Yes No Maybe So

by Becky Albertalli

  This isn’t how history’s supposed to work. The timeline’s not supposed to move backward.

  “Me too,” Maya says.

  For a moment, we just look at each other.

  “But we’re going to make things better. I have to believe that,” she says. “Remember the iftar? That whole community united around Rossum? There are lots of good people in our district.”

  “You sound like my grandma. She always says that there are at least two good people for every bad person in the world.”

  “I like that a lot.” She smiles. “You’re a real grandma’s boy, aren’t you?”

  “Is that like a mama’s boy?”

  “It’s like a mama’s boy on steroids.”

  I tilt my head, biting back a smile. “I don’t think mama’s boys are known for using steroids.”

  “You would know.”

  “I thought I was a grandma’s boy.” Now I’m grinning for real. “Get your insults straight.”

  She grins back. “I’ll keep practicing.”

  Time moves differently in Target. I’m not just saying that. It’s an actual fact, confirmed by my mom. I swear, you can spend twenty minutes inside a Target, and two hours will pass outside in the real world.

  And that’s exactly what happens. It feels like fifteen minutes have gone by, thirty tops, when Maya jumps up and says, “Oh! It’s going to be sunset.”

  Which—okay, I really love that. The way she says sunset, like a fairy-tale princess, not like, you know. Eight fifteen.

  “I didn’t make you miss dinner, did I?” I glance down at my phone, feeling a slight twinge of guilt. Mom’s probably been texting me since six, but I’ve been in the Target no-cell-service zone. I look back up at Maya. “I can drop you off first and then drop off the packet. Or we can go to a drive-through on the way if you want.”

  She looks at me oddly.

  “Right! It’s Ramadan.” I jump up. “You’re breaking the fast and then having the special dinner. At sunset. Got it.”

  “And maybe next time we can canvass a little bit earlier.”

  “Next time?”

  She laughs. “Why do you look so surprised?”

  “Sorry. I just thought—I don’t know.” I sound so flustered that I wince. “I just figured after the racist guy, you probably don’t want to canvass again.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “Really?” I look at her.

  “Of course! We don’t want the racist asshole guy to win, right?”

  “He already did win. In 2016.”

  Maya laughs out loud. “Right. Well.”

  “But you’re right,” I say. “I mean, I get what you’re saying. But . . . are you sure you’re okay, after everything that happened today?”

  “I just want a chance to fight back, you know? I don’t want to let a guy like that scare me off. And then, obviously, if Rossum wins, there you go. We’ve proven him wrong.”

  “That’s true. Rossum winning would be kind of like kicking that guy in the balls.”

  “With spiked stilettos,” Maya adds, and then her eyes get huge. “He has to win.”

  Suddenly, I feel tongue-tied. “Yeah,” I say finally.

  “So we’ll keep fighting.”

  “Yeah, definitely.” I nod. “If you want, I can pick you up next time.”

  “Oh, awesome. Thanks,” she says. “So . . . tomorrow?”

  She’s looking at me with the sweetest half smile, and I make a million promises to myself right on the spot. I’m going to be a badass. I won’t freeze up. I don’t care who opens the door. Even if it’s literally Fifi the white supremacist dog meme. I don’t care. I’m going to knock that cup of tea straight in its racist poodle face.

  I look Maya right in the eye and smile back. “Tomorrow’s perfect.”

  Chapter Eight

  Maya

  “So, what do you think?” my dad asks.

  We’re standing in the apartment. His apartment. Unopened cardboard boxes line one side of the family room. The old futon that lived in our basement has made a comeback—it’s propped against the other side of the wall like it’s trying to be an official and proper sofa. Then I notice the folded-up blanket on the edge. The pillow.

  Or maybe it’s trying to be a bed.

  I almost ask him if he’s going to buy a table to eat on, but I stop myself. No need to fill this place up with furniture. This is temporary.

  “They have valet trash.” He clears his throat. “You put your garbage outside and someone gets it. Like magic. And the appliances are all brand-new and up-to-date.” He gestures toward the stainless-steel fridge, which apparently tells time. And the stainless-steel oven. That also tells time. I glance around at all the appliances blinking 11:15 a.m. at me.

  “How was the ride? Did the app work okay?”

  “Four minutes door-to-door, like you said. Ten minutes if you count waiting for the car to show up.”

  “Great. And oh!” His eyes light up. “I didn’t even show you the best part of this place. I set up your room. You’re going to love it.”

  “My room?”

  “Yep.” He grins. “Follow me.”

  I follow him down a carpeted hallway with cream-colored walls. He swings open a door with a dramatic flourish. When I step inside, I blink.

  “It’s . . . pink.” I glance at the walls. There’s a lavender bedspread. A poster of Zayn Malik eyes me from next to the window, and a gray kitten with a beanie hat grins above my bed.

  “Yep.” He smiles proudly. “And look at the posters. I couldn’t find an exact match but it’s pretty close, isn’t it?”

  “Exact match?”

  “To your room back home.”

  My first instinct is to laugh. I mean, this room is definitely very Maya—circa five years ago. But the laughter fades in my throat when I look around and realize—he’s right. It’s a little fun house mirror-ish. But all of this stuff is up in my other room. I cringe at the Imagine Dragons poster next to the closet. That was my intense Haris Divan phase. He taught my Sunday school Seerah class when I was twelve and always wore Imagine Dragons T-shirts, so somehow I became a fan for the three months he taught us. It’s weird to wrap my head around the fact that I didn’t recognize my own bedroom decor. All these things have been up for so long, I stopped noticing.

  My father has the I-hope-I-didn’t-screw-this-up look on his face right now.

  “Thanks, Dad.” I hug him. “It looks . . . terrifyingly identical.”

  “I know this is hard enough as is for you,” my father says. “I wanted to make sure your personal space at my place was as comfortable as it could be.”

  His place. Suddenly, my heart feels so heavy, I can’t breathe. How can the two people I love most in the world not love each other anymore?

  “I miss you,” I whisper.

  “I’m four minutes away, silly,” he says. But his voice is tight. He understands what I mean.

  The phone rings just then. My dad glances down. “Gotta take this, bug,” he says. “On call this weekend. Why don’t you get settled into your room?”

  He heads to the kitchen with the phone balanced on his shoulder. I glance up at the poster above my bed. I swear, that kitty is winking at me. I snap a picture and text it to Sara.

  Maya: My new art aesthetic, courtesy of my father. Do you see all the fun you’re missing out on? #SaveMe

  I check the screen, waiting for the three dots to appear like they normally do. But they don’t. It’s never been a problem before to have only one close friend, but I feel the scarcity now.

  My phone buzzes then. But it’s not Sara.

  Jamie: Two minutes away.

  “Jamie’s on his way,” I tell my dad as I walk past him.

  “Have fun canvassing.” He covers the mouthpiece with his hand. “Home in time for iftar?”

  “Does pho sound good?” I ask.

  “Pho is always good.”

  I kiss his cheek and head down to the curb. Jamie’s still not here yet. I
lean against the stone exterior of the building and pull out my phone. I have to admit, I was a bit skeptical, but the truth of the matter is, InstaGramm is the absolute best.

  There’s a new photo posted. I stifle a laugh. This one is too much. She’s lying down on the grass with her arms spread wide, Boomer licking her face, and the Valencia filter is on full force. The caption says: Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.

  It’s too cute for words.

  Jamie’s faded green Subaru pulls up just then. His phone, balanced in the cup holder, flashes and buzzes when I get in.

  “Do you need to get that?” I gesture to the phone.

  “No.” He glances down. “It’s just my friend Drew. I was supposed to get together with him this afternoon.”

  “Oh, well, I mean, if you had plans . . .”

  “It’s fine. He’s just going to be gaming, and I’m seeing him later anyway.”

  “Gaming? Like video games?”

  “Mostly Fortnite, lately. He and some other guys from school are planning a marathon today. I forgot.” He sighs.

  “A gaming marathon? You sit around in a darkened room and stare at a screen all day?”

  “Yeah—it’s fun.” He nods. “What’s your favorite system?”

  “I don’t have a system,” I tell him. “I don’t think I’ve played a video game. Ever.”

  “What?” The car slows down as he glances at me. “That is . . . so sad.”

  “You know what else is sad? Listening to the best retirement options for government employees.” I point to the radio station. “I’m down with NPR, but we’re not the target demographic for this interview.” I lean over to change the station, but nothing happens.

  “Oh yeah, that,” he says. “Sorry, it’s stuck on NPR.”

  “Seriously?”

  “This is my mom’s old car. I think she listened to that station so hard, poor old Alfie forgot any other station exists.”

  “Alfie?”

  “The car,” he says.

  “I can use my dad’s Spotify account. Do you have a cable? I can connect my phone.”

  “Sorry, Alfie’s old-school. No USB capabilities. But if it’s annoying, I could turn the radio off?”

  “Nah.” I sink back against the car seat. “Maybe I’ll pick up some retirement tips. Can’t start too early, right?”

  We swing by the bookstore to pick up our canvassing packet, and Jamie enters an address from the top sheet into his phone. As we pull out of the parking lot, I glance down at the floor—there’s a crinkled mailer by my feet.

  “‘Rossum believes in people,’” I read. “‘He believes in you. This July, vote Rossum. He’s awesome.’”

  “Gabe came up with the wording for that himself,” Jamie says. “He flipped when the main campaign headquarters approved it. Wait.” He glances over at my expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “This flyer.” I shake my head. “That slogan.”

  “Well, yeah, it’s definitely cheesy.”

  “Not just that. What kind of ad is that? Vote for him because he’s awesome? He doesn’t even say what he stands for. It’s like Kevin was saying. What do we really know about this guy?” I unlock my phone and google: Jordan Rossum. I’m a little embarrassed this is the first time it’s occurred to me to look into the guy. I’ve been Team Rossum because my mom has heart eyes for him, he visited our masjid, and I get a car out of this canvassing gig. But is that enough?

  “Says here he went to the Gallovin School,” I read from his Wikipedia page. “So he’s super privileged. That school costs like fifty thousand dollars a year or something.”

  “I think it’s like twenty-three thousand, actually. . . .”

  “College at Emory.”

  “Then he’s lived in the Atlanta area his whole life. That’s why he’s so invested in the community.”

  “He’s a former tennis player, but his professional dreams crashed after a knee injury. He loves volunteering, and . . .” I scroll down. “He interned two summers with Representative John Lewis.”

  “That last one is legit,” Jamie says. “Lewis is my second-favorite congressional representative of all time.”

  I can’t help but smile a little. “Who could you possibly love more than John Lewis?”

  “Well, my number one was Barbara Jordan from Texas. She was amazing. Her speech from the 1976 Democratic National Convention will give you chills. I can play it for you if you want! It’s online.”

  “Okay—”

  “And she was the first Southern black woman elected to the House.”

  I glance at him. He’s so pumped. It’s like when my dad’s sharing basketball stats for his favorite players. I don’t think I know anyone our age into politics like Jamie. Or anyone of any age, really.

  “That’s great, Jamie,” I say. “But she’s not running. Rossum is. And yeah, maybe he interned for John Lewis, but it was an unpaid internship. He was probably getting coffee and filing papers.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Jamie says as we pull over to the side of the road at our neighborhood for the afternoon. “But Rossum’s got a great platform. He believes in a livable wage. He also wants to push for increased funding to public schools—people are really excited about that. He’s got a strong track record for civil rights activism too.”

  “Maybe . . . ,” I say. “But he’s still brand-new at all of this.”

  “Well, check out Newton’s deal,” Jamie says. “Even if Rossum is brand-new, he’s better than him.”

  I click over to the other candidate. The dude is literally smirking in his photo.

  I scroll through his campaign promises:

  End entitlements.

  Protect the Second Amendment.

  Safeguard religious freedoms.

  I know about that last one. It’s not my religious freedoms he’s talking about.

  I pause at the next Google search link.

  “Oh man.” I scroll through the article. “Newton favorited a Holocaust denier tweet a few months ago.” I pause at the article from two days earlier. “Look at this. He’s posing with that young Nazi guy that made headlines two weeks ago.” I skim the article. “And a former grand wizard of the KKK endorsed him. Wow.”

  “What?!” Jamie looks at the screen. His jaw tightens.

  “I mean, Rossum isn’t perfect.” I glance at him. “But at least he’s not saying ‘Give Nazis a chance.’”

  We sit silently in the car for a few moments.

  “In the Mario Bros. games there’s the big bad—Bowser, who is this evil mega-turtle,” Jamie finally says. “And they also have these Koopa Troopas—little turtles that are weirdly cute but completely evil. Bowser became president in 2016. But I guess I didn’t really think about how it’s not just about him—there’s hundreds of Koopa Troopas everywhere to watch out for too.”

  “Thousands,” I say grimly. “Not as flashy—but just as dangerous.”

  “It’s weird to think about.” Jamie turns to me. “But they were always there.”

  “They hid themselves a little better a while back. They knew they’d get roasted for saying any of their white supremacy bullshit, but, well—”

  “Bowser became president.”

  “Exactly.” I look down at my phone. “And now they’re running for office and winning all over the country.”

  “Not Newton. Not here.” Jamie shakes his head firmly. “We won’t let him.”

  “Ready to knock on some doors?” I grin.

  Maybe people who go to church on Sundays feel bad pretending they’re not home, because nearly every door we knock on opens for us today. In just a matter of hours, we’ve been hugged by one grandfather, been offered water bottles by three different families, and helped someone retrieve their puppy who bounded out of the house when they opened the door. We also got eleven commitments to vote.

  After we drop off our packets, Jamie clears his throat. “Want a quick overview of how gaming works? Target has a demo screen.”

 
“I’m never going to be a gamer, Jamie.”

  “I’m not a gamer either, but you can’t snark on a thing properly if you don’t even know what it is.”

  “Good point.” I laugh. “Let’s go.”

  “Mario Odyssey is the best gateway into gaming,” Jamie explains once we’re standing in front of the monitor. “It helps you get the best sense of the controllers.”

  He tells me where to turn and how to duck as Mario walks through a red sand valley. He sidesteps a ghost. He throws his pal Cappy in the air and it boomerangs back. I have to admit, this is fun.

  “The graphics are kind of cool,” I tell him.

  “Kind of? Switch has the best graphics. Don’t tell Drew and Felipe that, though. They’re PlayStation all the way. But trust me, Switch is the best.”

  “Where are the Koopa Troopas?” I ask him. “I want to kick some turtle butt.”

  “That’s the weird thing with Mario Odyssey,” he says. “The Koopa Troopas are nice here.”

  I take a step closer to him and lean in conspiratorially.

  “Maybe the evil ones got voted out.”

  He looks down at me, moving to speak, but before he can say anything, we’re interrupted.

  “Back from another day of canvassing?” We look up and see Kevin.

  “We had a good day,” Jamie says.

  “Got eleven commitments to vote.”

  “Wow, that many people opened their door?” Kevin asks.

  “Don’t underestimate us.” I grin. “We’re pretty good at this.”

  “Clearly. Way to go, guys!”

  “Thanks, Kev.” He’s not a Democrat, but he’s definitely not a Koopa Troopa.

  “Now I’m teaching Maya how a video game controller works,” says Jamie.

  “Ugh, Mario Odyssey?” Kevin looks at the screen. “That’s for kids.”

  “Kids?” Jamie looks at Kevin like he personally insulted InstaGramm. “Look at those graphics!”

  “I’m actually pretty good!” I tell Kevin. “Look, I’m about to beat the Broodal!”

  “Um.” Kevin glances at the screen and then at Jamie. “Should I tell her or you want to?”

  “Tell me what?” I pause the game.

  “Well.” Jamie scratches his head. “Okay. Fine. You’re on assist mode.”