“There’s got to be another plan we can enroll in,” my mom said. “One requiring fewer employees.”
My dad shook his head. “The other plans all have high deductibles. We can’t afford them.” Softly, he said to my mom, his eyes downcast, “See, this is why we can’t just start living large. Our situation really hasn’t changed that much. We have to be responsible.”
My mom held her soft satin dress tight in her hands and sighed.
“Maybe tomorrow I can go and return it,” she said. Then she turned to my dad and asked hopefully, “Do you want to see me try it on?”
My dad looked hesitantly at the dress.
“She really looks great in it,” I said.
“Okay,” my dad sighed. “But just try.”
On Friday at school, Mrs. Welch passed back our essays on immigration from the first day. I was excited to see what I got. I had written about America being a nation of immigrants. Our founders were immigrants. They worked hard to create a country that would welcome everyone. It said so right on the Statue of Liberty.
Cautiously, I turned my paper over, hoping to find an A or at least a B+. But there staring back at me was a big fat C.
I blinked at the page. I didn’t get it. I was right back to where I started last year.
I turned to Mrs. Welch, who was still handing back essays. She asked some of the students to repeat their names for her. As they did, a curious thing happened. Kareña said her name was Karina. Jorge called himself George. And Tomás said Thomas. Since when did they start saying their names so … white?
After all the papers were passed out, Mrs. Welch went back to her seat. I looked down at the C, wondering whether I should just let it go. There wasn’t a note from Mrs. Welch about why I got what I got. I couldn’t help but wonder if it had anything to do with what I said in class earlier in the week. I glanced over at Lupe, who was busy studying her own essay.
At recess, I waited until everyone else was out of the class before hesitantly walking up to Mrs. Welch.
“Um … Mrs. Welch … can I talk to you about my essay?” I asked.
She looked up at me from her desk and took off her reading glasses.
“What about it?” she asked.
“I just … I was wondering why I got a C?”
Mrs. Welch’s face tightened, like the lady at the checkout counter whenever my mom questioned her about giving her the wrong change.
“It’s just that I thought I was good at writing. Last year, I even won—”
“I know,” Mrs. Welch interrupted. “Mrs. Douglas told me before she moved away. But this is sixth grade. And I have higher expectations for what I consider an A paper.”
I swallowed. Mrs. Welch returned to her grading, and I dragged myself out of the classroom. As soon as I spotted Lupe sitting under a tree and drawing in her sketch pad, I ran over and told her what Mrs. Welch had said.
“It’s going to be fine,” she said. “You’ve been through this before. Last year, remember?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But I was kind of hoping I’d start good this year, you know? And end up amazing.”
“You will,” Lupe promised, shading in the trees in her drawing.
I watched her as she sketched, wondering if I should say what had been on my mind ever since she’d told me her secret. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner that you were undocumented?”
Lupe put down her drawing pad and lay down on the grass. She put her hand under her head, and I stretched out next to her. We gazed up at the red and gold leaves that formed a roof over us. The wind blew and the colorful roof moved.
“I didn’t want you to think I was different,” she admitted. “I didn’t want you to stop looking up to me.”
“Oh, Lupe,” I said, flipping onto my stomach. “I still look up to you! I’ll always look up to you.”
Lupe smiled. I plucked a blade of grass with my fingers.
“What’s it like … to be undocumented?” I asked.
Lupe was quiet a long time, playing with her drawing pencil in her fingers.
“It’s like being a pencil, when everyone else is a pen,” she finally said. “You worry you can be erased anytime.”
I was still thinking about Lupe’s words when Jason’s mom came to pick us up after school. Lupe dashed out of the parking lot as soon as she saw Mrs. Yao’s white Mercedes, desperate not to bump into her.
“How was school?” Mrs. Yao asked.
“It was okay,” I lied, climbing into the car. Though I was still pretty bummed about my C, the last people I wanted to tell my problems to were the Yaos. Jason climbed in, shoving our backpacks into the front seat so we’d have more space. Still, he sat alarmingly close to me.
“Wait till you hear what I have planned for us,” he said with a grin.
Jason’s house was even bigger than I remembered. As he gave me a tour, I found myself wondering how many people could sleep in each room and how much we could charge if we rented it out. Definitely more than twenty dollars a night.
Jason’s room had a pinball machine, a big-screen TV hooked up to a video-game console, and a fish tank that spanned one entire wall. There was even a reading nook by the window. A chair with a built-in bookshelf full of books, right under the seat, sat invitingly in the sun.
“This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen!” I said, sitting down on the chair, which was surprisingly comfortable.
“I don’t really use it,” he said. “If you want it, you can have it!”
“What?” I shook my head.
“No, I’m serious. If you see anything you like, just take it.” Then Jason started taking books out of his book chair and handing them to me. “Here, take ’em.”
I pushed them back. “Jason, I’m not here to take your stuff.”
Jason blushed. There was a moment of silence.
“Right,” he said at last. “I’m just … I’m really glad you’re here.”
Then I spotted a Wilson for Governor postcard on his desk. Jason followed my gaze and quickly explained, “My dad put that there.” He walked over and turned the postcard facedown. “I don’t really care who wins,” he added.
“You should care,” I told him. “Wilson wants to kick kids out of school. Make it impossible for them to go to the hospital.”
“Only illegal immigrants,” Jason said with a shrug. “They don’t belong here anyway. My dad says they’re costing the California economy. He’s losing a lot of money on some of his businesses, you know.”
I couldn’t care less about Mr. Yao’s losses. Instead, my chest rose and fell at the way Jason was talking about my best friend. “What does ‘belong here’ even mean?” I shot back. “Do we belong here?”
Jason shrugged again. “Of course we belong here. We flew here.” As if to demonstrate, he took a piece of paper, folded it into an airplane, and flew it at me.
“So?” I asked, ducking the plane.
“So that means we had to get visas and stuff. We didn’t just walk over. How would you like it if I just walked into your house whenever I wanted?”