“Oh yeah.” I flush. “Sorry about that.”
“You can make it up to me by coming along.” He grins. “These photo shoots can go on for a minute. I love my grandmother, but she gets into full diva mode. On the upside, though—” He points at our box of flyers. “She can sweet-talk people into doing anything. I bet she’ll get those flyers up and around for us.”
“I’m all in,” I tell him.
Grandma’s diva side shows up before Jamie exits the parking lot.
“Jamie, dear,” she says through his phone’s speaker. “I could use a good cup of herbal tea. Can you be a darling and pick up some chamomile? Bon Glaze carries the brand I like. And swing by the house for my red scarf? It’ll really make the photo pop with the color and lighting they have here.”
We load up with the necessary accessories and drink, and meet up with her at the restaurant parking lot.
“Maya, sweetie!” Grandma approaches me. Boomer trots alongside her.
“Hello . . .” I falter. Should I say Ms. Miller? Mrs. Miller? Grandma? Ruth? But before I can think too long, she’s smooshed me into a huge hug.
“What an absolute pleasure to see you again. Jamie just goes on and on and on about you. He just—”
“Here’s your tea, Grandma,” Jamie interrupts.
“Look at this darling.” Grandma kisses Jamie’s cheek. “He’s just wonderful, isn’t he?”
“He really is.” I smile at him. Jamie has turned a delightful shade of radish.
“Grandma, do you think we could put up the flyers here?” Jamie asks.
“Of course.” His grandma nods. “They have the cutest little corkboard up on the wall with all sorts of resistance stuff. I’m sure they’d be thrilled.”
“Do you want to start with some exterior shots of the building?” Jamie asks.
“First let’s go in and interview Devon and Chris while the restaurant’s a little quiet. They’re the sweetest couple you’ve ever seen.” Grandma clicks a few buttons on her phone and hands it to him. “And then after the video . . .”
She pauses. She’s looking at something just over my shoulder.
“Grandma?” Jamie says.
“Hold my tea, sweetie.” She thrusts the cup into my hand.
Before we can say another word, Grandma is marching past us, Boomer fast at her heels.
“Hey, you! Yes, you!” she shouts. “Think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
“What is going on?” I glance at Jamie. “Is this . . . is this part of the process or something?”
“No, definitely not . . .”
We turn around. And then we see.
Someone’s on their knees in the parking lot. And next to him on the ground is a stack of bumper stickers. Fifi stickers.
“I asked you a question,” Jamie’s grandma says loudly. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
The guy looks stunned for a moment, but recovers quickly. He holds a bumper sticker defiantly in his hands and smirks.
“You need to mind your own business, old lady.”
Boomer growls. The smirk vanishes pretty quickly.
“Is that how you speak to people, Nicholas Jacob Wilson?” Grandma asks. At this, the boy startles. “Oh yes, I know who you are. Your grandmother is always showing off your photos at Jazzercise. She goes on and on about what a hardworking boy you are. Is this the kind of work you’re doing? Vandalizing people’s property?”
Nicholas stands up slowly.
“Wait,” he says. “Listen. It’s just a prank.”
“Terrorizing people is a prank? Including my own family, for that matter. You have some nerve, young man. When your grandmother finds out . . .”
“No, please,” he cries out. All the carefully manicured cool is gone. He looks like a ten-year-old, caught red-handed with a cookie before dinner. “Don’t tell my grandma. Please.”
“Give me one good reason why I wouldn’t?”
He doesn’t respond. His lower lip trembles. Is he about to cry?
“I just have one more semester till graduation,” he says shakily. “Please. She’ll cut me off.”
Jamie’s grandmother crosses her arms, but before she can say another word, he starts to cry. It starts off like a leaky trickle, but before I can even blink—he’s sobbing. About how this will ruin everything. How no one can find out.
“Is this real life?” I whisper.
I glance over at Jamie for the first time.
He is holding Grandma’s phone. He’s . . .
“Are you recording this??”
Jamie’s jaw is tight.
“Instagram Live just got a whole lot more interesting,” he says.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jamie
Stepping into the campaign office on Sunday is like stepping into an alternate universe. For a moment, Maya and I just stand frozen in the doorway, gobsmacked. Gabe had mentioned we should come in through the front of the bookstore today. But I didn’t realize that was because we’d now taken over the front of the bookstore. And the back. And the extra event space near the side window.
“Seriously, where did all these people come from?” Maya whispers.
I peer around the room—which is so packed with earnest-looking college kids, you’d think this was an Apple Store. I spot Hannah near a display of scented candles, brandishing her phone for a large huddle of volunteers. Meanwhile, Alison the intern is sorting through printed address lists, looking frantic. But for all the bustle and chaos, there’s this thrum of hopefulness in the air. I pause, taking it all in—the buzzing conversation, people clustered between rows of bookshelves, the ABBA album blaring in the background. I haven’t felt this sort of electricity since Jordan Rossum himself burst into the iftar.
“I think there are more than forty people here,” Maya says, sounding awed. “Remember when half the volunteers were related to either Gabe or Hannah?”
I laugh. “To be fair, Hannah’s mom works for the Democratic Party.”
“But still.” Maya grins.
Gabe pops his head out of the annex, and his whole face lights up when he sees us. The next thing I know, he’s springing toward us like an excited puppy. “The heroes of the hour!” He hugs me, and then Maya. “Listen. You two? Are game changers.” He whirls around to beckon over a few nearby volunteers. “Guys, this is my little cousin Jamie and his best bro, Maya!”
Best bro. Bro? I mean, after dealing with Mom and the guys, I guess it’s a relief that someone out there doesn’t assume Maya and I are dating. Not that I mind the assumption. I just mind the idea of all those conversations leaking back to Maya. But then again . . . bro? How should I interpret that? Drew and Felipe saw some kind of vibe between us, but now I wonder if that’s even real. Because if Gabe thinks we’re bros—
“—the ones who filmed the Instagram Live and exposed the fuck out of that troll,” Gabe declares.
“Oh. Wow!” says one of the volunteers, an East Asian girl in a Rossum shirt. “That was amazing. It has over a million views now, right?”
I blush. “It was all Grandma—”
Gabe thumps my back. “Give yourself some credit, Big J. Remember, if it’s not on film, it didn’t happen. You two are the reason for all of this.” He gestures broadly around the room. “You know, we’ve had a threefold increase in volunteer turnout since the Fifi video went live?”
Maya’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? Wow—”
“Bustle, Mashable, BuzzFeed, Upworthy.” Gabe counts them off on his fingers. “The AJC piece goes live tomorrow, and we’ve got Hannah’s write-up in the North Fulton Neighbor. Pod Save America wants to interview Grandma. What did I tell you about building a narrative? Now you’ve got Newton, the official candidate of sniveling racists. But if you’d rather have a sweet little Nazi-crushing grandma? Booyah! Welcome to Team Rossum. We’re going viral, baby!”
We all laugh, and Gabe pantomimes a mic dropping—for himself. But I can’t even muster up a proper eye roll. It’s almost li
ke . . . Gabe is actually making sense, for once. I mean, it feels funny to be happy about anything related to Fifi, but I can’t deny the palpable energy in the room today. And for a local election? The tiny satellite office? It’s nothing short of incredible.
Gabe turns to Maya and me. “Let me get the new guys started really quick. You two, don’t go anywhere. Grandma’s on her way, and we’ll start filming as soon as we clear everyone else out. It’s gonna be so hype. Reclaiming Fifi from the dark side!” He fist-bumps each of us.
Maya watches Gabe herd his group of volunteers toward the back room. “Wow. I can’t believe he actually did it. He managed to go viral.”
“Right? It’s pretty wild,” I say. “Plus, the ACLU just did an email blast asking its members to donate and canvass. The campaign has pulled in more donation money in the last twenty-four hours than all of this year, total. And Hannah said the Georgia Democratic Party is planning to fund a whole TV ad campaign!”
“Holy shit. Rossum may actually have a shot.”
“He really might.” I glimpse Alison, balancing a stack of folders almost higher than her head.
As soon as the volunteers file out, Hannah makes her way toward us. “Hey! Glad I caught you guys before your video thing.” She clasps her hands. “So, my mom’s organizing volunteers to be poll observers on election day. Can I sign you two up for a shift? It’s pretty chill, and the training is super simple. You basically just hang around the polling place and make sure nothing shady happens.”
“Oh,” I say. I glance sideways at Maya, who smiles and shrugs.
“Sounds good to me,” Maya says. “Maybe we can get a slot together.”
“Definitely.”
“Awesome!” Hannah says. “Adding you to my list. Election Protection Squad for the win.” She high-fives both of us. “Thank you guys so much, seriously. For everything.”
Maya and I exchange grins, and I’m basically a human hot air balloon. Warm and buoyant and bright. I mean, our video actually changed the course of the campaign. It did that. We did that. And if we changed the course of the campaign, maybe we’ll change the outcome of the election.
Which would change history. Just a little slice of it, but still.
Not to mention the full-circle perfection of spending election day with Maya. It’s honestly hard to believe I ever stepped foot in this office without her. Or that I used to dread coming here. I mean, my stomach would drop every time I pulled into the parking lot. I’d have to brace myself for small talk, even just with Hannah and Alison. And then there was Gabe, forever wanting more. Make more phone calls. Knock on more doors. Be less Jamie.
Everything’s different now.
Yeah, Gabe is still all kinds of annoying, and the campaign’s a haphazard mess. There’s still small talk. I’m still awful at it.
But when Maya’s here, every bit of it feels like home.
Half an hour later, Grandma’s completely taken over. “Gabe, sweetheart, can you push that desk right in front of the backdrop? Good. And a few inches to the left. Thank you, lovey. Oh, I wish we had natural light in here.” She unfolds her tripod, planting it a few feet in front of Hannah’s now-pristine desk. With a sheet of heavy white fabric hanging behind it, it looks a little like the makeshift doll photography studio Sophie made in our basement at age nine. But when Grandma lets me peek at the setup through her phone screen, it looks surprisingly professional—a noticeable level up from the usual Rossum campaign content.
“You guys made a script, right?” Gabe asks as soon as we’re settled in behind the desk. He props up a slightly enlarged card stock picture of Fifi between us, and I try not to look too closely at it. “But don’t feel like you can’t ad-lib. I want this to feel fun, spontaneous, hip—you feel me?” He does jazz hands.
Maya’s eyes widen. “Okay.”
“Just make sure you hit all the beats we talked about. And don’t forget to tie it back to Rossum. Let’s keep that Fifi momentum going. We need people to be fired up.”
“Just have fun with it.” Grandma smiles from behind the tripod. “This is just the cutest idea ever. I love that you two thought of it.”
“Right?” Gabe says. “The more Fifi, the better.”
“That’s . . . not exactly our message,” Maya says.
“Just make sure you mention Rossum. And smile!” Gabe walks backward, tapping the corners of his mouth with his fingertips.
“Jamie, dear, move a little closer to Maya. Great. Now, try to project your voices as much as you can.” Grandma peers at us through her phone camera. “And remember, we can go back and edit later, so don’t worry if you need to repeat something—”
“But keep in mind,” Gabe interjects, “the fewer mistakes, the less time we have to spend editing, and the sooner we can get this up.”
“We’ll be fine.” Grandma pats Gabe’s shoulder. “So we’ll start with our intro, but let’s pause for a second before moving on to the washi tape. Gabe will keep filming straight on, and Maya, I’ll come around and zoom in over your shoulder. Sound good?”
I nod.
“Works for me,” Maya says.
“Great!” Grandma smiles. “I’ll count down with my fingers.”
She holds up three, and then two, and then one—and we’re off.
By five, Maya and I are tucked into our new favorite Target patio chair—the egg-shaped wicker love seat Maya once said was too small for two. I guess it’s big enough now.
Maya’s scrolling through the latest batch of polling data on her phone. I still can’t believe she gets Wi-Fi here.
“Everything’s still favoring Newton.” She puffs her cheeks out and sighs.
“But look. This poll’s from the twenty-eighth. That’s before Nicholas Wilson went viral. Maybe that will be the turning point?”
“Yeah, maybe.” She taps into Instagram, and her whole face brightens. “Hey, our video’s live!”
“On the Rossum page or Grandma’s?”
“Both. And apparently YouTube too.” She scoots closer, tilting her phone toward me. For a minute, I can hardly speak, or even breathe. Every single inch of my left side is pressed against Maya’s right.
“I’m scared to watch,” says Maya. “I love the caption, though. Fifi Gets Flipped!”
“Grandma does love a good hashtag.”
Maya grins. “You ready?” I nod, and she presses play.
A title screen flashes: Fifi Gets Flipped.
Video Maya smiles. “Hi, I’m Maya.”
“And I’m Jamie.”
“I sound so nervous,” I murmur.
Maya hugs me sideways. “You sound great.”
“—when you get Fifi’d,” Video Maya is saying. Then Fifi’s face flashes across the screen, accompanied by Halloween music.
Maya laughs. “Wow.”
“For those who don’t know,” Video Me explains, “Fifi is a meme popularized online in white supremacist, alt-right circles.”
Video Maya chimes in. “But recently, local trolls have taken Fifi offline and onto the streets of Brookhaven and Sandy Springs.”
The screen cuts to a montage of Fifi stickers on cars, including Alfie—culminating in a clip of Grandma bearing down on Nicholas Wilson in the Scavino’s parking lot.
Video Me nods solemnly. “Our team of grandmas is working day and night to keep our streets Fifi-free—”
“But just in case, we have a little hack to flip your Fifi nightmare into a resistance icon. Jamie, the washi tape.” Video Maya removes the Fifi picture from its display. “Let’s start with the teacup. If you look closely, you’ll see we’ve got an 88 here on the cup, and Fifi’s holding the cup with an okay sign. Yikes. These are both major anti-Semitic dog whistles.”
I lean toward Maya. “We missed the chance for a good dog pun here, didn’t we?”
Maya rolls her eyes, smiling.
“But with a few strategically placed strips of rainbow washi tape . . .”
“I can’t believe Mom’s washi tape obsession ca
me in so handy,” I say.
The camera zooms in on a time-lapse demonstration of our hands covering the entire teacup with rainbow tape.
“Fifi could look cool wearing a pink pussy hat, don’t you think?” says Video Me.
“I most certainly do,” agrees Video Maya—followed by another hyper-speed washi tape montage. “And there you have it. Objective proof that cats are better than dogs.”
Video Me shoots Maya a quick but obvious side-eye.
“Oh my God, Jamie. Your face there.” Maya beams at me. “This video actually turned out really cute!”
I look at Maya on-screen. “Yeah.”
“—but remember,” Video Maya is saying. “The very best way to flip Fifi? Donate. Canvass. And most importantly, show up and vote for Jordan Rossum on July ninth.”
Video Me turns to Maya and smiles. “Jordan Rossum, for Georgia state senate, District Forty. Vote for Rossum, he’s awesome!” A Rossum campaign logo flashes, and then the video starts to replay.
I look at Maya. “That wasn’t so bad, right?”
“Not at all! We did great.” She leans forward, scrolling down. “Whoa, there are already more than four hundred views.”
I peer at the screen over her shoulder. “And almost a hundred comments!”
“Don’t read them,” Maya says quickly.
I laugh. “What?”
“Cardinal rule of the internet, right? Never read the comments.”
“You’re not curious to know what they say?”
“Of course I’m curious,” Maya says. “But trust me, it’s not worth it. One shitty comment can ruin your whole mood like that.”
“Do you think they’re mostly bad?” I glance at Maya’s screen, where the video’s still auto-replaying.
“Not mostly, unless the trolls find it. But there’s going to be at least a little bit of hate. Maybe not directed toward you, but definitely toward me—”
“No way. You’re a total pro. Look!”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s called being a woman on the internet, especially a brown woman. And my brain just fixates for days on the bad ones.”
“Oh.” I frown. “Sorry. That really sucks.”
“It is what it is.” She shrugs.
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