Yes No Maybe So

by Becky Albertalli

  I glance up—there’s a mezuzah on the door frame. “Yeah, they may be getting ready for Sha—wait, is someone coming?”

  “Whaaat.” Maya’s jaw drops, just for a moment, but then she quickly collects herself, standing up straight. “Okay. Okay! It’s happening.”

  The door creaks open, revealing an elderly white woman—at least a decade older than Grandma—wearing a blue quilted pajama shirt, jeans, and white sneakers. “Why, hello,” she says. “Who do we have here?”

  Maya springs into action, beaming so brightly, I almost stumble backward from the shock of it. It’s the first time I’ve seen Maya smile all day. And okay, I’m not saying Maya’s general face is heinous or anything. But when she’s smiling? It’s next-level not heinous. She’s just so—

  Yeah. I’m not going to go there. Literally no point in going there.

  “Great. Hi!” Maya says. “I’m Maya, and this is Jamie, and we’re here with the Jordan Rossum cam—”

  “Well, isn’t that a nice surprise. Y’all can come right on in. I’m Barbara.” She turns, gesturing for us to follow.

  Okay, so. Following old ladies into their houses? Not in our script. Not part of the game plan. And I don’t want to say for sure that we’re getting kidnapped, but I’m pretty sure we’re getting kidnapped.

  Maya and I exchange panicked glances.

  I clear my throat. “Uh. We were just—”

  “What are you waiting for? Come on in.”

  I look helplessly at Maya, who’s clutching the stack of walk pieces like they might fly away. Actually, Maya looks like she wants to fly away with them. But Barbara’s still standing in the foyer, expectantly.

  I take a deep breath and cross the threshold.

  “Now what can I get you? Lemonade? Sweet tea?”

  Maya shakes her head. “I’m okay, thanks.”

  “Nothing? Well. I’ll just make a little plate of cookies. Won’t take me but a second. And you can just have a seat right there on that couch.”

  I settle in, and Maya sits beside me, so close to the edge that she’s barely sitting at all. “This is like a fairy tale,” she whispers. “But in a bad way.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  “I think she’s coming back. Okay, what’s our—hi!” Maya’s whole tone and expression shifts the minute Barbara walks back in, and I have to kind of marvel at that. I barely know how to be myself, and here she is turning into an entirely new person, mid-sentence.

  “Now please help yourselves,” Barbara says firmly, setting a plate of dusty-looking cookies in front of us. And of course my stomach growls enthusiastically, which pretty much locks me into taking one. I guess they don’t look that dusty. I go for a vanilla-looking one with a Hershey’s Kiss pressed into the middle, taking a tiny nibble off the edge. Maya looks on in horror, but the cookie isn’t so bad. A little stale, but it’s edible.

  Barbara settles into an armchair, facing us, and Maya leans forward to hand her a walk piece. “Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with us,” she says brightly. “Like I said, we’re here with the Jordan Rossum campaign—”

  “Oh, isn’t he handsome,” Barbara says, peering through her glasses at Rossum’s headshot. She turns to me. “This young man looks quite a bit like you!”

  “Uh . . . thank you?”

  Okay, I’m pretty sure we just slipped into some strange alternate universe. I look like Rossum? I mean, we’re both white Jews with dark hair, but that’s about it. He’s a candidate for the state senate, and I’m . . . me. I glance sideways at Maya, who’s clearly trying very hard to keep a straight face. When I catch her eye, a grin breaks through, and she claps a hand over her mouth.

  Barbara looks back and forth from Maya to me, smiling. “Well, aren’t you two the cutest couple I ever saw.”

  Maya’s hand falls. “Couple?”

  “But here’s my advice. You can take it from an old lady who knows a thing or two about relationships. Now, I’m not going to tell you to see other people, but don’t be in a rush to settle down. Take your time and get to know each other before taking the final step.”

  Awesome. So much for me ever making eye contact with Maya again. Random ladies think we’re dating? And not just dating. They think we’re dating so seriously that we need to be cautioned against settling down. What?

  I stare at my knees, cheeks burning.

  Barbara keeps going. “But I think inter-race relationships are such a delight. I really do. You know, my grandson Joshua married the loveliest girl. Prisha. Her relatives traveled all the way from India for the wedding. Oh, it was absolutely wonderful. All of those beautiful traditions—I’m sure you know.” She smiles at Maya, who looks frozen. “But here’s—”

  “Well.” I clear my throat. “We’d, uh, love to tell you about Jordan Rossum, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure!” Barbara glances down at the picture again. “What a sweet face. I swear, he looks barely old enough to drive.”

  “Um. Yeah.” My eyes flick sideways to Maya. “He looks young, for sure. But Rossum has years of experience working for Georgians in our district at a local level. In fact—”

  “Is he Jewish?” Barbara asks. “He looks Jewish! I wonder if I know this young man’s parents from shul. Remind me, what’s his name again?”

  “Jordan Rossum,” I say. “R-O-S—”

  “It’s on the flyer,” says Maya. “And actually, if you look at the flyer, there’s lots of information about his platform. I know people are probably interested in his position on health care—”

  “You know who he resembles? The Shapiros’ eldest daughter. I’ll have to ring up Nancy.”

  “Um. Great,” I say, with a quick sideways glance at Maya. “So, uh, can we count on your vote on July ninth?”

  Barbara looks me right in the eye. “Tell me this. Is he a Democrat?” I nod. “Well. In that case, you can tell this gentleman he’s got my vote. No question about that.”

  I sneak one last glance at Maya—and this time she’s smiling for real.

  “Well, that was . . . something,” Maya says as we wave goodbye to Barbara from the sidewalk. “I was pretty sure we were about to get Hansel and Gretel’d.”

  “Yeah, I kind of expected that cookie to start talking to me. Like the gingerbread guy from Shrek.”

  Maya laughs, which makes me feel slightly light-headed.

  I look away quickly. “Also, I’m not sure if that was allowed?”

  “If what was allowed?”

  “Going into someone’s home and eating their food?” I rub my forehead. “It might be an improper campaign contribution or something. Gabe is always talking about stuff like that. How they get you over the little things.”

  Maya looks amused. “Um, I think we’re good.”

  “Well, at least she opened the door,” I say. “And we got our first commitment to vote!”

  And just like that, it hits me: we actually did it. I did it. I just talked to a total stranger, and I didn’t choke or knock the table over or anything. And here I am living to tell about it.

  I log the visit on my phone, and marking Barbara as a definite yes voter tugs happily at my heart. Maybe Gabe was right all along. Maybe this could really tip the scales. After all, you never know how things will go. Maybe Rossum will win by a single vote—Barbara’s vote. Maybe Maya and I just flipped our district in a single afternoon.

  Maybe we changed history.

  I think it’s the first time I’ve ever wished I could high-five myself. I would totally high-five Maya if I didn’t think she’d find it weird and excessive. Something tells me she’s not about to run a victory lap over a single voter commitment.

  But then again, when I look up from my phone, Maya’s outright grinning.

  So maybe I should—

  “Hey,” I say slowly, trying to keep my voice from jumping. “Um. If you ever want to do this again—”

  Maya’s smile fades. Crap. Okay.

  “Or not,” I say franti
cally. “Or, you know. You could canvass on your own, or with someone else. No worries. Or you could go with me again. If you want. No pressure. I just mean Gabe is always looking for volunteers. So I would go again . . . if you wanted to. Either way.” I attempt a smile. “Yes, no, maybe so, right? Ha ha.”

  She presses her lips together. “Um—”

  “Okay, wow, I’m putting you on the spot, and you’re probably really busy, and I’m sorry. Seriously, no worries,” I say. My whole face is burning. Pretty sure that’s not supposed to happen when you’re casually notifying someone about volunteering opportunities. I mean, Gabe is always looking for volunteers. I’m not making that up.

  “I’m not . . .” She pulls her phone out, glances at the screen, and shoves it back into her pocket. “I don’t know, Jamie.”

  “Okay.” I smile slightly. “That sounds like a maybe so.”

  She smiles back, shaking her head slowly. And there’s that heart-tug-high-five feeling in my chest all over again.

  Chapter Six

  Maya

  It’s Saturday.

  My dad should be on the ottoman watching soccer. My mother should be jotting down the weekly grocery list. And all of us should be arguing about whose turn it is to fold the laundry.

  But the television is off today. The ottoman is empty. And the light only just turned on in my parents’ bedroom. Besides Willow crunching her food next to the fridge, the house is silent. I grip the book in my hands so tightly, my knuckles go white.

  “Hey, honey.” My mother walks up to me, wearing a white robe over her pj’s, and yawns. I study her expression; does she also feel it’s weird? This first weekend without my dad? Or is she relieved? Her face is unreadable.

  “What do you have there?” She gestures to my book.

  “Saints and Misfits.”

  “Reading it again?” She smiles.

  “It’s a good one. I have a couple of holds ready for me at the library too.”

  “I’ll swing by and get them on my way home from work Monday,” she promises. “Any plans for today? The car is all yours if you need it.”

  “Sara said she might be free this afternoon.”

  “Oh, that’ll be nice,” my mother says. “You haven’t had a chance to see too much of each other. How do you feel? With her leaving so soon?”

  I look down at the counter.

  “I don’t even know how to process what life will look like without her.”

  “She’ll still be part of your life,” my mother says. “And she’ll be home for holidays and vacation.”

  “But it won’t be the same.”

  “I’m so sorry, Maya.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “This is a lot. So many things landing at once.”

  I blink back tears.

  “How are you feeling? About . . . everything else?” she says gently.

  I shrug. Like I got hit with a sledgehammer. That’s how I feel. She knows that, doesn’t she?

  “I hate not knowing how long this will last.”

  “Me too,” she says softly.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Shelby Yang from school.

  Shelby: Mateo and Olivia are getting a group together to see the new Marvel movie. 8:20 p.m. showing. You in?

  Maya: Oh, I’d love to, but today’s a little tough. I’m so sorry!

  Shelby: You’re the busiest person I know! Get you next time?

  Maya:

  I put the phone away.

  “Was that Sara?” My mother nods to the phone.

  “No, it was Shelby, something about a movie.”

  “That sounds fun. You should go.”

  “I hate sitting through a movie at the theater,” I tell her. “I get so antsy.”

  “But it’d be nice to meet up with her, wouldn’t it? You haven’t seen her since the end of school. Maybe you could join them for a bite to eat after you open your fast?”

  I shrug. Yes, Shelby is a friend. We grab lunch together during the school year and discuss the pros and cons of our favorite celebrity crushes of the moment (mine’s been Jim Halpert from The Office for a solid year and counting). But she’s a School Friend. Our relationship doesn’t extend beyond campus boundaries. I’m not saying I’m antisocial or anything. I’ve got a bunch of acquaintances, like Kevin. It’s just that I’m a quality over quantity kind of person. And my quantity has mostly always been Sara.

  My phone buzzes.

  It’s Jamie. We exchanged numbers before we left the campaign offices.

  Jamie: I had to share this.

  I open the text. It’s a GIF of a screaming gingerbread man from the Shrek movie, going into an oven.

  “Oh my God. No.” I cover my mouth and laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” my mother asks.

  “Jamie sent me a GIF,” I tell her. “At canvassing yesterday, there was this lady who offered us cookies à la Hansel and Gretel. I mean, she was actually pretty sweet, but we were a little creeped out at first.”

  “Sounds like canvassing wasn’t too bad then?”

  “It wasn’t the worst thing on the planet.”

  “Think you’ll go again?”

  “Um, ‘worst thing on the planet’ is a very broad standard,” I tell her. “Once was enough.”

  I look back down at the GIF and click my phone to find one to send back to him, when my mother clears her throat.

  “I’ve been thinking about the car you’ve been wanting.”

  Say what? I slam the phone down on the table.

  “I know with Sara leaving for school soon, and my work schedule picking up, it’ll be trickier for you to get around than it was before . . .”

  “Exactly,” I tell her quickly. “And that way I can get myself to school this fall instead of needing you or Dad to drop me off. It’ll save you time in the long run. And it doesn’t have to be fancy or anything. I don’t even care if the air-conditioning works.”

  “We’ll have to see what we can afford. Between our student loans, mortgage, and your grandmother’s health costs, we were pretty stretched as is—and with the double housing—for now, at least—it’s just not as simple as you’d think.”

  She talked about the separate housing and said “for now.”

  Not forever. For. Now.

  I cling to those two words like a life raft.

  “So I was thinking,” she continues. “Since you and Jamie had a good time canvassing yesterday, why not keep it up?”

  “We need to have a serious conversation about what ‘not the worst thing on the planet’ means, Mom. It was okay, but not exactly the most exciting way to spend my summer.”

  “Well, be that as it may, here’s my proposal: you keep up the canvassing and we’ll think about getting you that car.”

  “After the election?”

  “Yep,” she says. “It’s a win-win. You get your volunteer hours in for school, and you’re not sitting around all summer waiting for Sara to call. And in exchange, you—”

  “Get a car! I’ll pay you back for it. Once I have the car, I can start working and—”

  “You don’t have to pay it back. The canvassing is the work.”

  “Then insurance and gas. You guys won’t have to worry about a thing. And I promise I’ll be super responsible.”

  “Of course you will, honey.” My mother smiles. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes!” I delete the GIF I was about to send. Instead I type: Think we could go canvassing for a few hours today?

  A word bubble pops up instantly. And then—There’s a four to six time slot. Want me to sign us up?

  Meet you at the headquarters, I tell him.

  I’ll get Hansel and Gretel’d every day if I can finally have my own car.

  The packet Gabe gave us this time sends us to a completely different type of neighborhood from the last one. The homes here are even more enormous, and the sprawling lawns mean each house is almost its own city block. We’ve been canvassing for a full thirty minutes but we’ve only made it to five houses. So far o
nly two people opened their doors and took our flyers.

  “Next one is about eight houses down that way.” He squints and points up the road.

  “That far?” I groan. Eight houses means we’ll have to trudge at least one whole street over. “There’s no Democrats or Independents in any of these houses close to us?”

  “This looks like a pretty red neighborhood. Not sure we’ll get Jewish ladies feeding us cookies here.” He double-checks the paperwork before we continue on our way.

  “How was that cookie yesterday?” I ask him. It was pretty brave of Jamie to take one for the team like that. Ill-advised, but brave. “No side effects?”

  “It wasn’t too bad. My grandma makes those cookies all the time. The thing with them is, if you don’t seal them right away, they get stale within the hour. My grandma’s taste way better than Barbara’s, but hers were definitely edible.” He puts his phone in his back pocket and glances at me. “You met her, actually. My grandmother. At the campaign headquarters . . .” His voice trails off and he looks away.

  “Your grandmother?” I flush. “That was your grandmother? Oh, wow. O-Okay.” I stammer. “I didn’t mean to . . .” My voice trails off. Did he notice me side-eyeing her?

  “She’s a social media surrogate for Rossum’s campaign, but she has her own really popular Instagram account too. She’s got a great eye for photos and captions and she can hashtag like a boss, but she has a hard time getting the filters and Stories features just right. I run tech support for her.”

  “Your grandmother has an account on there?”

  “Yeah.” He looks over at me. “It’s called InstaGramm.”

  “I know what Instagram is,” I tell him, trying to hide my irritation. This, after mansplaining Goldfish crackers to me yesterday?

  “No, no,” he says quickly. “I mean, that’s not her handle, but that’s how everyone knows her on Instagram. She’s Insta. Gramm. Like Gramma.”

  “Oh, wow.” I pause. “That’s clever.”

  “She’s a pretty big deal.” He smiles. He’s so clearly proud of her, it’s kind of cute. “I don’t know how she does it, but somehow her stuff always goes viral. She’s got like ten thousand followers last time I checked.” He pulls out his phone, clicks around on the screen, and holds it out to me. “She takes photos with her dog, Boomer. People are seriously obsessed with her. She’s a local sensation.”