Chapter Ten
Maya
Mom picks up on the first ring.
“I’m walking into a meeting. Everything okay?”
“No,” I tell her. “It most definitely isn’t.”
“What happened? I’ll tell Chris I need to duck out. I’ll be home in twenty.”
“No! The bill. Didn’t you hear about the law they’re trying to pass?”
“Oh, that.” She exhales. “Yes, I know about it.”
“Well? Aren’t you upset?”
“Of course I am. It’s infuriating.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
“You are doing something. You’re canvassing.”
“Knocking on doors? This can’t wait until the election! We have to handle it now.”
“The board is meeting tonight to discuss next steps.”
“I’ll tell you the first step. Tell Newton to go fuck himself.”
“Maya. Language.”
“Sh—shoot.” I wince. “It’s just that he’s such a racist . . . armhole.”
“I promise I’ll keep you posted,” my mother says. “But trust me, we’ll make him sorry. They will not get away with it.”
I smile at the fire in her voice. No one’s telling her what she can and can’t wear.
“How’re things over there?” my mother asks. “The apartment shaping up okay?”
I stop smiling.
“It’s fine.”
“What’s the plan for iftar tonight?”
“Dad’s picking up pho after work.”
“Yum. Pho Dai Loi?”
“Yep.” I straighten. “I could tell him to pick up an extra order.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“It’s Ramadan. Who wants to eat alone?”
“Aw, sweetie, you’re so thoughtful. But I won’t be by myself. We’re having that emergency board meeting tonight.” She pauses. “And now I really have to step into this meeting. Call you back after I’m done?”
“Sure.”
“Love you, Maya Papaya.”
“Love you too.”
We hang up and I look down at my phone’s wallpaper photo. It’s us three cheesing it up in front of the Grand Canyon last year. That was the summer we decided bunny ears were peak hilarity. Things were good on that trip. I’d have noticed if they weren’t.
I wish I knew how their time apart to reflect and focus was going. They definitely don’t talk to me about it. But considering she can’t comprehend having a shared family meal together, it can’t be going all that well.
Which sucks.
My phone buzzes. It’s Sara. A selfie with her eyes wide, holding up a scoop of something green and colorful. Beneath it a text: Presented without comment: Froot Loop custard.
Maya: The face you’re making is comment enough.
Sara: This should be illegal.
I text her a barf emoji just as Jamie’s name flashes up:
Jamie: Almost there.
I flush. I was so upset by the proposed bill that when he texted me, I instinctively told him to come over, but now after talking to my mom and seeing our Grand Canyon picture, there’s this weird hollowness inside me I can’t shake. I unlock my phone to tell him it’s not a good time when there’s a knock.
Too late.
“Hey,” Jamie says when I open the door. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He looks at me with such genuine concern, I’m suddenly so relieved he’s here.
I part the door and gesture for him to come inside.
“I heard the news,” he says. “I thought I was misunderstanding it at first . . .”
“Me too,” I tell him. “My friend Lyla texted a bunch of us to turn on WPBA, which was so weird, until I heard Imam Jackson talking . . . it feels too real now.”
“He did a great job,” Jamie says. “The way he called them out was perfect.”
“It’s ridiculous. Women are problematic if they show too much skin and problematic if they don’t show enough?”
“What people wear is their own business,” Jamie says. “If I want to wear a tiara every single day of the year, who is anyone to tell me I can’t? I mean . . .” He pauses. “Not that I plan to wear one, but . . .”
“I would legit love if you wore a tiara every single day of the year. I’d pay to see that actually.” I laugh despite myself.
Jamie smiles—and then his eyes widen. I follow his gaze toward the window overlooking the street outside.
“Is that seriously a Krispy Kreme donut shop?” He walks over to the window. He’s admiring it like it’s the Taj Mahal.
“It sure is.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Yeah. Amazing.”
“I’m serious. Anytime they have the fresh donuts ready to go, with this prime real estate location, you’re literally the first person to see that red light go on.”
“Good point.”
Turning away from the window, he glances around the family room.
“Are your parents minimalists?” he asks.
“Minimalists?”
“Oh, I just noticed that there’s not much furniture or decorations here. My mom read that Marie Kondo book last year and it was intense, but when she tried to donate Boomer’s bed, my grandma staged an intervention.”
I look around the bare room. It’s a very good thing my dad hasn’t started furnishing this place and settling in—but the emptiness is chilling.
“This isn’t really my house.” I sit down on the futon. “I mean, it is. I guess. This is my dad’s place. For now. My parents are having a trial separation.”
This is the first time I’ve told anyone. I thought it’d be Sara who’d know first.
Jamie sits next to me.
“That must be really difficult,” he says.
“One minute everything is business as usual. And then, it all changes.”
“Trial separation sounds like they’re figuring it out? So they could get back together?”
“Maybe. I knew they weren’t getting along, but they dropped it on me out of nowhere. We had a whole trip to Italy planned—a cottage in Tuscany. I was about to tell them about this pasta-making class walkable from us, and they told me the trip—and their marriage—was canceled.”
“I’m so sorry, Maya.”
“And I hate being in limbo, waiting to see what they decide. Why do they get all the say in something that affects me too? At this point, honestly, if they want to get divorced, fine. I’d rather just know. This waiting?” My voice breaks. “It sucks. I hate change, Jamie. I fucking hate it. But if everything’s going to change, let’s just get it over with, so I can start getting used to the new normal.”
“You okay?” he asks softly.
It’s a polite question. He has to ask, right? But something about how he says it—the way he’s looking at me—
“No.” Tears slip down my cheeks. I couldn’t stop them if I tried. “I’m really tired.”
He hesitates before scooting closer to me.
“Can I hug you?” he asks softly.
I nod. He puts his arms around me. I rest my head in the crook of his neck. He smells like lemons and mint. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone.
I tell him more. About the Talk. The movers.
“. . . and now we’re here. In this shoebox apartment. He keeps trying to be perky about it. But how am I supposed to pretend everything is great? There’s literally nothing I can do except ride it out.”
“It sucks to feel helpless,” he says.
“Exactly.” I wipe my tears against my sweatshirt and look up at him. “You’re a good listener, you know that?”
“Thanks. It’s the talking that trips me up.”
“Some people suck at both.” I smile at him a little. “So you’ve won half the battle.”
We sit side by side in comfortable silence.
“Anything I can do to cheer you up?” he asks.
“Yeah
, but I’m pretty sure my dad doesn’t have any tiaras lying around.” I smile at him.
“I know a place that might.”
“Honestly? You know what’ll really make me happy? Googling Holden’s face. That way if I ever run into him, I can give him a piece of my mind. Wouldn’t that be so awesome? To just watch his smug smile disappear.”
Jamie’s about to say something, but then he pauses.
“What if you could?”
“What do you mean?”
He pulls out his phone and starts typing furiously.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. But Holden’s got a legislative director—” His face is animated. “They’re the one who probably green-lit this whole idea. What if you got an appointment to actually give them a piece of your mind?”
“How do you know all this?”
“My mom works for Jim Mathews in the Thirty-Third District,” he says. “She has to fill in sometimes for the legislative director. She always vents to us about the obnoxious people who come through to complain about whatever policies he has or hasn’t come up with yet.”
“So I’d be the obnoxious person in this scenario?”
“Yep!” He holds up the phone. A woman with dark brown hair in a bob wearing a topaz necklace smiles back at me. “Jennifer Dickers. Should I make an appointment?”
I can’t believe it’s as easy as making an appointment. I could actually sit down and explain to this woman why this bill is misplaced and harmful. Still, the thought is intimidating.
“Is it off the MARTA? I have a rideshare app, but it’s technically for getting back and forth from my place to here.”
“I can drive you there. And”—he hesitates—“I could go in with you to talk to her . . . if you want.”
“You’d do that?” Jamie’s never struck me as a confrontational sort of guy. But he nods and smiles. “You really think they’d talk to high schoolers?”
“You mean will they talk to someone whose community is directly affected by the law they’re proposing?” Jamie says. “You have every right to give them a piece of your mind.”
“Okay, I’m in,” I tell him. “Let’s make them sorry they ever said yes to this bull . . . shop plan.”
“Bullshop? Is that kind of like ‘fork you’? Like on The Good Place?”
“Well, yeah—but also, I’m trying not to curse during Ramadan. Just go with it.”
“Okay, yep, we’ll call them on their bullshop so fast they won’t know what flunking hit them.”
At this, I start giggling.
And then we’re both laughing.
And somehow, my heart isn’t hurting quite as much anymore.
Chapter Eleven
Jamie
I wake up Thursday morning to a string of texts from Maya.
Ugh I can’t sleep!!! Too nervous
I can’t believe we actually have to talk to this woman, I saw she was on Hannity??
Am trying to decide what to wear. Like I need something that says I’m a professional but also fuck you
*fuzz you
SO TIRED
What does a legislative director even do?? Like did she make up the policy or is she the mouthpiece of the policy
BOTH ARE HORRIBLE, SHE IS A KOOPA TROOPA NO MATTER WHAT but I want to know
Why can’t I sleep??? Ugh it’s light out already WHYYYY
Well I guess I’ll see you soon
By the time I pull into Maya’s driveway, she’s waiting on her front stoop in a button-down dress and cardigan. She slides into Alfie’s passenger seat, her smile cut short by a yawn. “You made it! Jamie, meet Mom’s house.” She gestures sleepily toward the stucco facade.
“You weren’t kidding when you said it’s close to your dad’s.”
“It literally takes longer waiting for the car than the actual rides back and forth.”
“I bet those fares add up, huh,” I say, slowly backing toward the street. “You should think about asking your parents for a car.”
Maya looks at me with an expression I can’t decipher.
“Er. Anyway,” I say, feeling suddenly tongue-tied. “I got you something.” I tap one of the twin iced coffees resting side by side in the cup holders. “Since you were up all night. It’s probably going to be a little strong. I skipped the milk and everything obviously, but don’t worry. I got the same for myself. Ramadan solidarity, right?”
“Jamie, I can’t have this.”
“Wait, really?” I glance sideways.
She looks exasperated.
“I thought . . . Google said—”
“Did you read past the first entry?”
“But . . . it’s black coffee!”
“I don’t do coffee on Ramadan.” She crosses her arms. “I don’t even do water. I eat suhoor way before the sun is up and then I eat after the sun sets. That’s it.”
There’s this quicksand feeling in my stomach. As always, I’m a disaster. As always, I’ve managed to screw up everything I touch. I guess I thought things were sort of good with Maya. Not in a romantic agenda kind of way. I don’t know. I’m just happy we’re friends. Or we were, until my bull-in-a-china-shop self ruined everything.
“Sorry,” I say.
She presses her lips together and turns to look out the window.
State Representative Holden’s district office is in this nondescript brick building, really close to my house. It’s nothing like the state capitol. This place looks more like a strip mall where you’d stop for an emergency pee break on your way up Roswell Road.
I park, reaching into the backseat to root around for my messenger bag—a little excessive to transport a single stack of index cards, maybe, but it’s the most briefcase-y thing I could find.
“Hey,” Maya says when I resurface. “I’m sorry.”
I look at her. “What?”
“I know you meant well. It’s just . . .” She rubs her forehead. “Sometimes, people who aren’t Muslim try to push food on me during Ramadan, like I’m starving myself or something. I mean, I do get hungry, but I still enjoy fasting. It usually brings me an inner peace I don’t get to experience outside of Ramadan. But you were just trying to be thoughtful. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you.”
“Oh.” I blink. “No, you’re fine.”
“I think I’m just nervous,” she says. “About the meeting.”
I am too—and I’m definitely not loving the about-to-interview-with-Senator-Mathews feeling in my stomach. But I’d rather die than tell Maya that. For one thing, I don’t want to make her more nervous. And frankly, between the tangelos and the pastry puffs, Maya’s witnessed quite enough of my showstoppers, thank you very much. I’m not exactly dying to fill her in on the rest of them.
Most of all, I don’t want to say the wrong thing again.
But as stonily silent as she was in the car, Maya’s more than making up for it in the parking lot. “Don’t you think it’s weird they had a cancellation, like, right before we called? It seems shady.” She glances up at the faded trim around the building’s entrance. “This is totally a trap. Hansel and Gretel all over again.”
I laugh nervously. “I hope not.”
“Okay, we can’t tell them we’re seventeen. I don’t want them not taking us seriously because we can’t vote yet. And we give your address, since you’re a constituent. Maybe they’ll actually listen to you.”
Maya’s in the next district over for the state House of Representatives. She was really smug about it until she realized her rep is another middle-aged white Republican guy who looks exactly like Holden.
“What if we see Holden?” Her eyes widen.
“I’m guessing he’s at the capitol.”
“Ugh, he’s probably there working on the next big racist bill.”
We take an elevator to the third floor, and the moment the doors open, I see it: Suite 3250: Office of Georgia Representative Ian Holden.
Maya looks at the w
ooden office door beside it, biting her lip. “Should we knock?”
“I guess so?” I clutch my messenger bag.
Maya knocks, tentatively.
“Come on in!” says a woman’s cheerful voice, slightly muffled by the door.
We step in to find a small waiting room, not so different from my dentist’s office. Three reception chairs line the back wall of the room, with a small end table in the corner and two more chairs along the side wall. Centered above them are a few Georgia-centric posters: an old-timey view of Peachtree Street, and, weirdly, the exact same St. Simons Island lighthouse illustration we have framed in our living room. On the other side of the room, there’s a large reception desk, staffed by a blond woman who looks barely older than we are. “How can I help y’all?”
I step up to the desk, feeling shaky and light-headed. I can’t believe we’re actually doing this. We’re about to walk into a legit private meeting with an elected official’s legislative director. For a moment, I just stand there, staring at the small sign propped up on the desk, featuring an illustrated graphic of a cell phone in a no-smoking sign. Thank you for respecting our no-recording policy.
“Well, I’m Kristin, and it’s so nice to meet y’all. Are you—”
“Here for a meeting,” I say quickly, jolting back to earth. “Jamie Goldberg and Maya Rehman, meeting with Ms. Dickers at ten thirty.”
“Yup! Got you down right here,” Kristin says. “Ms. Dickers is just wrapping up a meeting. Can I get y’all any snacks? Anything to drink?”
“No, thank you,” I say. Maya just shakes her head and walks straight to the back of the room, perching stiffly on the edge of one of the chairs.
“You okay?” I settle into the chair beside her.
“Fine.” She exhales. “She’s nice.” Maya juts her chin at Kristin, who’s now laughing sweetly into the receiver of her office phone. But the look on Maya’s face tells me she’s thinking the exact same thing I am: If Kristin were truly nice, how could she justify working for someone like Holden?
Every moment that passes in this waiting room makes Maya more jittery. “She’s ten minutes late,” Maya whispers. “Is that normal?”
“I think so?” I glance up at Kristin, who smiles warmly from behind the desk. “I guess the other meeting went over.”
Yes No Maybe So Page 10