Yes No Maybe So

by Becky Albertalli

  “What?”

  “You can knock!” He pushes the clipboard toward me. “It’s perfect, actually! We desperately need more canvassers to go door-to-door to spread the word about how awesome Rossum is. Studies show canvassing is the most effective way to get people to go to the polls.”

  “Oh, I would,” I tell him. “But I don’t have a car.” A fact that, for the first time, makes me feel practically triumphant.

  “But Jamie does!” Lauren exclaims.

  What now?

  Jamie looks up from his phone with a start.

  “This works out great!” Lauren clasps her hands and turns to my mom. “I’ve been on Jamie to canvass for ages, but he’s so shy about it. But they can do it together! It’s perfect!”

  I’m about to interrupt and tell them something, anything, to stop this, but my mother joins in too.

  “That’s a great idea! Maya’s summer is pretty open, and this will give them a chance to catch up some more. I’ll drop her off at the campaign office tomorrow.” She takes the clipboard to fill out my information.

  “I know it sounds scary,” Gabe says. “But after one or two houses, it’s as easy as stuffing campaign mailers into envelopes—which you can also help us with!” He grins at me. “The headquarters aren’t too far from here.” He hands me a business card with an address. “See you Friday at three o’clock sharp for orientation?”

  Before either of us can respond, he’s marched off to the next unsuspecting sucker.

  Lauren and my mother talk a little more, while I glare at my mother’s profile. She acts like I’m not even there.

  As soon as they’re gone, I turn to my mother.

  “Why did you volunteer me like that?” I explode.

  “What’s the problem? You have time, don’t you? Plus, you need volunteer hours for school.”

  “Sara was going to see if she could take off that evening so we could hang out together. You know how busy she’s been.”

  “Honey, you know how her plans always change and you end up sulking on the couch all night.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to go canvassing with some random person.”

  “Random? He was your best friend before you could even talk.”

  “Friendships when you’re still in diapers don’t count! And now I have to knock on strangers’ doors? Like I don’t have enough to deal with?”

  “Look.” She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “I know how much you have to deal with. And I know change is difficult for you—I bet this is all landing extra heavy. But doing something positive will take your mind off things. It’s just one day. If you don’t like it, you never have to do it again.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “This wasn’t a request.” Her voice grows sharp. “Mom Card getting pulled, kiddo. You are going.” Before I can say another word, Imam Jackson walks up to the podium at the front of the hall and clears his throat in the microphone. Everyone grows quiet.

  “Asalamualaikum. Thank you for attending our seventh annual interfaith iftar,” he says. “And what a special honor to have none other than Jordan Rossum with us. We will hear from him later this evening. In a few moments, the adhan will sound for evening prayers, which will conclude another day of fasting. Please join us in food and conversation as we remember, yet again, that there is far more that unites us than divides us.”

  Imam Jackson continues his talk as I glance around the room. After the frenetic energy that came with Rossum’s arrival, everyone is standing quite still now, listening attentively. When he finishes, the adhan sounds from the loudspeakers. Rabbi Levinson and Pastor Jones pass out plates with dates for people to open their fasts. A line begins to form at the iftar table.

  “Hey, Maya.” Jamie approaches me. His hands are in his pockets. “I’m heading out after this meal. I’m happy to give you a ride home. I mean if you need one. I could drop you off. No problem.”

  “Um, no.” I look at him. “I’m all set.”

  “Oh yeah, sure. Of course.” He nods quickly. “Well, see you tomorrow.”

  I watch him walk away and think of my empty house. Sara, who will soon be two hours away. And now, a Friday knocking on strangers’ doors.

  Suddenly, I’m not so hungry.

  Chapter Five

  Jamie

  Maya’s not even here yet, but I can’t stop thinking about how the campaign office is going to look through her eyes. I’ve been in and out of this annex all summer. How have I never noticed the hellscape of empty coffee cups and half-eaten pizza bagels on Gabe’s desk, or the weird eggy smell wafting up from the trash bin? No one would mistake the office for fancy, but I guess it seemed passable. Now I realize it’s basically the room version of Gabe’s beard—scraggly, unfinished, and kind of painful to look at.

  Something tells me Maya won’t exactly be blown away.

  I can’t believe she was at the Rossum dinner. Or at Target. How does that happen? How do you go nine years without seeing someone, and then run into them twice in the span of two days? It’s like when you learn a new word, and suddenly it’s everywhere.

  I guess seeing her kind of threw me—though not in a bad way. Really, it was the opposite of a bad way. I don’t believe in signs, but it’s so weird. There I was, kicking myself for not talking to her at Target—and then there she was again. An unmissable second chance. For a split second, I actually thought mingling might not be such a terrible concept after all.

  Until I made the mistake of actually speaking to her. Wow. I didn’t think anything could come close to the Snow Ball, but this may have actually been worse. Who knew it was possible to squeeze so many painfully awkward moments into two five-minute interactions? Let’s start with the fact that I knocked over a whole table of food and water bottles. Because of course I did. And I still feel stupid for offering her a ride. After all, we’re practically strangers at this point. But when I heard her tell her mom she was stranded, not offering just felt mean.

  Turns out, Maya would rather be stranded than ride with me.

  Of course, there’s no point worrying about what she thinks about me, or the campaign office, or anything. Frankly, I don’t even know if she’ll show up.

  It’s the first time I’ve ever been here with a real group of volunteers. I’m pretty good at popping in during off-hours when it’s just Gabe and Hannah and sometimes their lead intern, Alison. And anyway, the canvassers usually start from the main office, out in Dunwoody. But now there are a dozen people here, mostly Hannah’s friends from Spelman, plus a friendly-looking black woman with deep dimples and a pair of middle-aged white women in scarves and chunky jewelry. I know a dozen’s not a particularly huge number of volunteers in the grand scheme of things, but quarters are so tight, people are crowded all the way to the stack of cardboard boxes and yard signs lining the back wall. Everyone’s holding the manila envelopes Alison distributed when we walked in, but nothing’s really happened yet, even though we’re a few minutes past the start time.

  I glance back toward the door. Still no Maya.

  Though I guess I shouldn’t judge her for being late when Gabe isn’t even here yet. And sorry, but if Gabe doesn’t show up, I’m bailing.

  But right then, Gabe emerges from the side-entrance door, wearing a blindingly bright white T-shirt with Rossum’s logo across the chest. He climbs onto a kick stool and cups his hands around his mouth, like he’s doing crowd control. “Welcome, one and all, to volunteer orientation,” Gabe announces. “Now holler at me if you’re ready to have a Rossumly awesome time. State District Forty is about to get hella canvassed, and I am so here for it.” He pounds a fist in the air.

  It’s like watching your oldest, cringiest teacher try to win over the class with slang they googled during their planning period. And I’m pretty sure Gabe being only twenty-three makes it worse.

  After a few minutes of Gabe booming a bunch of vaguely campaign-related words, Maya slinks in through the back. I wave tentatively, and she walks
over. “I grabbed you an extra packet,” I whisper.

  “Thanks. And FYI, there are at least two car alarms going off in the parking lot right now.”

  “Gabe’s greatest talent.” I attempt a casual smile.

  Maya’s smile back is ninety percent grimace.

  “Now I know this all may be a little out of your comfort zone,” Gabe is saying. “So let’s take a minute to emotionally prepare. Repeat after me. We’re awesome.”

  “We’re awesome,” I mumble, with the rest of the volunteers. Maya looks skeptical.

  “Rossum is awesome,” Gabe says.

  “Rossum is awesome.”

  “And we’re about to kick some canv . . . ass!” Gabe claps. “Sweet. You guys can partner up, and then we’ll turn it over to Hannah, who’s going to walk us through the Door to Door app.”

  “Go, Hannah!” cheers the woman with dimples.

  Hannah winks. “Thanks, Mom.”

  As soon as Gabe descends from his stool, he makes a beeline for Maya and me. “’Sup, Big J!” He fist-bumps me. “Glad you could make it.” He turns to Maya. “I’ve been trying to talk this guy into canvassing all summer. Should have known all I needed to do was bring in a few cute girls. Am I right?”

  “Gabe, stop.” I feel my cheeks burn. Maya looks unamused.

  Gabe pats my shoulder. “I see our social media queen just got here.” He juts his chin toward the back of the room. I glance back to find Grandma in the doorway, wearing a printed blouse, blazer, and her signature red glasses. She smiles at me and points to Gabe, curling her finger back to beckon him over. “Duty calls,” Gabe says.

  “Wow,” Maya mutters as soon as he leaves. “How did Rossum find this guy?”

  “Oh. Uh, Rossum went to Hebrew school with Gabe’s sister Rachel, so I guess—”

  “Nepotism. Great,” she says. “Also, why are the campaign headquarters in a bookstore?”

  “Well, they have a real office space in Dunwoody, so this is just a satellite location. Kind of an extra home base. Fawkes and Horntail usually does book clubs and stuff back here, but they’re renting it to the campaign for a dollar per month.”

  “A dollar?”

  “They really want Rossum to win.”

  Maya’s expression softens a little. “Well, clearly, you’re Gabe’s favorite volunteer.” She lowers her voice, imitating him: “I’ve been trying to talk this guy into canvassing all summer.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I’m not really his favorite. I’m more like . . . his cousin.”

  Maya’s eyes widen. “Oh.” She pauses. “Ohhhh.”

  I shrug, and glance back at Gabe—who’s currently getting a smudge rubbed off his face by Grandma.

  “Sorry,” Maya says sheepishly.

  I turn back to her. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I was late.”

  “You didn’t really miss much.”

  “We just knock on doors, right? Give them a flyer? Say ‘Vote for Rossum, he’s awesome’?”

  “Well, there’s a script, but Gabe said it’s good if we use our own words. And then they want us to try to get people to commit to voting, and we mark down their response—definite yes, definite no, maybe—”

  “So it’s like those notes you pass in third grade.”

  I smile. “Will you go out with Jordan Rossum on July ninth? Circle yes, no, maybe so.”

  “So that’s it?” Maya asks. “That’s all the data they want for the app?”

  “I mean, there are a few other options you can pick, but it’s pretty self-explanatory. We can skip the app training if you want. I already have it downloaded.”

  “Okay—”

  “Or you can download it yourself, if you want to split up the houses. Divide and conquer.”

  She shakes her head. “Let’s just go together.”

  “Really?” I glance at her in surprise.

  She opens her mouth to respond, but suddenly we’re intercepted.

  “Jamie! I’m so glad you’re here.” Grandma hooks her arm around my shoulders. “Now, I was just talking to Gabe, and he mentioned wanting to get a couple of shots and maybe a little video. Oh, and hello, dear. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Ruth.”

  “I’m Maya.”

  She extends her hand, but Grandma swoops in for the hug.

  I guess the last time I hung out with Maya was before Grandma moved in with us. Which makes my friendship with Maya feel like something from another era.

  “So nice to meet you, sweetheart,” says Grandma. “Would you mind if I snap one of you two? Here, Jamie, grab one of those yard signs. Perfect. Now, Maya, why don’t you take the other end.” Grandma peers at us through her phone camera lens, while Maya and I awkwardly fake-smile. “Lovely. Let me just take one a little closer up, and . . . voilà! Flawless. Now, are you okay if I post this on our Instagram?” Grandma tilts the phone screen to show us the photo, and I nod.

  Maya shrugs. “Sure.”

  “Fabulous.” Grandma adjusts her glasses, blows us a kiss, and totters off to help two of the Spelman girls pick up an overturned box of campaign stickers.

  Maya blinks, watching Grandma’s retreating figure. “This campaign is a mess,” she mutters.

  Okay, it’s one thing to insult Gabe, but coming for my grandma is another thing entirely. And the campaign? Funny how Maya’s the expert, even though she hasn’t stuffed a single envelope. Not to mention the fact that this is her first time setting foot in its headquarters. And she was late.

  She sees me staring at her and narrows her eyes. “What?”

  I should call her out. Tell her exactly who that woman who took our picture is, and why she’s completely amazing. I’ll think of the most scathingly perfect comment and fling it at Maya, and she’ll spend the whole ride stunned and remorseful.

  But by the time we reach my car, all my arguments dissolve on my tongue. I’m not exactly a scathing callout kind of guy. I’m not even a mildly confrontational kind of guy. I guess you could say I’m more of a food-as-a-peace-offering kind of guy.

  I reach behind my seat, handing Maya a fresh bag of Goldfish I’d stowed away for later. “Here, help yourself.”

  She looks down at the bag, and then back up at me, almost incredulously. “What is this?”

  “Uh, Goldfish?” I’ll just note for the record that the packaging of Goldfish crackers is not subtle. The bag literally says Goldfish Baked Snack Crackers. With a Goldfish cracker dotting the i. But, okay, maybe Maya shops exclusively at farmers’ markets or something and legit doesn’t recognize them. “They’re like a snack cracker—”

  Her mouth quirks. “I know what Goldfish are.”

  “They’re cheddar,” I add, digging into the bag for a handful.

  “Jamie.”

  I look at her. “You . . . don’t like Goldfish?”

  She looks like she’s about to burst out laughing. “Seriously? They’re okay, I guess. But we were just at an iftar.”

  I nod slowly, trying to decode this.

  “Jamie, I’m fasting. For Ramadan?”

  “Ramadan! Right.” My cheeks flush. “Crap. I’m so sorry. Here.” I roll down the top of the Goldfish bag and fling it into the backseat, out of sight. “I can probably find a trash can when we get there. I’m so sorry. I keep forgetting Ramadan is all month. Our fasts are only one day—not that it’s the same—wow. Okay, yeah. I’m shutting up. Oy. I’m sorry—”

  “It’s fine.” Maya presses my arm, for just a split second. “You’re fine. Just drive.”

  It’s a ten-minute ride to our assigned neighborhood, but Maya doesn’t say a word the whole way there. Hard to tell if she’s listening to the NPR station my radio’s stuck on, or just feeling as painfully tongue-tied as I am. But when I pull up and park along the curb, she sighs, pressing her hands to her cheeks.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, startled. I’ve never seen Maya look quite so uneasy. “Are you nervous?”

  “No.”

  “Oh—”

&nbs
p; “I mean, yeah. Kind of. I don’t know. I just don’t want to do this.” She slides her hands down, peering up at me. “Like, we don’t even know if they’re going to listen to us. Or they might be angry we’re taking their time. They might hate Rossum. They might be total jerks in general. They might—”

  “I know.” I meet her eyes, for just a moment, but then I look away quickly. “But if it helps to know this, they’re only having us knock for Democrats and Independents. Who can be jerks, yeah. But it’s not like . . . you know.”

  “Yeah.” She presses her lips together. “Yeah.” For a minute, she stares moodily out the window.

  Then, suddenly, she unbuckles her seat belt.

  “Are we—”

  “Come on, let’s just get this over with. Okay? What house are we starting with?” She opens her door, stepping onto the curb.

  I scramble out behind her, scrolling frantically through the app. “Okay. Uh. Two thirty-six. This brick one, right there with the—okay, yup, that one.”

  Already, she’s halfway up the driveway.

  So now I’m standing on a stranger’s doorstep with my hand hovering over the doorbell. “You ready?”

  Maya crosses her arms and nods. I ring the doorbell, and immediately, there’s a frenzy of dogs yipping and footsteps and even muffled voices. But no one answers.

  Maya and I exchange glances. “They’re definitely in there,” she says.

  “Do you think they’re ignoring us?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Maybe they’re showering or something? In separate showers,” I add quickly. “Not like a big group shower. Unless that’s their thing, which is fine—”

  “Come on.” Maya grabs a walk piece and shoves it next to the doorknob. “We’ll get the next house.”

  But we don’t.

  And we don’t get the house after that either. Turns out, nobody’s even answering their doors. And it’s after six. I guarantee at least half these people are home. There are cars parked in almost every driveway. I keep marking everyone down as not home, but I feel gross about it. It’s hard not to take it personally.

  “I get it,” Maya says as we approach the next house. “We’re interrupting everyone’s Friday evening. I hate when people knock on my door.”