“—Jamie’s toast,” my mom says.
I jolt upright, startling Boomer. “My what?”
“You’re giving the pre-challah toast at the reception. And the hamotzi, of course.”
“No I’m not.” My stomach drops.
“Come on, it will be good for you.” Mom ruffles my hair. “Great speaking practice, and pretty stress-free, right? It’s just family and Sophie’s friends.”
“You want me to give a speech in front of a room full of middle schoolers.”
“Is that really so intimidating?” asks Mom. “You’re going to be a senior. They’re not even freshmen.”
“Um.” I shake my head. “That sounds like hell.”
“Jamie, don’t gateway cuss,” says Sophie.
Grandma smiles gently. “Why don’t you think about it, bubalah? It’s not all middle schoolers. Drew will be there, Felipe and his fellow will be there, your cousins will be there.”
“No.” Mom rests her hand on my shoulder. “We’re not doing the negotiation thing. Jamie can step out of his comfort zone for Sophie. She’s his sister!”
“Yeah, I’m your sister,” chimes Sophie.
“This isn’t a normal brother thing! Where are you even getting this? If anything, you should be giving the toast.”
“Andrea Jacobs’s sister gave a toast,” Sophie says. “And Michael Gerson’s brother, and Elsie Feinstein’s brother, though I guess he just said mazel tov and then belched into the microphone. Don’t do that. Hey, maybe you could do your toast in verse?”
I stand abruptly. “I’m leaving.”
“Jamie, don’t be dramatic,” says Mom. “This is a good opportunity for you.”
I don’t respond. I don’t even look back.
I can’t. I’m sorry. No offense to Sophie. Trust me, I’d love to be the awesome brother who can get up there and be just the right balance of sentimental and funny. I want to charm all her friends and say all the right things. Sophie probably deserves a brother like that. But the thought of standing in front of a packed ballroom, trying to form words and not choke or have a coughing fit or burn the whole banquet hall down . . . It’s impossible. It’s a job for some other Jamie, and unfortunately, I’m just me.
Chapter Two
Maya
Sara is on a mission. And since I’m her best friend, I am all in. But forty-five minutes into our treasure hunt we’ve come up empty. The object of our conquest? A trash can. And no, I do not mean this metaphorically. We are literally on a hunt for a receptacle for garbage.
“It’s got to be here somewhere . . . ,” Sara mutters. “They had three in stock when Jenna called to check this morning.”
I stifle a yawn as people dart past us, pushing red shopping carts.
“I thought you were going with the other stuff you texted me last week,” I tell her.
“Yeah, but then Jenna found a great theme here that goes with our dorm layout. This is the only thing we’re missing.”
“I still don’t get it.” I glance at her. “I mean, it’s a trash can.”
“Correction, it’s the perfect trash can, Maya.” Sara’s eyes sparkle. “It’s got a vintage feel. You’ll see!”
I smile and nod, but the truth is, even if we’ve combed over the storage section three times, I’m just happy I get to be here with her. Between her babysitting gigs, swim coaching at the Y, and working at Skeeter’s custard shop, she’s as busy this summer as she was all senior year. I haven’t even had a chance to tell her everything that’s been happening at home. Just thinking about it now makes my stomach knot up. Because right at this moment, my dad is packing his things into cardboard boxes.
I rummage in my purse for my phone; my fingers slide over my passport. It arrived yesterday. Pulling it out, a fresh burst of sadness washes over me. We were supposed to leave for Italy after Ramadan ended, two days after Eid. But right after I turned in my passport application, the trip was canceled and, along with it, it turned out, so was my parents’ marriage. I glance at my picture. I think there’s some kind of rule that photos in stamp-sized squares must come out terribly. As evidence, I would present: my driver’s license, my YMCA card, and now my new passport, where I look like a very stern woodpecker. But how I look in this photo feels like a silly thing to even think about, considering everything that’s happened.
“It’s not that bad,” Sara says, looking over my shoulder.
“But not that great.”
“It’s a passport photo.” She pokes me. “It’ll get you where you need to go.”
I bite my lip. Sara was the first person I wanted to tell about my parents, but she’s been so busy. I haven’t been able to find the right time. But . . .
“So.” I look at her. “I’d been meaning to tell you. Italy got canceled. I think—”
“Are you serious?” Sara whirls around to face me. “You won’t believe this. I just got a text this morning from a family who needs a part-time summer babysitter! I felt so bad, because I’m too busy, but I could connect you guys? Jessie’s mom is super tapped into the network, so this could be your in.”
I blink at the unexpected pivot. It’s true. I’d been hoping to break into the ridiculously intricate local babysitting network since forever, but she didn’t even pause to ask why Italy was canceled. I should rewind and tell her, but she’s so amped up right now. And I haven’t seen her in so long. . . .
“If it’s in the mornings, I can,” I finally say. My mom works from home until noon most days, so I can borrow her car.
“Jessie is the sweetest toddler you’ll ever meet.” Sara jots off a text and puts her phone away. “I don’t even know what I’d do here without you,” she tells me. “Finding this trash can is like playing a game of Where’s Waldo. It could be shelved in so many categories. Kitchen. Bath. Storage . . .”
“I’m kind of shocked you’re not working,” I say.
“I know,” she says. “They shut down the pool because of a plumbing issue, so all my classes have to be rescheduled. I can’t believe I have a whole day to myself.”
“Maybe we can grab dinner after I open fast?” I suggest. That way we can sit down and finally have a real conversation. Just the thought of talking to Sara about my parents makes me feel a tiny bit better. I don’t think there’s anything she can possibly say to make me laugh and move on from it, like she normally does when I vent to her. But if anyone can find the humor in my family imploding, it’s Sara.
“Mellow Mushroom for old times’ sake? We haven’t done that in forever.”
“Three weeks and two days,” I tell her. “Not that I’m counting or anything.”
“Sorry.” She glances at me sheepishly.
“No big deal. We still have the rest of the summer.”
Come fall, she’s going to the University of Georgia. I try not to think too much about the fact that Athens is a solid two hours in traffic. And this is Atlanta, so there’s always traffic.
“Oh yeah, about that.” She bites her lip. “I’m not sure about August anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jenna is taking summer session two, and her girlfriend—Ashley—is a manager at Avid Bookshop. I just did a Skype interview with them this morning.”
“You’re leaving sooner than August?” I stare at her.
“Maybe. I don’t even know if they’ll hire me. Ashley said they got a ton of applications. But if I get the job, you’ve basically hit the lottery, Maya.” She winks. “I bet they have a sweet employee discount on books. You know I’ll hook you up.”
This isn’t a big deal. She was leaving anyway. But she was so busy all senior year—I hoped this summer, we’d finally find pockets of time to catch up. The disappointment stings. This is the downside to being best friends with someone a school year ahead of you.
“Oh my God.” Sara glances down at her phone. “Jenna found another guy she’s positive is ‘the one’ for me.” She holds it out to show me. A boy with a shaggy surfer cut grins back.
/> “He’s cute,” I say.
“I haven’t even moved yet, and she’s already on the lookout.” She groans.
“It’s about time you got back out there. I think it’ll be fun.”
Sara hasn’t dated anyone since she broke up with her long-term boyfriend, Amari, last year.
“Fun, huh? Okay. I’ll tell her to keep an eye out for you too, then!”
“Sara.” I bump her with my shoulder.
“Think about it.” She grins. “We could even do double dates!”
“Right—that’s definitely happening.” I roll my eyes.
Here’s the thing. Muslims fall all over the spectrum on dating and relationships—kind of what happens when there’s over a billion of us—but my parents? They’re not cool about me dating in high school. They’re not as strict as Lyla’s parents, who said she can’t hang out with boys, period, but my parents have always said relationships are sacred. They don’t think it’s a good idea to date just to date, without the potential for a long-term future together. It’s not something I really talk about, since it’s kind of weird to announce that sort of thing when you’re seventeen years old. Sara’s the only one who knows, and she thinks that it’s bonkers I go along with it—but I actually see where they’re coming from on this. Relationships are complicated, and right now there’s too much stuff changing in my life for me to think about adding anything like that to the mix. So the truth is, unless Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice shows up at my door with flowers announcing his eternal devotion, count me out.
“There it is!” Sara shrieks just then. We’re in the “back to school” section. Shelves of cute lamps and alarm clocks frame the space. Five different twin beds are stacked next to each other, outfitted with different patterned sheets, blankets, and throw pillows.
Sara rushes over, scoops up a metal trash can, and gently places it into our shopping cart, like it’s a fragile work of art. She snaps a photo and texts it. “I don’t know why I didn’t check here first. It’s the last one too!”
“Awesome.” I smile, trying my best to look supportive. But just how excited am I supposed to be about a trash can?
“Jenna texted me to check out the curtains.” She pushes the shopping cart along with one hand while glancing down at her phone. I hurry to keep up.
“Still going with sky blue and cream?”
“Yep.” She nods. “Let me know if you see anything cute.”
I walk along with her as she browses the curtains and then the rugs. She texts Jenna photos along the way. It’s like we’re hanging out with Jenna too. Which is fine. Really.
We’re about to turn into the next aisle when I pause.
“Love muffin straight ahead,” I say.
Sara looks up with a start. Her eyes widen.
It’s Kevin Mullen from school. He’s walking down the main aisle toward us, sipping an iced coffee. In school, he wears loafers, jeans, and preppy button-down shirts, always untucked. But right now, he’s in full Target uniform, with practical sneakers, khaki pants, and a bright red T-shirt. I’ve known Kevin since seventh grade and it’s probably statistically impossible not to like him, since he’s the chillest and nicest guy around. Even when he was fourteen, sporting the most extreme bowl cut known to man—everyone let it fly without a snicker. We’d gotten to know each other better this past semester when we got assigned to do a presentation on the First Amendment. He’d even come along with Sara and me to Menchie’s for frozen yogurt twice. I’m not saying we were friends exactly, but we were on our way. Of course everything fell apart when he brought Sara a basket of her favorite chocolate muffins two months ago and confessed his long-standing crush on her. When Sara told him she didn’t feel the same way, he handled it in trademark Kevin style—said it was a bummer, but he understood—but it hasn’t been the same. And Sara’s been avoiding him anytime she sees him coming. We slipped by him pretty handily when he was cleaning up an orange spill, but it’s too late to duck now. He’s spotted us.
“Hey, guys.” He walks over. Sara quickly glances down at her phone.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” I say.
“Assistant manager.” He taps his badge. “And let me tell you, it has been a day.”
“Yeah. What’s the deal?” I say as a woman grazes me with her cart. “It’s like the migration of the wildebeests.”
“It’s the Summer Trifecta,” Kevin says. “Fourth of July sales plus swim clearance and then an early-bird back-to-school special. It’ll be a zoo until August.” He looks at Sara and blushes a little. “So, you’re leaving soon, right? UGA?”
“Yes.” Sara smiles politely.
“I hope they recruit me next year,” he says. “Their basketball game is pretty strong.”
“It is.” Sara brightens, the awkwardness magically vanishing. “You should definitely take a tour and see if you like it.”
“Nah, as long as their scholarship game is strong, I’m there.”
Sara launches into a speech about the glory that is the University of Georgia and the wonder that is Athens. I suppress a laugh. I mean, don’t get me wrong, UGA has a great veterinary medicine program, so I’m all in if I get accepted there one day—but Sara’s love for that school is next level. I’m glazing over when I get a text message.
Mom: Where are you?
Maya: At Target helping Sara with some errands.
Mom: When will you be done?
Maya: We’re almost wrapping up.
Mom: Pick up some red and blue plates and napkins for the iftar while you’re there so we have extra. And come home soon. We need to have a family meeting.
I shove the phone back in my purse. I don’t want to have another meeting about this. I want to pretend it isn’t happening at all.
We say goodbye to Kevin, and I grab the plates and napkins my mother requested.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Sara says, glancing back at Kevin’s retreating figure.
“Good,” I say, slightly relieved. “Also, please tell me you’re free tomorrow. I could use some company at the campaign iftar. The food’s going to be really good.”
“Babysitting,” she says. “Sorry.”
I’m about to suggest we head to Perimeter Mall before dinner this evening, when her phone buzzes. Glancing down at it, her expression falls.
“Jenna change her mind on the color scheme?” I ask her.
“It’s Lucas.” She winces. “He fractured his wrist. He needs me to cover his shift at Skeeter’s tonight.”
“What?” My voice goes two octaves too high. “Can’t they find someone else?”
“It’s my turn to cover. I’m so sorry, Maya, I really wanted to catch up.” She glances at her phone. “I think I’m off Friday evening. I can check with Hen’s mom to see if she needs me to sit or not and let you know?”
I shrug. I’m not going to be a big baby about the fact that my best friend has to try and pencil me in like a dentist appointment. It’s not like she’s leaving soon and I won’t see her again except for holidays. Yeah.
I do not want to talk about this.
If you asked me to choose between sitting on this ottoman across from my parents or sticking my hand in a bee’s nest, I’m not saying I’d go for the bee’s nest, but I would definitely need to think about it.
My parents are pretty cool people, and normally I like hanging out with them. And sitting across from each other in the family room isn’t unusual, especially during Ramadan, when we’re trying to kill the last few hours before it’s time to open fast by playing a game of Spot It! or Uno or Pandemic (my dad is a major nerd).
But there are no board games out right now. We aren’t hanging out.
This is a family meeting to sort out the details about how we are not going to be a family anymore. I’m still reeling from the announcement. When they told me Dad was moving out. That it was for the best. That they wished it didn’t have to be this way. They normally ask for my feedback on the type of flowers to plant around the mailbox
in the spring, or what color to paint the dining room—but breaking up our family unit as we know it was something they didn’t bother to run by me.
It shouldn’t have come as a complete shock. I’d heard the arguments since the middle of junior year. I saw the unmade guest bed the last few months. I just thought they’d get over it, whatever it was. We’re a family. Families fight. Families make up and move on. It didn’t hit me until now that moving on could mean something else entirely.
“Maya?”
They watch me expectantly.
“The movers are coming tomorrow,” my mother says. “In the afternoon.”
“The leasing office is still trying to find the spare key,” my father says. “I’ll get it to you as soon as I have it.”
“Do you have any questions for us?” my mother says.
“About?” I glance at them.
“This . . .” My mother gestures to the half-packed moving boxes around us. “Anything on your mind?”
“It’s a little too late for that, isn’t it?”
“We just want to make sure you’re okay,” my father says. “Whatever you want to say, we’re here.”
“Did you figure out the time frame yet?” I clear my throat. “For the trial separation?”
Trial separation. The words themselves sound heavy—I think of courtrooms and unsmiling judges with wooden gavels.
“We still don’t know. We’re going to have to take it as it comes,” my mother says.
“But what does that mean?”
“The apartment lease is month to month,” my father says.
“I still don’t get why you had to do this now. During Ramadan.”
Yes No Maybe So Page 2