Yes No Maybe So

by Becky Albertalli

  “For Eid. She has a potluck coming up, so she’s helping her mom cook.”

  “Eid’s sort of like Muslim Christmas, right?” Drew asks.

  “Does that mean I get to say Easter is like Christian Passover?”

  “Okay, wiseass,” Drew says. “I just mean it’s a big deal and you send holiday cards and stuff, right?”

  “I guess so? It’s the end of Ramadan.” I make a mental note to google Eid again, even though I might have spent an hour or two falling down that rabbit hole already. Maybe I’m being a little extra, but I don’t really care. All I know is there’s no way I’m making even one more Ramadan-related faux pas.

  Drew’s looking at me with this curious half smile. “So, you’re really—”

  “Hey, what did I miss?” Felipe asks, suddenly reappearing. “Nolan’s still slammed.”

  “Jamie’s just bringing me up to speed on his girlfriend.”

  I smack Drew’s arm. “Not my girlfriend, dodo.”

  Felipe smiles. “But you’re working on it, right?”

  I blush. “We’re just doing campaign stuff together.”

  Drew laughs. “Felipe, remember when you and Nolan were ‘just doing a history project together’?”

  “I do remember that.” Felipe beams.

  “Okay, we’re done here.”

  Felipe side-hugs me. “We’re just teasing you. I think it’s cool that you’re doing this stuff for Rossum.”

  “Me too.” Drew nods firmly. He pauses, suddenly fixing his gaze somewhere over my shoulder. “Why are those baby princesses staring at me?”

  “They know their father,” says Felipe.

  “NO,” Drew says, pointing at the dolls. “I disown each and every one of you creepy fuckers.”

  My eyes drift back to the stuffed animal display, landing on a big stuffed poodle. It looks so much like Fifi, it makes my stomach twist.

  I turn back to Drew and Felipe. “Did I tell you guys someone put a Fifi poodle meme bumper sticker on Alfie?”

  Felipe’s face falls. “Really?”

  I nod. “Thursday, right when we were coming out of a meeting with Holden’s legislative director. I have no idea who did it.”

  “Shit,” says Drew.

  “Yeah, it was pretty bad. Hard to get off too.”

  “I hear you,” Drew says, making a face. “I had to get all my mom’s Hilton Head stickers off before they sold their car, and it was such a bitch. You know they make stuff for that—you just have to rub it on there—”

  “I know. I got some. I took care of it.” My heartbeat quickens. “You know, Hilton Head bumper stickers and white supremacist memes aren’t really the same thing.”

  Both Drew and Felipe turn to look at me, startled. To be honest, I think I startled myself. I guess I don’t usually speak up about the stuff that annoys me. I just swallow it back.

  “We know it’s not the same,” Felipe says slowly.

  My cheeks go warm. “I’m just saying, someone literally put an anti-Semitic symbol on my car.”

  Felipe shakes his head. “That’s so gross.”

  “People are assholes,” says Drew.

  I look at him. “It’s not just a random asshole, though. It’s been happening to a lot of Rossum supporters. They took our magnet too.”

  “Can’t you get Gabe to give you another one?” Drew asks.

  “You’re missing the point.”

  “Look, I get it.” Drew flips his palms up. “But you got the sticker off, right? You have the hookup for a new magnet. No harm, no foul.”

  “It’s an anti-Semitic meme! In real life! I don’t know if Newton’s people are trying to intimidate Rossum’s people, or—”

  “Do you actually think it’s Newton’s campaign behind it?” asks Drew. “Don’t get me wrong, Newton’s an asshole. But it sounds more like a random troll trying to get a rise out of you—”

  “So I should just—”

  Drew cuts me off. “You have nothing to gain from getting upset. You’re just letting him win.”

  I open my mouth, and then close it again. Wow.

  “You okay?” Felipe asks.

  I stare wordlessly back at him, head spinning. They don’t get it. Drew especially doesn’t get it. Fifi may not be a big thing, but it feels like part of a bigger thing. And I know Drew isn’t trying to gaslight me on purpose, like Dickers, but I have that same weird prickle I had stepping out of that meeting. Like I’m going crazy. Like everything I say or think or feel is an overreaction.

  Sometimes I honestly think Maya’s the only one in the world who understands.

  Though clearly the guys think I have some kind of ulterior motive. That this all comes down to me trying to make Maya my girlfriend.

  Right.

  I’m tired of that too. Maybe I just want to spend time with someone who actually gives a crap, for once. Unlike my so-called friends, who literally couldn’t be less invested.

  Even as I think it, I know I’m being unfair. After all, there’s nothing quite like the futility of being seventeen in an election year. And from a strictly logical perspective, Drew’s right. I have nothing to gain from getting upset. My anger won’t get Rossum elected, won’t make H.B. 28 go away, won’t stop a single troll from trolling.

  I mean, two weeks ago, I wasn’t so different from Drew and Felipe. I wanted Rossum to win, obviously. And yeah, I was putting in hours at the campaign office. But I certainly wouldn’t have canvassed if Mom hadn’t forced me.

  Now it feels like I can’t canvass enough. I really feel that.

  It’s like living with fire in my chest. Maybe it was Fifi. Or Dickers. Or H.B. 28. I don’t know what sparked it, but suddenly everything’s different. Everything feels huge and momentous and terrifyingly real.

  And I can’t seem to push it to the background. I can’t put the fire out.

  I don’t think I want to put the fire out.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Maya

  My dad bought a bed.

  It’s just a bed.

  But it’s a bed.

  A bed.

  If you say it enough times, bed bed bed bed bed, the word squishes and compresses and retracts until it doesn’t even mean anything at all.

  Except this bed in my dad’s apartment means everything.

  Today is Eid. Ramadan is officially over. We need to head to the masjid for prayers, but I’m stuck at this spot in the hallway looking at the comforter spread over a queen bed in my father’s bedroom. I missed it when I came over last night. Walked right by it. Now I can’t unsee it, even if I wanted to.

  My mother dispelled any fantasy I had of Eid being some kind of magic countdown that would reset my parents back to happily married . . . but this bed. This bed means this separation isn’t ending anytime soon.

  “Got coffees in to-go cups because we’re running a little late,” my dad calls out. “Almost ready?”

  I swallow the brick wedged in my throat and join him.

  As if on cue, Tammy Adrian starts talking H.B. 28 as soon as we get in the car. The pushback has been surprisingly vocal, she explains. But the GOP majority in the state House of Representatives is determined to push ahead and bring it to a vote, maybe even before the special election.

  “Annnnd that’s enough of that.” My dad switches to a music channel.

  “Put it back! We need to know what’s going on.”

  “It’s Eid,” he says. “We get one day to take a break from it.”

  “We can’t take days off. This is urgent.”

  “Days off are as important as days on, bug. You have to recharge or you burn out. And your mom and the other board members are scheduling a sit-down with Holden’s people sometime next week.”

  “She better be careful. Dickers is awful.”

  “Dickers?”

  “Holden’s legislative director. I met her last week. She was the absolute worst.”

  “You went to Holden’s legislative director?” My father glances at me. “Subhanallah
. That’s amazing.”

  “It would have been more amazing if she hadn’t gaslit us the entire time.”

  “But you did it. That’s something. I’m really proud of you, bug.”

  “I guess. I just hate feeling like no matter what I do, it’s not enough.”

  “No one person can fix it all,” my father says. “All our actions are little drops that collect into a groundswell for change. It’s the only way most change happens. Ordinary people doing everything they can. You’re doing that, Maya. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “I want to hear more about this meeting. I’m popping into the office to wrap up a few patient charts while you and your mother do your manicures, but I’ll get you around six for dinner. You choose the spot. Oh, and before I forget—” He pops open the glove compartment and hands me a card. “Your Eidi. Spend it wisely.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” I lean over and give him a hug.

  I’m in line for the breakfast buffet after prayers when my mother finds me.

  “There you are!” She hugs me tight. “Eid Mubarak, sweetie!”

  It’s surreal to have our Eid hug here. She always wakes me up each Eid with a big hug—and even though it felt a little past its prime by the time I was thirteen, it’s so linked to Eid mornings, the whole day felt a little off-kilter without it.

  I was so conflicted last night about who to stay with. On one hand, I wanted to be home. Willow goes on food strikes anytime I go to my dad’s—and all my stuff is at home—but I also figured this would be a tougher day for my dad, since he’s the one alone in a brand-new place with hardly any furniture.

  Well, he has a bed now. So there’s that.

  “What time’s our manicure?” I ask her. “I was thinking maybe we could spring for foot massages too?”

  “About that.” Her face falls. “You know that trial coming up? My client needs to meet this afternoon. Last-minute complications. I have to go in for a little while.”

  Complications. Complicated. My mother really likes plays on that word.

  “I’m sorry.” She takes in my crestfallen expression. “This case has been taking up so much of my time, but it’s over soon. Rain check,” she promises. “And after it’s over, we’ll make a whole spa day and splurge on foot massages too. Sound like a plan?”

  I nod and tell her it’s fine just as a board member walks over to steal her away for “a second.”

  My phone buzzes. It’s probably Sara. She always remembers Eid.

  But it’s not Sara. It’s Jamie.

  I click the text.

  There’s a GIF of a dancing gingerbread man and the words: Eid Mubarak! Happy eating day!

  Lol, thanks! I reply.

  I glance around the masjid. My father’s getting seconds. My mother is huddled up chatting with her fellow board members. Lyla Iqbal and a couple of other girls are over by the drinks—but I’m just not in the mood to mingle. I look down at my phone.

  Maya: Want to hang out? I’m at the mosque but I can head over to wherever you are.

  A word bubble pops up immediately, and then—

  Jamie: I’ll come to you! On my way!

  I press a thumbs-up to the text, and scroll down until I find my last exchange with Sara. It’s beneath messages from my mom, dad, and even Shelby, who had a new movie she wanted to group hang at. Our last text exchange was three days ago. Three days is three years in Maya-Sara time.

  It is what it is. But it doesn’t make it suck any less.

  I take a quick selfie by the buffet and post it on Instagram with the caption Eid Mubarak!

  I can’t blame Sara if she didn’t think of it first thing in the morning. But she lives on Instagram, so this little nudge should remind her, in case she forgot. Which I’m sure she didn’t.

  Alfie pulls up in the parking lot just then.

  “Thanks for picking me up,” I tell Jamie once I get in. “My afternoon plans fell through, and I didn’t want to sit around in an empty house until dinner.”

  “It was perfect timing,” he says. “I have to take Sophie to her Hebrew tutor at noon, but I’m free until then.” He glances at me. “I bet today’s kind of tough. A first holiday without your parents in one house.”

  “It’s weird. And depressing. Want to go see if there’s any open canvassing hours?”

  “Canvassing? It’s Eid! You’re supposed to celebrate it, right?”

  “I’m not feeling too celebratory, I guess.”

  “Well, you can fake it till you make it! Let’s go get a bite to eat somewhere. Didn’t you say something about a chocolate cake at Intermezzo?”

  “Hmm.” I smile and lean back in the seat. “That cake is amazing, but it’s too early for that right now . . . ditto Farm Burger . . . I know.” I straighten. “How about Skeeter’s? Let’s get those strawberry custards Sara mentioned.”

  “Your wish is my command.” He nods, and we pull out of the parking lot.

  I’m not saying I picked Skeeter’s because I hoped I might run into Sara, but I can’t pretend I don’t feel a touch disappointed when it’s Lucas who greets us instead.

  We order our custards—Jamie insists I top mine off with sprinkles for celebration purposes—and settle outside on the front patio.

  “Sara was right.” Jamie’s eyes widen as he takes another bite. “This custard is amazing.”

  “And you were right, the sprinkles do make it taste better. Though it feels a little weird to eat in the middle of the day.”

  “Oh!” He stands up just then. “I almost forgot.”

  Before I can respond, he’s hurrying over to Alfie in the parking lot. He pops open the trunk and then walks back, holding a glittery gift bag—green and white tissue paper poking out the edges.

  “Here you go! Happy Eid!”

  “You got me a gift!” I take the bag from him. “Jamie, that is so sweet.”

  Glancing in, I pull out—

  Goldfish crackers. It’s a gift bag stuffed full of Goldfish cracker bags. I do my best not to laugh, but this guy and Goldfish . . .

  “I was thinking about it,” he says. “I know you aren’t the biggest fan of them. That’s totally understandable. Some parents go overboard packing them with every meal. It’s important to space out snacks, even good ones. But these are the best of the bunch. There’s extra cheddar, white cheddar, and my personal favorite, rainbow Goldfish.”

  “Jamie, they’re basically all the same thing.”

  “Yeah, right.” He laughs. But then he glances at me and pauses. “Wait. Are you serious? You know they have Oreo-flavored Goldfish, right? Are you saying even those taste the same?”

  “Well, obviously the Oreo ones are different, but the rest of them are similar. It’s just marketing.”

  He looks like that kid in kindergarten who I accidentally let slip to that Santa wasn’t real.

  “No way. This calls for a taste test. But we’ll need to get some regular Goldfish crackers to do it right.”

  “We can’t just use the ones here?”

  “It’s important to have a neutral one to cleanse the palate between taste tests. We’ll get some before canvassing tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good.” I smile.

  I settle into the couch after Jamie drops me back home. Willow hops in my lap. I flip on The Office—my go-to show I’ve seen so many times, I know most of the dialogue by heart at this point. It’s the ultimate comfort viewing.

  I pull out my phone as the theme music opens, and scroll through my feed. Four likes on my Eid selfie. A comment from my aunt Jameela in Philadelphia about how big I’m getting.

  Nothing from Sara.

  I click the home feed. And then I freeze.

  It’s a post from Sara. A repost of Jenna’s, actually. The time stamp says it was posted forty-five minutes ago.

  It’s a photo of their dorm room, all set up with cream curtains, a fluffy pastel-blue rug, and lights strung around the windows. The metal trash can is there too. The caption reads, Chec
k out my dorm, thanks to the amazing artistic eye of my bestie and future roomie, Jenna!

  It’s like I’ve been physically punched.

  I screenshot the photo and text Sara.

  Nice dorm room. Loving the BFF lingo.

  Sara responds quicker than she has in weeks.

  Ha. I’m still as much of a cheeseball as I ever was. Isn’t the room great?!

  My finger hovers over the phone’s keyboard. I want to ask her why, if she’s on Instagram right now, she hasn’t even so much as liked my Eid photo? I want to tell her why the term bestie cuts straight to my heart. Best is quantifiable. It means someone is better than all the rest.

  Jenna is her bestie.

  Where does that leave me?

  Part of me wants to ask her if she’s free. But I can’t bring myself to hear that she’s busy.

  The room is great, I tell her. I put the phone down and rub Willow’s ears. On-screen, Michael Scott is explaining why he’s the best boss ever. Jim deadpans into the camera. Like he’s wondering what on earth is happening and how did he end up here.

  Today, I completely understand.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jamie

  Hi, everyone. Thank you all for being here. I just want to take a minute to say mazel tov to my amazing sister—

  Delete.

  Jewish tradition says Sophie’s an adult now, but I’ll always think of Sophie as the little girl who peed on the floor so often—

  Delete. Sophie would kill me.

  When Sophie was six, she replaced an entire carton of eggs with Barbie heads, and I screamed so loud—

  Yikes.

  I don’t know how YouTube makes it seem so effortless—or where everyone’s finding these troves of funny, sentimental childhood stories. No joke: all my memories make Sophie and me look like complete weirdos. Even the ones that seem funny in my head just sound tragic when I try to write them out.

  Remember when Sophie called me da-da for a year because she forgot I wasn’t her dad? Delete. Delete. Delete.

  I stare listlessly at my Notes app—it’s so blank, it’s taunting me.

  I can’t do this. I roll onto my stomach, checking the clock on my phone. Time’s been moving so slowly all morning. I just want it to be three o’clock, so I can pick Maya up for Goldfish and then canvassing. And maybe—