Something in Between Read Free Page B

a boyfriend.
    Kayla whips around the corner into the parking lot of the hospital. “You have to come. I need you to be my wing-woman. Just tell your parents you’re staying at my house. It’ll be the truth. I’ll drive us back after the party.”
    â€œI don’t know,” I say. “You know them. My mom will call while we’re supposed to be at your house, asking to talk to your mom, trying to pretend that she’s not checking up on me.”
    I want to go to Lo’s. I do. But I also don’t want to lie to my parents, no matter how much we disagree. I know everyone thinks I’m one of the good girls, but I can’t afford to mess up like other kids. I’m an immigrant in this country. My dad always told me we have to work twice as hard as anyone else just to get to the same place, which is why I work four times as hard—because I want to succeed.
    â€œWhat’s Lo going to say?” Kayla asks. “You told her you’d be there.”
    I stare out the window at the palm trees lining the edge of the parking lot. Why do I feel guilty for just thinking about doing things most teenagers do? “No, I said maybe. ”
    â€œWhy do I even bother?” Kayla says, clearly annoyed. “Your maybe always means no .”
    Fair enough, but if I didn’t always say no to things, I might not be getting the biggest yes of my life now—the golden ticket in my backpack. The one that will bring me straight to the top of the heap, where I belong.

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    The land flourished because it was fed from so many sources—because it was nourished by so many cultures and traditions and peoples.
    â€”LYNDON B. JOHNSON
    I SAY BYE to Kayla and hope she’s not too irritated with me, and promise I’ll think about going to Lo’s party, then I head into the hospital. My mom has been working there for a few years now. She’s what they call an environmental service worker, which basically means she’s a glorified janitor. She has to do everything from mopping the hallways to washing dirty sheets. I feel bad for her, especially this year. Her job is already hard, but the hospital administration changed a few months ago and they started laying off some of Mom’s coworkers, which means she’s doing double the work she used to do. I know she’s worried about losing her job too.
    I started volunteering at the hospital in the gift shop when I was a freshman, then I assisted the nurses, but a year ago I started interviewing patients for a storytelling project. It’s part of a research study to see how connections and being heard can affect the healing process, especially for elderly patients. Apparently patients need personal interactions, especially during recovery, and these moments can even alleviate physical symptoms. Hearing my mom talk about how sad it was that so many of the people at the hospital never had anyone visit made me excited to help out. I wrote about my experiences for my essay for the National Scholarship too. Patients need to know that people care about them, that someone is listening to what they have to say. For many of them, that someone is me.
    Trying to shake off disappointing Kayla, I head through the doors to the ER lobby. Gladys, an older woman with curly white hair that she wears in ringlets close to her scalp, sits behind the counter where new patients fill out their paperwork. She’s talking to an older gentleman wearing a fancy navy blue suit standing next to a tall boy who looks like he’s around my age. They look like father and son, except the son has dark, chestnut-colored hair and his dad’s is more wheat-colored.
    While the boy listens to his father, I sneak a peek at him. He’s tan, although maybe not so much tan as a natural golden-brown color. He must be mixed. Caucasian dad, Latina mom maybe? I can tell because I’m pretty mixed myself. Filipinos are a little of everything. (I’m Filipino