Yes No Maybe So

by Becky Albertalli

  It’s almost eleven by the time someone finally emerges from a door near Kristin’s desk. Another staffer, maybe? He’s a baby-faced white guy who looks like he walked straight off a yacht. He talks to Kristin for a moment, and Kristin gestures us over. “All right,” she says brightly. “Ms. Dickers is ready for you.”

  The guy staffer doesn’t introduce himself, but he leads us down a short hallway, into a small, windowless meeting room furnished with a table and chairs. “She’ll be right with you,” he says, shutting us in.

  “So now we wait again?” Maya groans.

  I open my bag, pulling out the notecards. “Maybe we should look over our talking points?”

  “You’re sure we’re allowed to bring notes?” Maya asks.

  “I mean.” I glance down at the cards, suddenly not so sure at all. “I think so? It’s not like an exam.”

  “It feels like an exam,” she mutters.

  The door swings open, revealing a woman in a blazer and a patterned neck scarf, carrying a short stack of papers. Ms. Dickers seems around my mom’s age, maybe a little older, and she’s actually super polished, but in a weirdly dated way, like an old headshot. “Jennifer Dickers,” she says, smiling brightly. She shakes each of our hands before settling in across from us. “Y’all look so young, my goodness. How can I help you?”

  Deep breath. “Thank you for meeting with us.” I sound so stiff and rehearsed. I’m already cringing. “I’m Jamie Goldberg, and this is Maya Rehman, and we’re here . . .” My voice starts to shake, but I swallow and start over. “We’re here to discuss—”

  She glances down at her papers. “I see you have concerns about H.B. 28.”

  “Yes.” Another deep breath. “Georgia H.B. 28, regarding the partial ban on face and head coverings.” I peek at my first notecard. “If it’s okay, I’m going to paraphrase Imam Jackson from the Brookhaven Community Mosque.”

  I sense Maya straightening beside me.

  Ms. Dickers looks amused. “You go right ahead.”

  I try to breathe through the tightness in my chest—I swear, it feels like I just ran up three flights of stairs. “Imam Jackson said that given the language of this bill, we can see its intention is to limit the freedom of Muslim citizens in daily life.”

  “Oh my.” Ms. Dickers clasps her hands. “Now that’s quite an assumption. H.B. 28 doesn’t mention anything about Muslims.”

  I nod quickly. “But it’s implied. And the pronouns used—”

  “I’m certainly not seeing how it’s implied. The purpose of H.B. 28 is actually to protect citizens as they participate in daily life.”

  Maya jumps in. “How would this bill protect citizens?”

  Ms. Dickers smiles. “Well, in fact, this law is based on an existing—”

  “We know, the KKK unmasking law,” Maya says impatiently. “But why would you expand the restrictions to include driving? And why does the bill’s language use female pronouns?”

  “Congressman Holden is a believer in revisiting legislation and making sure it maintains its relevance. At the time of the initial law, the KKK was a threat—”

  “They still are!” Maya lets out a blunt, disbelieving laugh. “Are you kidding me? The KKK literally endorsed Newton in the special election senate race.”

  Ms. Dickers raises her eyebrows. “Well, I haven’t heard anything about that. And I’m certainly not sure what this has to do with H.B. 28. But you can rest assured, Congressman Holden is an expert on issues related to security, and constituent safety is his utmost priority. In times of crisis, I’m sure all innocent citizens understand the need for more transparency to protect our communities.”

  “But what does that have to do with facial and head coverings?” I ask.

  “Well,” Ms. Dickers says, “given recent advances in weapon technology, it’s entirely conceivable that a would-be attacker could carry an explosive on his or her person that’s small enough to fit beneath a standard bandanna or face mask.”

  “But that’s not real,” I say. “That’s never happened.”

  “And I pray to God it never will,” says Ms. Dickers.

  “So you’re basing your policy on random far-fetched hypotheticals,” I blurt. I can feel Maya’s eyes landing on me in surprise.

  “Our policy is based on the best interests of our constituents,” says Ms. Dickers.

  “Not all your constituents,” Maya says. “Some of Holden’s constituents wear hijab! You know that, right?”

  “Of course, and Congressman Holden is proud to represent people from all faiths.”

  “If he supports banning hijab, he’s not representing my community!”

  “Oh my.” Ms. Dickers’s mouth curves upward at the corners. “It’s sweet of you to be so concerned, but I’m not sure how this affects you, precisely.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, I can’t help but notice you don’t wear hijab.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Maya grips the edge of the table. “You’re surprised I’m opposed to this? Because I don’t wear hijab? I don’t even—you realize whatever I wear or don’t wear is my business, but it still affects me—and my mom wears hijab and she—”

  “Oh, I see. Well, you’ll be thrilled to know that this bill is for her safety as well. These guidelines let our neighbors know women like your mom have nothing to hide. Our research shows that greater transparency leads to fewer religiously motivated attacks.”

  Maya inhales so sharply, I can almost feel it.

  “You’re blaming hate crimes on the victim!” I say, flushing. “Your logic implies that wearing a hijab—a religious garment—means you’re hiding something. Are you serious right now?”

  “Yessir, Congressman Holden and I are serious about protecting our constituents.”

  Maya’s eyes flash. “What do you think my mom is hiding under her hijab?”

  “I hear you,” Ms. Dickers says, smiling gently at Maya. “And it breaks my heart that a few bad apples make it necessary for us to take certain steps—”

  There’s an abrupt knock—which turns out to be the preppy guy staffer. “Pardon,” he says. “Ms. Dickers, your eleven fifteen is here.”

  “Already?” She smiles widely at me first, and then at Maya. “Well, time just flies, doesn’t it? Thank y’all so much for taking the time to stop by and share your concerns.”

  Maya shakes her head. “But—”

  “Blaine will walk you out to the waiting room. You two have a wonderful day, now!” She waggles her fingers, and then steps past Yacht Club Blaine, who lingers in the doorway, barely sparing us a glance. When I meet Maya’s eyes, she looks as bewildered as I feel. Thirty seconds ago, we were in the middle of a meeting. Now we’re being escorted out by a guy who looks like he was born inside a Brooks Brothers.

  “How’d it go?” Kristin asks cheerfully, but we barely acknowledge her. I just stumble out to the hallway behind Maya, my heart in overdrive. Maya turns to me, looking like she’s this close to bursting, but she doesn’t say a word until we’re in the elevator.

  Then she explodes. “What a monster. A few bad apples. She actually went there.” She combs her hands through her hair, almost aggressively. “And the way she was just smiling the whole time, totally calm. So evil!”

  “Yeah.” I blink. “I felt like I was losing my mind—”

  “Right! The gaslighting. And they just create their own totally warped reality. The bandanna thing. What?” Her hands fly to her temples. “She’s seriously trying to sell this like it has nothing to do with their raging Islamophobia!”

  “And then the victim-blaming—”

  “Oh my God, don’t get me started. She’s an awful person. Like, these are terrible people.” The doors open, and Maya practically jumps out of the elevator, like she can’t leave this place soon enough. “I mean, that sucked.” She meets my eyes. “But you. Jamie, wow.”

  I blush. “What?”

  “I was like, whoaaaa, Jamie. Call her out. You were amazing.
”

  “Amazing?” I gape at her.

  “Okay, so explain the supermajority thing. If Rossum wins, there’s no supermajority? And they need that to pass this bill? What even is a supermajority?”

  “It’s when one party has two-thirds or more of the seats,” I say. “Republicans have had that in the Georgia House for forever, and now Rossum’s our last hope to block it in the senate.”

  Amazing. I was amazing. Is she serious?

  “And they need a supermajority to pass H.B. 28?” Maya asks.

  “Yes, because Governor Doyle says he’ll veto it—”

  Maya’s face whips toward me. “Wait, really? He’s a Republican.”

  “I think he basically doesn’t want to piss off the film industry, you know? He mostly cares about the optics. But yeah, the thing with the supermajority is that a Republican supermajority in both houses can—”

  “Override a veto,” Maya says. “Got it.” She stares glumly out toward the parking lot. “We really need Rossum to win, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “We do.”

  There’s nothing sadder than coming back down to earth after you shoot your shot and fail. Even the backtrack through the parking lot makes me ache. We’ve barely spent an hour here, so we’re walking by the same parked cars we passed on our way in. But the whole world feels like it’s gone gray since then. We came in so hopeful. It’s strange to even realize that, because at the time, I mostly felt terrified. But I think some tiny part of me thought this meeting could make a real difference. Maybe we’d say the perfect thing. Maybe hearing it from us in person would make Dickers see things differently. And then she’d convince Holden to strike the bill, and he’d issue a public apology, and then we’d end up on Upworthy or one of those inspirational videos Mom’s always sending me from her suburban resistance Facebook groups.

  Now I just feel depleted.

  When we reach Alfie, I don’t even notice the bumper at first. Not until I hear Maya’s soft gasp. “No.” She grabs my arm. “Jamie.”

  My eyes track down to the bottom right bumper, normally home to a circular blue Rossum logo. Mom’s actually the one who talked Gabe into doing car magnets instead of just bumper stickers, so local Dems could flip each other’s magnets upside down in parking lots. “It’s a wink wink, I see you,” she’d insisted. “It shows solidarity.” And I have to admit, I’d get a tiny thrill every time we’d step out of Publix or Target to find our magnet flipped. It felt like an underground high five. Like we were part of something secret and important.

  But now. Even with the midday sun glinting off Alfie’s rear, it’s plainly visible.

  The magnet’s gone.

  And in its place is a sticker of a crudely illustrated, stark white, smiling poodle, with humanoid fingers making the alt-right “okay” sign. It’s holding a white teacup too, branded with the number 88. I’ve seen this image hundreds of times on computer and phone screens, in countless variations—Fifi with the word cuck in a speech bubble, Fifi in a MAGA hat, Fifi transposed over a photo of Auschwitz.

  But seeing it in real life is different. On a car. On my car.

  Suddenly, all I can hear is Dickers’s voice saying religiously motivated attacks.

  But whoever did this probably doesn’t know I’m Jewish. And anyway, no one’s really anti-Semitic around here.

  Right?

  I glance quickly around the parking lot, a sudden chill coursing through me. What if whoever did this is still here? What if they’re watching us right now?

  “Jamie?” Maya says tentatively. I look back at her with a start. “You okay?”

  I nod.

  “You’re not saying anything.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m just worried,” she says. And then she hugs me, sending my heart leaping into my throat. So I hug her back, pulling her closer.

  “Whatever troll did this,” she murmurs into my shoulder, “can go fuck himself.”

  “Fuck him,” I say, the word heavy and strange on my tongue.

  “There you go,” Maya says, hugging me harder.

  Chapter Twelve

  Maya

  It’s not that I didn’t think Jamie could get mad. I’ve just never witnessed it before.

  Irritated—maybe.

  Frustrated—sure.

  Terrified squirrel? On a daily basis.

  But this—his cheeks flushed, jaw clenched, kneeling in front of Alfie’s bumper, scraping at the sticker with a flimsy plastic knife he dug out of the car? This is new.

  The air is muggy, the humidity so thick you can almost taste it. Dark clouds hang heavy and low. It’s comforting when the outside world reflects how you feel on the inside.

  “Any luck?” I ask him.

  “Kevin was right. These stickers are impossible to remove.”

  I dig around in my bag. There’s an old mint, a Sharpie, a few coins, and a nail file.

  “This might work?” I kneel next to him with the file. “It might scratch up the bumper, though.”

  “I don’t care. I want this off.”

  The nail file adds a few marks on Alfie, but the sticker won’t budge. The poodle eyes us like she knew we’d never get her off but it was amusing to watch us try. I glance at all the office windows surrounding us. The dog is a meme. But whoever did this is real. Are they watching right now? A shiver runs through me.

  “Let’s go get some Goo Gone,” I tell him. “We used that when my baby cousin made a sticker collage on our kitchen window. I’ll Sharpie over it for now.”

  “It won’t work. It’s one of those glossy stickers.”

  He’s right; the black ink I’ve colored on it is already smearing from the humidity.

  “Maybe it’ll hold on long enough to pull out of the parking lot. If that jerk is watching us, they won’t get the satisfaction of seeing us drive off with it visible.”

  “Good point,” Jamie says grimly.

  We get in the car. I can’t believe this day. I knew Dickers wouldn’t agree with us. It’s not like I thought she’d hear our arguments and slap a hand to her forehead and exclaim, “I work for a racist bigot and I’m quitting to join the Peace Corps” or anything. But the gaslighting was awful—how she used our words against us and smiled like she does this every day for sport. Which, maybe she does. And now, this.

  “How you doing?” I ask Jamie.

  “The meme looked obnoxious online,” he says. “But seeing it on my car . . .”

  “It felt like an attack?”

  “Exactly. Were they watching us when we parked? Was it . . . was it aimed at me?”

  “They’re doing it to anyone with Rossum stickers,” I tell him. “But I get why it feels aimed at you. I mean . . . it kind of was . . .” I trail off. Wow, way to make him feel better, Maya. Yep, it was in fact personal against you and who you are. But Jamie glances at me and nods, his jaw a little less clenched.

  “You think someone on Holden’s staff did it? We were in their parking lot.”

  “Maybe Kristin? That smiley routine has to be an act. Look who she works for.”

  “It’s probably a team of people,” Jamie says. “And using a dog for your racist mascot? How low is that? Why not use a cat? It makes no sense.”

  “Wait. Why a cat?”

  “I just meant dogs are the symbol of unconditional love. Cats are a little more standoffish and aloof.”

  “They aren’t aloof! They have standards!”

  He glances at me sheepishly.

  “You have a cat, don’t you?”

  “Willow is definitively selective.” I nod. “But she’d claw the face off any garbage racist in two seconds flat.”

  “Sounds like she’d get along with Boomer. He’s as fierce as a squeaky toy, but if anyone looks at Grandma sideways, he’ll make them pee their pants in two seconds flat.”

  “I think I’d like Boomer.”

  “You really would.” And for the first time today, Jamie smiles.

  We pick up
the Goo Gone and get in the car just as a light rain begins to drizzle down. Jamie’s looking out the window, lost in his thoughts. Again. I’m pretty sure I prefer angry Jamie to this downcast Jamie I see right now. I shift in my seat. He always knows what to say or do to make me feel better. I wish I could figure out how to do the same for him.

  “You know what we should do?” I say. “We should go canvassing.”

  “In the rain?” He glances at me. “Plus, it’s the middle of the day.”

  “It’s just a drizzle. Maybe they have open slots in a retirement community or something? This is how we stick it to them, isn’t it? Dickers? The Fifi troll? We hand Newton and Holden their asses.”

  “Yeah!” His expression shifts. “You know what? That’s exactly what we should do.” He turns on his blinker and pulls into a shopping plaza. “I’ll text Gabe to see if there are any slots.”

  When he picks up the phone, his expression drops.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Surprise, surprise.” He leans against the driver’s seat. “I’m urgently needed to assist with bat mitzvah planning—or more like bat mitzvah chauffeuring and delivering. Apparently, Mom ran out of sticky notes while mapping out the seating arrangements for the fiftieth time. Oh, and washi tape. There’s always some sort of washi tape crisis going on. I need to get some before I come home, because otherwise the world might literally end.” He sighs. “Do you mind a quick trip to stock up?”

  “Not at all. Whose bat mitzvah?”

  “My sister, Sophie’s. My mom talks about it from the time we wake up until we go to bed. It’s like this bat mitzvah is the most important thing to happen in the history of the planet. And.” His cheeks flush. “She wants me to do a toast! A toast! I don’t do toasts! I don’t do public speaking. I mean, has she met me?”

  “You’ll be fantastic,” I tell him. “You’re so great at canvassing. You have the whole script memorized.”

  “That’s different . . . we’re just stating facts about the candidate that someone else wrote for us. For this toast, I have to be funny and interesting and say the exact right thing to a crowd of over a hundred people. And when am I supposed to actually have time to think and work on this speech? My house is Rossum is awesome rah-rah-rah and bat mitzvah brouhaha all the time, and Sophie talking over my mom, and my mom talking over my grandma, and Boomer throwing in his two cents whenever he can get a word in? It’s utter chaos.”