“Hey,” I blurt. “Any chance you’re up for an insanely boring campaign dinner tonight?”
Felipe grins. “Wow. That is a compelling pitch. Insanely boring—”
“Did I say insanely boring? I meant amazing. Insanely amazing and fun and . . . amazingly insanely fun.”
“No way. Nolan and I both have tonight off, so we’re watching the Christmas Prince sequel.”
I look at him. “It’s June.”
“It’s always Christmas in Aldovia.”
I mean, I get it. Felipe’s been working all summer, ringing up self-serve frozen yogurt at Menchie’s. It’s for college money. He qualifies for the HOPE Scholarship, but the thought of books and housing expenses has him scrambling to take as many hours as possible. And his boyfriend, Nolan, works a lot too, which means their hangout time this summer is vanishingly rare. I know there’s no way I’d be going to this campaign event if the alternative was spending time with my girlfriend. I guess it’s pretty lucky for Gabe that girlfriends are so far from my reality, it’s laughable.
Felipe shrugs. “Maybe Drew will be down?”
“Ehh. I’m not expecting much.” I glance back at the goalposts, where Drew’s talking animatedly to a red-cheeked girl with a messy blond bun. “It’s for Rossum, so.”
“Ah.” Felipe nods. “Got it.”
Rossum campaign stuff is kind of a tough sell for Drew. Not because he’s conservative. But his parents are—Newton sign in the yard and everything. Drew’s already on thin ice from the time I dragged him to the campaign office and Gabe sent him off with a stack of Vote for Rossum postcards. His parents found them tucked into the side pocket of his car door, and they . . . weren’t exactly cool about it.
“I don’t even know if I should ask him,” I say.
I watch Drew smile at the girl, high-five her, and start jogging back to us.
A moment later, he plops down beside Felipe. “So. I’m an idiot.”
Felipe pats his arm. “We know.”
“No, seriously. Just talked to Beth’s friend Annabel, and she says Beth works at Catch Air on Thursdays, which opens at ten, so Beth has to be there by nine, so, like, she was here, but only until eight. She left early.”
“I am literally not following this at all, even a little bit.” Felipe yawns.
“And I don’t think they’ll let you into Catch Air without a kid. So, my lads, we are firmly SOL today.”
“Catch Air . . . ,” I say slowly.
And it clicks. Catch Air. That’s why the girl from Target looked so familiar. It isn’t just that I’ve met her before. I spent half my childhood with her.
Maya Rehman. It’s been almost ten years since I’ve seen her.
But her face hasn’t changed at all. Same wavy hair, same giant eyes, and I bet she still has that dimple in her cheek when she talks. She’s always looked kind of like a less pale, darker-haired Belle from Beauty and the Beast. But personality-wise, she was a total Mulan. Super badass, completely self-assured. She would climb anything, ride anything, stand up to anyone. I swear, running around Catch Air or the park with her made me braver. I mean, yeah, she was the Disney princess and I was basically the animal sidekick, but I kind of liked that. It’s not like I ever wanted to be the prince.
I can’t believe I actually saw Maya Rehman yesterday. Like, grown-up, real-life Maya Rehman. She’s not even a month younger than me, so of course she’d be seventeen. But my brain doesn’t know what to make of the time jump. It’s like catching a glimpse of the future.
I should have talked to her.
Except—right. I was too busy exploding tangelos all over the produce section.
In front of her.
Because I’m me. And wow, do the hits keep coming.
Chapter Four
Maya
Twenty more minutes until the sun sets and I can break my fast with a crispy fried samosa. Though to be honest, I’d eat just about everything on that table, including the fruit salad with the green apples and Auntie Samra’s soggy pastry puffs. There’s so much food today, the puffs are set up next to the bottled water on the poker table, where the overflow items go. I swerve around two toddlers chasing each other, sidestep a man setting down extra folding chairs, and casually position myself by the plates and forks. Someone has to be first in line, right?
Glancing around the masjid’s gymnasium, I’m taken aback by just how many people are here today. It’s always busy during Ramadan, but with the Atlanta Interfaith Alliance cohosting this iftar dinner with us, there are so many people milling around you’d think we were waiting for Taylor Swift to show up for an impromptu concert. Pastor Jones, Rabbi Levinson, and Imam Jackson are huddled over by the punch bowl. Bits of their conversation like the defense is weak and fouls are how they get us drift over to me, which means they’re discussing their summer basketball league. Typical. My mom stands over by the entrance with some of her friends. They’re chatting and playing it cool but they crane their necks every so often toward the entrance to see if our special guest has arrived. She was so distracted today, she didn’t even remind me to wear the shalwar kamiz my nani mailed me from California—so I got away with jeans, a long-sleeved striped shirt, and my favorite pink scarf for prayers wrapped like an infinity scarf around my neck. I’d feel smug about this, except I know why she didn’t notice my outfit choice—and there’s nothing to smile about when it comes to that.
I was looking forward to coming here tonight. I knew Imam Jackson would be busy, but I hoped to run into him and talk a little about what’s happening with my parents. Even if I couldn’t, it would have been nice to at least absorb the calming energy of his presence—but it’s not easy feeling calm or spiritual in a place that looks like a high school pep rally. The masjid invited both candidates, but Newton didn’t even reply to the invite. Which is just as well, because the walls are papered with campaign posters saying JULY 9—VOTE ROSSUM—HE’S AWESOME!
Just the thing to get you in the Ramadan mood. I’m not saying I have anything against Rossum—but he’s another white dude in Georgia running for office. What is there to get this excited about?
I check the wall clock by the entrance again. Still twenty minutes? The clock must be broken. My phone buzzes in my hip pocket.
Sara: I’m sitting for Lizzie on Tuesday and Charlie’s mom needs me at the same time. He’s a hardcore Elmo fan, so you’ll have a lot to talk about.
Maya: Um, pretty sure you were a bigger Elmo stan than I ever was!
Sara: Ha! Fine we were both equal fangirls. Think you can cover?
Maya: I’ll check! My mom’s schedule is funky right now, but fingers crossed!
Sara: Cool let me know! Iftar going okay?
Maya: Meh. I’m hungry.
Sara: Eat a samosa for me?
A word bubble, and then—
Sara: I miss you.
Tears spring to my eyes. I swallow.
Maya: I miss you too
Sara and I have been inseparable since we bonded over our mutual love of a certain red Muppet in our Montessori preschool. She was a bit busy her senior year with all the AP classes she was balancing, but now I realize that was just a taste of what’s to come. I look around the room. Soon Sara will be gone, and this—being alone—will be the new normal.
My phone rings. My father’s face—scrunched in horror from the Starbucks Unicorn drink I made him try years ago—pops in and out of my screen.
“Hey, you,” he says when I answer the phone. “How’s it going over there?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. Standing around waiting to eat.”
“Senator-to-be there yet?”
“Nope. He’s late. But everyone is crowded by the door to mob him as soon as he enters. ’Tis the season, right?”
“Someone sounds hangry.”
“Everyone is a little hangry during Ramadan!” Though, now that I look around, no one really looks all that grumpy. Except me.
“You know you don’t have to fast every single day,”
he says. “It’s great you’ve been fasting since freshman year, but I didn’t start full-time until I graduated high school.”
“I want to fast, but I can’t help it if medical science backs up the fact that not eating can make some people irritable.”
“It makes some people very irritable.”
“Funny. Are you on your way?” I ask him. “Mom thinks the board meeting is going to run longer than usual tonight.”
“That’s why I was calling.” His tone shifts; the laughter in his voice vanishes. “The movers are running late. I don’t think I can make it. I’m sorry, bug.”
All the air gets sucked out of the room. The words and noise and chatter surrounding me are probably still blasting at 100 decibels, but all I hear is one word: movers.
It’s happening. Right now. It’s not as if I didn’t know it was coming. But it’s like when you’re at the doctor’s office and they say they’re going to draw your blood. You can get that on an abstract level, but when the needle comes down, the pain still manages to surprise you.
“Can Sara drop you off?”
“Sure.” I don’t bother to tell him Sara isn’t here. I promise to pack him some biryani if there’s any left and hang up.
Right this moment as I stand here, my father is erasing himself from our house.
I blink back tears. I haven’t let myself cry about any of this. And I’m definitely not going to cry about it right now. Not here.
When I glance again at the clock, I pause. There’s a boy standing on the other end of the iftar table, wearing a plaid button-down and khakis. Our eyes meet. He looks familiar. He smiles a little and takes a step back.
Right into one of the iftar tables.
The poker table wobbles, and then—it’s like watching a slow-motion crash—the tray of pastry puffs and bottled water tumble onto the ground. I glance around. But everyone’s so busy studying the empty doorway no one’s noticed. I hurry over to survey the damage.
“I’m . . . I’m so sorry,” the boy stammers.
“Don’t worry, you’re not the first person to do this,” I tell him. “The poker table is notoriously wobbly.”
“They’re . . . they’re ruined.” He gestures to the puffy disks of pastry strewn on the ground.
“To be fair, they were kind of ruined from the start,” I tell him. “Seriously, it’s okay.”
I prop the table back up while he disposes of the pastry puffs and then gathers water bottles in his arms.
“So . . . Maya, right?”
“What?” I look up at him.
“You don’t remember me.” He blushes. “Of course. I mean, it makes sense. It’s probably been like a decade or something, other than . . . Yeah, anyway, I’m Jamie. From the Catch Air days.”
“Oh. Right. Wow.” I stare at him. Our moms were friends years ago; they’d tow us along to that indoor playground where we ran around and bounced on stuff while they drank coffee and caught up on life. That was ages ago, but I see it now—his hair darkened a bit and he’s got half a foot on me, but he’s still got those green eyes and the same awkward smile. “Sorry. It’s been a while.”
“So weird to see you here,” he says.
“Why is it weird?” I smile a little. “I’m Muslim. This is a mosque near my house.”
“No. Sorry. I didn’t mean it was weird to see you here. Just that it was weird to see you. Good weird, though. Not bad weird! I go to a bunch of these campaign stops. You know this is his one hundred and thirtieth campaign stop of the election season? The most of any state candidate ever.”
“This isn’t a campaign stop,” I tell him. “It’s an iftar dinner. For Ramadan.”
“Oh right, yeah, of course.” He nods. “I’ve been to nearly thirty of his events and this is the nicest . . . dinner so far. The decorations are classy, but super festive too.”
Red, white, and blue plastic tablecloths, wallpapered advertisements to vote for Rossum, and confetti centerpieces are classy and festive?
“Uh, thanks. Well, I gotta go help my mom with . . . something. It was nice seeing you again.” I hurry away before he has a chance to respond. As much as I hate small talk in general, today in particular, small talk feels extra small.
“Who were you chatting with?” my mother asks when I approach her.
“No one. Can I borrow the car on Tuesday? Sara has a babysitting gig for me.”
“Sorry.” She shakes her head. “Next week is really busy. Depositions and filings all week.”
“Fine, I’ll just take a rideshare then,” I tell her.
“That’s for getting back and forth between our places,” my mother says. “Those costs add up.”
“Then it’s probably time I get a car.” I cross my arms.
“Maya,” my mother sighs.
“I’m going to be stuck at home all summer. All our plans fell through. And no, I’m not going to dance or robotics camp, so don’t even bring that up. How am I going to get anywhere?” I stare at her. “And Dad just called and said he’s not coming tonight. You have a meeting after the event. How am I even getting home today? I’m completely stranded.”
“Someone can give you a ride after the iftar ends, inshallah.”
“If I had a car, this wouldn’t be happening,” I snap. “I’m seventeen.”
“Cars are expensive. They require insurance and gas and maintenance. We’re already overloaded with two places, two utility bills. With everything going on, it would be helpful if you could just take a break from arguing with me. At least just for this iftar.”
“This isn’t an iftar. It’s a campaign stop.”
“It is an iftar.” My mother shoots me a look. “And I’ve been working around the clock to get it done just right. The least you can do is not fume like this in front of everyone. And honestly, Maya, if—”
Before she can continue, the Rossum folks burst through the gymnasium doors across from us like an explosion of red, white, and blue confetti.
“There he is!” my mother exclaims. Her expression goes from frustrated to perky in a matter of half a second. Thank you, Jordan Rossum.
I recognize him immediately from his gray suit and yellow tie, since we have his curly-haired, smiling face on a flyer taped to our fridge. My mom is such a diehard she has not one but two Rossum signs in our yard. Before she can take a step toward him, he’s engulfed by a crowd.
I look up at the clock. Seven minutes to go.
“Alina?” a voice calls out over the din.
“Lauren?” My mother’s eyes widen. A woman with light brown hair wearing a power suit zooms toward us and smooshes my mother into a big bear hug. Jamie’s mom. She looks the same as ever; I recognize her instantly.
“What brings you here?” Lauren asks.
“I’m on the board for the mosque. We helped organize this. Did you join the interfaith alliance?”
“My nephew is Rossum’s assistant campaign manager. I’ve been trying to make it to some of his events to support him.” Lauren turns to me then and her eyes widen. “That can’t be,” she gasps. “Is it Maya?”
“It is.” My mother pats my shoulder.
“How does this happen? How do they grow up so quickly? Look at my Jamie. He’s taller than I am now.” She glances back. “Jamie, come here and say hello.”
“So that’s who Maya was talking to,” my mother exclaims.
I glance over at him. He hasn’t noticed any of this. He’s texting.
“Jamie!” his mother says louder. He looks up with a start and blinks, before coming over to join us.
“Jamie!” My mother leans over and hugs him. “How lovely you and Maya were already catching up. What grade are you in?”
“I’ll be a senior this fall,” he says.
“Of course, just like Maya.” My mother nods.
“They’re three and a half weeks apart, remember?” Lauren says.
“That’s right!” My mother laughs and turns to me. “Lauren went into labor at the Caribou Coffee while we we
re getting our decaf lattes!”
“We promised we’d keep up those coffee dates.”
“We did,” my mother says. “At least for a while.”
“But school.”
“Jobs.”
“And just like that the years slip by. Time is a trickster, I tell you.”
I will never understand why adults find the passing of time to be so unexpected. Time is literally what life is made of. But it’s like a ritual; each time my mom chats with a friend or family member she hasn’t seen in a while, they spend half the time talking about how fast time goes, and the other half promising to see each other soon, which they almost never do.
“This election feels like a family affair,” Lauren tells my mother. “But I’ve been so busy planning Sophie’s bat mitzvah, I haven’t been able to help out as much as I’d like. Jamie’s really stepped up—text banking and monitoring our social media analytics. He’s a lifesaver. People are retweeting about the campaign, but volunteers are scarce.”
“The national races get all the attention and volunteers.” My mother nods.
Our mothers continue talking and I look back over at Jamie. It makes sense now that he looks so familiar, but I swear it’s like I’ve seen him since then. I’m about to ask him which school he goes to when a loud voice interrupts us.
“How’s everyone doing today?” A lanky guy with a clipboard approaches us. He’s grinning so wide, I can see the fillings in the back of his mouth. He nods at Lauren and Jamie before fixing his attention on my mother and me.
“I’m Gabe,” he says, extending his hand.
“Alina, nice to meet you.” My mother shakes his hand. He’s just a guy who works for the campaign, not even the candidate, and my mother is so excited, she looks like the physical embodiment of the heart eyes emoji.
“Can we count on your vote next month?” Gabe fishes out two brochures and hands me and my mother one. “We’re getting enthusiastic feedback, but it all comes down to who comes out to vote.”
“I’m not old enough to vote yet,” I tell him.
“How old are you?” he asks.
“I’m seventeen.”
“Well, seventeen-year-olds can knock!” he says brightly.
Yes No Maybe So Page 4