front door, Lo spots us upstairs and points to the kitchen, gesturing for us to go that way. Kayla pulls at me. “Come on, Jas. I don’t have time to explain. Do you trust me?”
I’m too scared to run from the police, but I trust Kayla more than anyone. Probably even more than my parents right now. She’s been there for everything. The tears after a B minus. The schoolgirl daydreams about our crushes asking us out to winter formals and the prom. Not that I ever got to go, of course. I wasn’t allowed. My parents are too protective—they wouldn’t even let me go to the junior prom. Kayla went, of course.
Before I have a chance to respond, she pulls me down the stairs. The band’s instruments are lying on the floor, which is littered with empty red cups and crushed cans. We pass through the living room to the kitchen, where through the window I spot partygoers hopping over the back fence and fleeing through Lo’s side gate.
“Let’s get out of here,” Kayla says.
“But you can’t drive,” I whisper. “You’ve been drinking.”
Kayla puts her arm around my shoulders. It’s supposed to be calming, but I feel anything but calm. “I had two light beers,” she says. “I get more buzzed off my grandma’s rum cake on Christmas Eve.”
“I just want to be safe,” I say.
Kayla can tell I won’t budge. “Fine,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “If you had your license this wouldn’t be a problem...”
“This isn’t my fault. I didn’t call the cops.”
She takes her phone out of her purse and taps on the screen.
“Are you texting your mom?”
“For real?” Kayla asks. “Of course not.”
She extends her forearm, showing me Dylan’s number next to a silly smiley face scribbled on her skin. I guess boys are never really as grown-up as they might seem. We start giggling a little, then catch ourselves.
The knocking finally subsides and Lo returns to the kitchen. “Where’s Julian? It’s not even the cops. Just one of my cranky neighbors. I doubt they’ll actually send police out here for a stupid noise complaint.”
I exhale. “Oh man, everyone must have assumed...”
“That the cops were here. Yeah, I know,” Lo says, finishing my sentence. I expect Lo to get mad that her boyfriend ditched her, but she just looks disappointed. “It’s ruined anyway. No one’s coming back.”
“That’s not true,” I say, even though she’s right, the party’s over.
“Thanks for coming, Jas. I’m sorry it went down this way.”
I give her a hug. “Thanks, Lo. We can help you clean...”
Lo waves me off. “That’s okay. My parents won’t be back until the end of the weekend. Do you guys have a ride home?”
Kayla looks down at her phone. “I texted Dylan. He’s going to drop us off at my place.”
“That was fast,” Lo says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” says Kayla.
Lo shrugs.
Kayla frowns.
Sensing tension building between them, I try to end the conversation. “We don’t want to keep you up. Let’s wait outside, Kayla.”
“He’s outside anyway,” Kayla says.
Lo crosses her arms. “Is Julian with him?”
“How should I know?” Kayla asks, pushing past Lo toward the front door. I give Lo a little wave to say I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s up between her and Kayla. I didn’t think Lo was the territorial type.
As I follow Kayla outside, Dylan pulls up in a beat-up, rusted-out Camaro. “How are you going to get your car back?” I ask her.
“He’ll pick us up in the morning. Then I’ll take you back home.”
“Isn’t your mom going to notice the car’s gone?”
“Probably not. Since Dad left, Mom doesn’t really care what I do. She doesn’t have the same expectations of me that your parents do for you, Jasmine.”
“Yes, she does,” I tell her. “Stop talking like that.” I guess sometimes I am lucky—my parents can be pains about rules and they’re way too strict, but at least they’ve always pushed me to do well.
When we walk up, Dylan gets out and puts his arm around Kayla, leading her to the passenger side. I follow behind them, thinking over what Kayla said about expectations.
Until now, I thought everything I did—the grades, student council, cheer—was because my parents expected me to do it. Watching Kayla flirt with Dylan in the front seat, I realize that’s not quite the truth.
I did all those things for me. I did them because I love them. Because they make me who I am. I like studying, I like doing well in school. Academics have always been easy for me, and I like pushing myself and topping everyone else. I’m super competitive and I always have to win. Whether I get to go to D.C. or not, I am a National Scholar.
I’m not going to lower my expectations of myself because the law and some politicians say I don’t belong. I deserve that scholarship. The United States Department of Education thinks so too.
I’m going to figure out a way to go to Washington, D.C. The president will be expecting me.
It is never too late to be what you might have been.
—GEORGE ELIOT
IT’S A WEEK after Lo’s party and I still haven’t figured out how to put my plan to storm the Capitol into action. Royce and I have been texting again. He saw pictures of me from the party that Kayla posted on Instagram and tagged me in, and said it looked fun. But he never showed up during either of my volunteer shifts at the hospital, so maybe he was mad I didn’t invite him? Who knows. I have other things to worry about right now anyway, but I am disappointed I didn’t get to see him.
I haven’t really talked to my parents. I guess we’re living in détente and denial right now. We’re learning about the Cold War in AP European History, which makes me America and my parents the Soviet Union, I guess?
After cheer practice on Wednesday, Kayla drives me to the hospital again. She’s a different person since she’s met Dylan—bouncy and giddy and girlish. I’m happy for her. He seems all right. I thought he was too cool for school, but he’s sweet to her. On Monday he was even nice enough to drive me to the hospital when Kayla couldn’t because she had to pick up her brother from after-school care. Now that her dad’s moved out, her mom needs more help.
“Did Dylan say anything about me by the way?” she asks. “The other day?”
“He says he’s totally in love and wants to marry you,” I joke. “I don’t know. We didn’t really talk about you.”
“You didn’t!” she squeals. “Why not!”
“All right, we did. He thinks you’re a ‘cool chick.’”
“He likes me, right?”
“He wouldn’t drive your best friend to a hospital if he didn’t,” I say.
Kayla beams.
I