“Assist mode?”
“Like when they put up blockers on the bowling lanes so you can’t ever hit the gutter?” Kevin grins.
“It’s just how the demo is set up,” Jamie says quickly. “You’re playing really well, though! I bet you’d have reached this stage even without the assist mode.”
And with that, I’m done.
They continue talking about the graphics and the storage space on PlayStation versus Switch versus Xbox.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out.
Sara: Noooo your dad did not do that! But in his defense, your cat phase WAS intense.
Maya: Excuse me, cats aren’t a phase. They’re a lifestyle.
Sara: LOL. Hey. Sorry about earlier. Was finishing up a swim lesson and then worked out. I think my sitting gig is coming through though. But I could FaceTime now if you’re free.
I glance up just then and pause. Jamie’s looking at me. His eyes meet mine. Something about the way he’s gazing intently makes my stomach flutter.
“Hey,” he says with a small smile. “Do you seriously have Wi-Fi on your phone right now?”
“What?”
“You looked like you were texting. That’s so cool. I never get any service here.”
“Yeah.” I stare at him. “It’s so cool.”
Maya: Sorry. At Target with a friend right now.
Sara: A friend?
Maya: Stop it!
Sara: I thought I was your only friend.
I glance at Jamie before looking back down at my phone.
Maya: Branching out I guess.
Sara: Better not replace me!
I look at the screen. She’s going to think I’m joking when I say this, but I’m so not.
Maya: No way. You’re my best friend. Always and forever. No replacements in that department.
Three dots.
Sara: Same here <3 But, glad you’re expanding your circle.
I glance at Jamie.
Maya: Yeah. Me too.
Chapter Nine
Jamie
Mom’s a rage machine this morning. “Unbelievable.” She waves her phone around. “Jamie, as soon as this is over, I’m taking a three-year nap. I’ve never seen such gross incompetence in my entire life. I swear to God.”
I shove a spoonful of Trix in my mouth, trying not to laugh. I mean. For someone planning a sacred religious rite of passage, Mom does a whole lot of swearing to God. Though, to be fair, the DJ for Sophie’s bat mitzvah did just announce he’s breaking his contract to be on The Bachelorette.
“If it was a family emergency? Fine. Understandable. But this schmuck’s going to pull out less than three weeks before the bat mitzvah, and for this nonsense?”
“Maybe he’ll come out of the limo wearing glow-in-the-dark bracelets and holding an inflatable guitar.”
She stops pacing abruptly to point at me. “That’s not funny.”
“Tune in July sixth, for the most dramatic hamotzi in Bachelor Nation history . . .”
“How do you know this much about The Bachelorette?”
“It’s a good show.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re a fan, but now I’m going to have to rearrange my whole day to deal with this. And then—oh no. Jamie, are you canvassing today?”
“No, not till this weekend,” I tell her.
Mom exhales. “Good. I’ve got a meeting with the caterer this afternoon, so I need you to take your sister to Hebrew school—”
“But Felipe and Drew were going to—”
“Jamie, please.” Mom presses her hand to her temple. “Help me out here. I know it’s hard, sweetheart, and you’ve been so great. I hate to ask, but with this curveball from the DJ . . .”
Jewish mom guilt for the win. You’d think I’d be immune to it by now, but I swear, it’s like a virus. Every time I built up my defenses, Mom introduces a new strain.
“I can take her.”
Mom softens. “Thanks, sweetie.” She ruffles my hair. “Three thirty at The Temple, okay? I can pick her up afterward. I’m just so glad it’s not one of your canvassing days.” She smiles. “By the way, I hear that’s going well.”
“Yeah, it’s been pretty cool. We got like eleven people on Sunday.”
“Alina says you and Maya are getting along.”
I flip my phone facedown abruptly. “What did she say?”
Mom glances at my phone, smiling slightly. “Nothing in particular. She just mentioned Maya seemed to be enjoying the process. I’m just so glad, Jamie.” She pats my shoulder. “I think all this speaking practice is really going to help you prepare for your toast. And once you conquer that, the sky’s the limit. I know you used to talk about running for office one day . . .”
My stomach drops. I guess a part of me was hoping Mom would be so impressed by all my canvassing that she’d give me a pass on the bat mitzvah. But nope. She’s like the mouse from those picture books. You give her a cookie, and she wants milk. I bust my butt doing spreadsheets for Rossum, and she wants me to canvass. I canvass, and somehow that’s practice for speaking in front of hundreds of people. And apparently the next step is me running for office, because we all know that would be a chill and vomit-free situation.
I mean, can you imagine me trying to give one of those mega-inspirational mic-drop Rossum speeches? Sure, I could drop a microphone. Because my palms would be sweating too much to hold it. And if I actually managed to choke any words out, I’d be a gaffe machine. Seriously, I wouldn’t just lose my election. I would call it an erection. And then I’d lose.
But the worst part is, Mom’s not entirely off base. It’s not like she’s pulling this political stuff out of thin air. Do I still daydream sometimes about running for office? Yeah. Have I ever typed out Rep. Jamie Goldberg (D-GA), just to see it in print? Maybe.
Sophie says I’m secretly, and I quote, “a power-hungry mofo.” But it doesn’t have anything to do with power. At least not power for its own sake.
I want to be a history changer. I want to help draw the timeline.
And I know—I know—you don’t have to be a politician to do that. There are a million ways to change the world quietly. No charisma necessary. No need to be the charming, bright-eyed candidate working the room at campaign events. No need to give some showstopper speech on the Congress floor. I’m not that guy. I don’t have to be that guy.
I want to be that guy, though.
I’d rather be him than me.
I wait until Mom’s gone before flipping my phone back over, which probably looks extremely shady. But I swear it’s not like that. It’s just that Maya finally accepted my Instagram follow request, and even with my mom there, I had to sneak in a quick scroll. But now that she’s in the living room looking for a DJ who won’t be journeying to find love this month, I can finally take a real look.
I tap back into Instagram, where Maya’s page is already open, arranged into the standard stacks of squares. It’s not the kind of account with a careful, planned aesthetic, or even a general tone and mood like Grandma’s InstaGramm. It’s really just Maya’s life. There’s a selfie with sunglasses, a close-up of a raggedy, well-loved Elmo doll, and, scrolling back a little, a bunch of pictures with the curly-haired friend I saw her with at Target. Her friend Sara, I now know. And there’s even a close-up of one of the Rossum walk pieces we’ve been distributing, posted Sunday afternoon—which means I must have been right there when she posted it. The caption says, awesome Rossum day.
I can’t help but smile when I read that.
But my favorite picture—the one I keep coming back to—is this black-and-white close-up selfie. Just Maya’s face. Her dark hair hangs past her cheeks, wavy and long enough to fall out of frame. She’s smiling slightly with her mouth closed. But her eyes have this glint—not like she’s mad. More like she’s silently teasing someone.
It’s, uh. Not a bad look.
Then, out of the blue, as if I conjured her with my own thoughts—she texts me.
That’s never
happened before. I mean, we’ve texted. But unless you count the initial This is Maya Rehman text from when we first exchanged numbers, I’ve always been the one to initiate contact. But this? This is an actual, spontaneous, non-logistical Maya text, popping onto my phone screen like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I almost drop my spoon.
InstaGramm followed me!! And before I can even respond, there’s a second text: Okay I know it’s because she’s your grandma and I met her etc, but also I’m kind of fangirling???
I set my phone down on the table.
So here’s the thing. Technically, Maya never accepted my Instagram follow request. That’s because technically, I don’t have an Instagram. I just don’t see the point of it, since I myself am not particularly Instagram-worthy. And if there’s something I want to look at, I just pop into Grandma’s account.
Which is . . . basically what I did this morning with Maya.
So she clearly thinks I’m Grandma. An honest mistake, seeing as I’m logged in as, well, Grandma. But it’s not like she would have denied my follow request if I’d followed her as myself. You don’t block your social media from someone you’re already texting—that’s just backward. Anyway, I’m almost positive Maya said her mom is the one who made her stay on private in the first place.
I feel a little guilty, though. It’s almost like I snuck past her privacy settings under false pretenses. I guess I could tell her right now that it’s me . . . but that feels awful too. I don’t want to rain on her followed-by-a-local-celebrity parade. And after the iffy first impression Maya had, it’s clear she’s now one hundred percent Team Grandma.
So I suck it up and write back: NICE.
And then I make Grandma’s account like a few of Maya’s pictures, because hey, Grandma would like Maya’s pictures if she saw them.
But I don’t click the heart on the black-and-white one. Not even from Grandma.
I’m just so painfully bad at anything girl-related. I don’t even know how to talk to them. I suppose I can technically form words around most of them.
But I don’t know how to do any of the other stuff.
Like that thing certain guys do where they tease a girl just the right amount. Or when the guy touches a girl’s arm in this very particular way, where it’s not a big deal, but it IS a big deal.
Drew’s always telling me not to stress about it. To just trust my instincts and let things play out. But that really only works if you have good instincts. And I can’t let things play out because there’s no thing to play out. They just don’t get it. Drew’s a huge flirt, but never in a serious way. And even though Felipe’s pretty guarded about boys, he stepped up big-time when Nolan entered the picture. I’m talking grand-gesture scavenger-hunt-promposal big-time. Meanwhile, I send one Shrek GIF, and days later, I’m still feeling like I came on way too strong.
I don’t even know where I’d turn for real advice on this stuff. Grandma, I guess—though her advice would be about communication and “opening your heart” and not about certain very physical sensations that happen when I look at a particular black-and-white picture.
Maybe it’s time for me to log out.
Sophie has a plan.
I mean, she pretty much always has a plan. When I was twelve, I don’t even think my brain had switched on yet, and here’s Sophie, forging schemes twice every day before breakfast.
“Here’s my thing about the teen room,” she says, settling deeper into the passenger seat. “It actually simplifies so many things. You’ll have more space in the ballroom—”
“Oh, you’re still stuck on this?”
“I’m not stuck,” she says—and I don’t even need to glance away from the road to know she’s rolling her eyes. “I’m just thinking out loud. Okay, so it also allows the lighting to be more customized to your guests’ needs. Right? Soft evening lights for the oldsters, dark mood lighting for the youth. Maybe a little bit of multicolored LED crystal ball strobe if we’re feeling fancy. And don’t say those words sound like drug names.”
“I didn’t say anything—”
“You were thinking it. And your predictability is a discussion for another day. But going back to the lighting . . .”
I tune in and out. It’s not that Sophie’s boring. But between the GPS on my phone and NPR droning in the background, I’ve missed a solid few minutes of her declaration.
“. . . Spin the Bottle, Seven Minutes in Heaven, right?”
“Wait, what?” The light’s red at 17th Street, so I can finally look at her face.
“Jamie, they’re games.”
“I know what they are. I just didn’t know you were playing them.”
“I never said I was.” She sniffs. “I’m just saying, these are the kinds of things that would be possible in a teen room. You just don’t know that, because you probably spent every weekend of seventh grade partying with people’s parents. You know that’s how they get you, right?”
I make the left onto Peachtree. “I don’t think it’s that diabolical, Soph. People are just trying to celebrate their kids.”
“I’m just saying. And even if Mom says no to the teen room, eighth grade is going to be totally different. Tessa said she’s having a no-parents birthday party this year, so yeah. We’re doing Spin the Bottle, we’re doing Seven Minutes in Heaven, we’re doing Suck and Blow—”
“Excuse me?”
“With a playing card. Jamie, you’re so innocent. Anyway, the other thing . . .”
But suddenly, something from the radio catches my attention. A name. “Imam Shaheed Jackson, from the Brookhaven Community Mosque, here with us today to discuss . . .”
I turn the volume up. “What is this?” Sophie asks.
“NPR.”
“Well, obviously—”
“I want to hear this. I think this guy was at the Jordan Rossum iftar.”
And for the rest of the ride to The Temple, Sophie and I don’t speak. We just listen.
“A new bill,” says Tammy Adrian, who’s hosting the segment, “introduced this morning by Republican state representative Ian Holden, calls for a partial ban on head and facial coverings while participating in certain public activities—including driving a car. Imam Jackson, thanks for coming on Real Talk. Tell me, what could legislation like this mean for the Muslim community here in Georgia?”
“Thank you, Tammy, for having me on. I think we’re still absorbing the implications of a bill like this. But what we do know is this: this bill is unnecessary. It is based in fear. And it’s yet another attempt by Republican lawmakers to limit the freedom of Muslim citizens to participate in the full range of daily life in this state and in this country.”
“Proponents of the bill—like state senate candidate Asa Newton, who tried unsuccessfully to push through a bill like this when he was a congressman years ago—argue this is not about any particular faith—it’s a safety measure barring facial and head coverings for all people. How would you respond to that?”
“We can pretend this bill doesn’t target Muslims, but we all saw that the language of the proposed bill, which was published this morning, uses the pronoun she exclusively. This law is designed to impact women wearing facial and head coverings.”
“Holden’s spokesperson did issue a statement saying it was a typo and nothing more.”
“More like something they forgot to hide before the bill was released.”
“It does indeed raise some questions about its intent,” says Tammy. “And what listeners may not know is that H.B. 28 is actually modeled after an existing bill that was introduced in the 1950s to protect Georgians from the Ku Klux Klan. But Holden’s proposed bill broadens the restrictions so they now disproportionately affect Muslim women. Newton was unsuccessful in passing the bill in the nineties, but he’s hopeful it may gain momentum now due to our current political climate.”
Sophie’s voice is soft. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah.” I exhale. “Wow.”
“. . . seen a spike i
n hate crimes,” Imam Jackson is saying. “And what a bill like this does—it flips the narrative. The reality is, here in Georgia, Muslim women are the victims of hate crimes. But they are not the aggressors. And yet the result of a bill like this . . .”
“Jamie, you’re about to pass The Temple.”
“Oh.” I make an abrupt right turn.
“. . . Doyle is a pragmatic Republican governor, and he’s stated he intends to veto H.B. 28. So the passage of this bill will depend on whether the GOP can override Doyle’s veto with supermajorities in both the House and the Senate. Since the GOP recently flipped the Thirty-Fourth Senate District, they just need to keep the Fortieth District red to get their supermajority,” Tammy is saying. “This is the seat recently vacated by Republican John Graham, who was elected to the US House of Representatives in a special election this February. Democratic candidate Jordan Rossum has already released a statement condemning this bill as an affront to the dignity and religious freedom of the Muslim community here in Georgia.”
“He’s absolutely right,” Imam Jackson says. “And these are the conversations we need to be having. What do we mean when we say we honor religious liberty? Who are we picturing in our minds at that moment?”
“It raises the stakes immensely for the upcoming special election,” Tammy says.
I park in the side lot of The Temple, staring straight ahead through the windshield. “Maya’s mom wears hijab.”
Sophie’s still curled up in the passenger seat, clutching her Hebrew school tote bag. “Everything’s going to be fine. People aren’t going to vote for Newton. He’s so racist.”
I laugh humorlessly. “Right.”
Sophie hugs me before she leaves, which is unusual, but suddenly I’m barely thinking of Sophie at all. Still parked by The Temple, I tug my phone out of its car charger. Before I can talk myself out of it, I text Maya. Just heard about the bill. You okay?
She writes back immediately: Um. Not really.
And then, a moment later: Hey, are you doing anything right now? Maybe you could come over or something.
I’m so busy entering her address into my GPS, I almost forget to write back.
Yes No Maybe So Page 9
