“A noisy house sounds nice,” I tell him. “My house is pin-drop silent lately. Not that it was ever a carnival, but since the trial separation, it’s eerily quiet. It wouldn’t bother me as much if Sara was around, but she’s busy lately. And I’m pretty sure my parents won’t be cool with me racking up hundreds of dollars taking rideshares around anywhere I want. It can be really isolating, I guess.”
“I’m always happy to give you a ride,” he says. “It doesn’t just have to be for canvassing.”
“Thanks.” I smile at him.
“The secret to getting a car is you don’t try to get them to buy you one, you convince them to get a new car. Point out every single ding super casually, like ‘oh, that scratch on the fender isn’t too obvious’ until they can’t unsee it, and then they’ll buy one for themselves and give you their old one.”
“Good advice.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
A car.
I almost forgot that’s what the canvassing was all about. Don’t get me wrong, a car will be amazing, but what we’re doing now—it’s about more than just that.
The truth is, a car is the furthest thing from my mind.
Chapter Thirteen
Jamie
“Hi, sweetie,” Mom says when I walk through the door. She and Grandma are sitting side by side at the kitchen table, staring at their laptops, while Gabe hovers behind them, iced coffee in hand. I guess that means we’re working on campaign stuff, not bat mitzvah stuff. Everything’s so chaotic, I swear I can’t even tell these days.
Boomer runs up to greet me, teeth clenched proudly around his favorite stuffed mallard duck, Mr. Droolsworth.
“Hey.” I pat his head, swallowing. “So, something—”
But Gabe cuts me off, pointing fiercely at Grandma’s screen. “Okay, that. That’s what pisses me off. I don’t know what it will take to get through to these people. Oh, it’s just a special election! It’s just the state senate! I can sit this one out! Well, you know who’s not sitting this one out?” He throws his palms up. “Republicans. Those mofos show up every goddamn time.”
Grandma frowns at the screen. “This doesn’t help. Did you read the memo from the secretary of state’s office? Van Kamp’s removing four polling places in DeKalb County, and he’s canceling early in-person voting.”
I blink. “He can do that?”
“Apparently,” says Grandma. “Which means—”
Gabe slams his hand down on the table so hard, Boomer drops his mallard with a start. “Which means Dems need to step it up! The problem is, no one’s excited about this race. It’s not glamorous, it’s not sexy.”
“Well, the supermajority issue is complicated,” says Grandma.
“Exactly!” Gabe exclaims. “How many people understand supermajorities? Where are the soundbites from that? Do we do a local celebrity video? I don’t know! Dallas Austin, Ludacris—no one’s replying to my DMs. How do we convince people there’s something at stake?”
“H.B. 28 is at stake!” It comes out louder than I mean it to. I blush, lowering my voice. “Is the campaign going to talk about that?”
“Sure,” Gabe says, “but that doesn’t affect most people. I don’t even think people are necessarily following the story. It’s just not a crisp narrative, so it’s tricky to use that.”
“Use it?” My jaw drops. I picture Alina at the campaign iftar in her patterned hijab and dark jeans. I know Gabe doesn’t mean to sound so flippant. He’s just talking about how to get voters invested. But it feels like Gabe sees Maya’s mom as someone he could potentially hold up for sympathy. Or worse, like he’s glancing at her, shrugging, and saying, Meh. Not important enough.
“Jamie, my man. It’s all about the narrative. You know that.”
Mom looks up, suddenly, from her laptop. “Jamie, did you get the sticky notes?”
“Yup. And the washi tape.” I hand her the bag, settling into the chair beside her. Boomer reclaims Mr. Droolsworth and zips under the table to sink his head in my lap—I scratch his ears, glancing back up at Mom. “So. Um. Something happened today—”
“Oh!” Gabe sets his coffee down. “Big J, we need to talk about yard signs.”
I shake my head. “Okay, but—”
“No buts, Big J. We gotta pull together here, okay?” He pats my shoulder. “All hands on deck.”
Grandma smiles up at me. “You look nice, bubalah. Was it a special occasion?”
I peer down at Boomer, who sets his mallard gently onto my lap. “Um—”
“Boom, don’t you dare put Mr. Droolsworth on Jamie’s date pants,” scolds Grandma.
I freeze. “Date pants?”
Mom looks up from her laptop for real this time, clasping her hands. “You had a date? Oh, wow! With Maya?”
“No!” My head feels like it’s spinning. “No, I had . . . a meeting.”
“A meeting?” says Grandma.
I nod slowly, eyes glued to my hands. “Uh. Maya and I met with Congressman Holden’s legislative director. About H.B. 28.”
Everyone falls silent—and when I look up, they’re all staring at me. Mom, Grandma, Gabe, even Boomer.
Mom’s the first to speak. “You two just went in for a policy meeting?”
“Well, we scheduled it first.”
“No, I figured.” Mom smiles slightly.
I narrow my eyes. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”
“Sweetheart, we’re impressed,” says Grandma.
“Really impressed.” Mom tilts her head. “How did it go?”
Suddenly, it feels like I’m under a spotlight—but not in a bad way. Which is wild. I honestly didn’t know under-a-spotlight could ever feel good, or even okay. At least for me. Maybe this is what it’s like to be a congressman. Or Sophie. I can’t imagine ever basking in attention the way she does, but I have to admit, the way everyone’s looking at me right now doesn’t exactly suck. Just like it didn’t suck when Maya called me amazing.
But you. Jamie, wow.
I sit up straighter. “It wasn’t great.” And just like that, the whole story tumbles out. Kristin’s disarming kindness in the waiting room. The way Dickers almost chuckled when I asked to quote Imam Jackson. Her sugary-sweet accent, and the way she twisted everything we said to sound almost—almost—reasonable. Safety. Transparency. It was the weirdest split-brain sort of feeling. In one moment, the racism seemed so viscerally obvious. But a moment later, I’d feel like I was going crazy for even thinking that.
“Yeah. They always do that,” Mom says, frowning.
“It was so frustrating.” I exhale. “I don’t get why she even took our meeting. Why do they bother taking meetings at all?”
“Because that’s how democracy works,” Mom says. “They’re elected to represent us, and they have a responsibility to listen to our feedback.”
I laugh humorlessly. “Dickers definitely wasn’t listening.”
“Maybe not. Sometimes they don’t, which is so frustrating, I know.” Mom reaches out to ruffle my hair. “But the fact that you tried. You showed up—Jamie, that’s incredible.”
My cheeks flush. “Thanks. It just feels pointless.”
“I promise it’s not pointless. Maybe you planted a seed. Who knows? And even if not, it’s the fight that’s important. I’m so proud of you and Maya.” Mom smiles. “Try not to be too discouraged.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug. “Kind of hard not to be discouraged when we walked out of the meeting and found my car had been Fifi’d.”
Gabe sits up straighter.
“Fifi’d?” Mom purses her lips.
“The poodle meme.”
“Sounds kind of familiar . . .”
“It’s on the internet,” says Grandma. “Those alt-right Nazi dingbats use it to intimidate Jewish journalists on Twitter. But someone’s been stickering cars around here too. I’m sure you’ve seen it. I’ll pull up a Google image.”
I sigh. “Or just look at Alfie’s bumper. It won’t come off. We tried
to cover it in Sharpie, but you can still see it. Hopefully the Goo Gone will help.”
Mom stares at me, wide-eyed. “Someone targeted you? A Nazi?”
Grandma squeezes my hand. “It’s been happening quite a bit.”
“Oh yeah,” Gabe says brightly. “It’s all over the district. They’re going after Rossum supporters, anyone with a magnet or bumper sticker. Big J, we gotta get a photo of you with that sticker.”
“With me?” I look at him. “Why?”
“Because we’re not going to take this sitting down.” Gabe’s cheeks flush. “Gram, get this down. Local Nazis Vandalize Car of Rossum Assistant Campaign Manager’s Seventeen-Year-Old Cousin.” He punches the air. “We’re gonna go viral with this.”
My stomach sinks. “You want me to go viral?”
“Hell yes!” Gabe says. “This is exactly the narrative we need to wake up all those Dems who were planning to sit this election out.”
I stare down at Boomer’s head. “Okay . . . you don’t need to interview me or anything, right?”
“Absolutely not,” Mom says loudly. “Gabe, you can’t attach Jamie’s name to this.”
“How about something anonymous,” Grandma suggests, “like Local Nazi Vandalizes Teenager’s Car.”
“No!” Gabe says. “No, you’re missing the point. The fact that he’s my cousin—that’s the game changer. That’s what makes it personal. Like the Rossum campaign is under attack. What? Oh no! How do we stop the bad guys? Guess we should donate! Guess we should VOTE!”
Mom stands abruptly. “So you’re just going to put your Jewish cousin out there as a target for these Nazi monsters? Jamie Goldberg? You think the name Goldberg isn’t going to attract their attention?”
“You don’t get it. The local guy is just going after Rossum supporters.” Gabe shakes his head. “It’s not a Jew thing.”
“Your grandmother just said Fifi is used to target Jewish journalists—”
“On Twitter!” Gabe says. “Jamie doesn’t even have a Twitter.”
“Well, now we know there’s a Nazi prowling around Sandy Springs. At least one, who knows how many! I don’t want Jamie’s name out there.”
“But the narrative—”
“Screw your narrative!” Mom smacks her hands down on the chair back.
“Okay, let’s all calm down and think about this rationally—”
Grandma raises her eyebrows at Gabe. “Bubalah, should we try dialing back the condescension?”
He glances down at her sheepishly. “I just want to make sure we’re considering all the angles here.”
Mom shakes her head firmly. “You are not putting my Jewish son’s name on the internet in this capacity. You’re not going to make your cousin a target for Nazis. That’s final.”
“Hello! I’m Jewish too!” He turns to Grandma. “Don’t you think—”
“She’s right,” Grandma says.
“Oh, come on—”
“Lovey, listen to what your aunt is saying. We have to step back for a moment and realize our experience may be a little different here. You, me, your aunt Lauren—we walk through the world with the last name Miller, and people don’t automatically associate that with being—”
“Jewish. I get it! But look, I’m putting myself out there too,” Gabe says. “I’m saying Jamie’s my cousin. You want me to be clear in the post that I’m Jewish? No problem.”
“I’m just saying we owe it to Jamie to hear his perspective.”
My perspective. I don’t have a perspective. How could I? I’ve never felt threatened because of my last name. Never. I mean, yeah, everyone’s always known I’m Jewish. It’s the first thing people know about me when they hear my name. But no one’s ever made that seem dangerous.
Except . . . maybe the danger’s been there the whole time, like a sleeping Voldemort everyone knew to be on quiet alert for.
Everyone but me.
Or maybe a part of me knew. Not intellectually, not a kind of knowing I could put into words. But there’s this nervous prickle I get reading certain news articles. Or when I saw Fifi smiling up from Alfie’s bumper. It’s not so much like someone pulling the floor out from under you. More like someone tugging the floor sideways, just a little. Just to remind you they can. But how do I even compare that to what Maya must feel? Pretty sure Maya hasn’t had a solid floor to stand on for years. I think a lot of people haven’t.
I mean, in the face of something like H.B. 28, does a symbolic cartoon poodle even matter?
“We’re not doing the perspective dance,” Mom says, rounding on Gabe. “I’m Jamie’s mom, and I say it’s not happening. It’s a done deal.”
Gabe sputters. “Well, excuse me for trying to give the Dems a reason to give a shit about this random local election in the middle of July.” Gabe glares back and forth at them. “If I can’t even make my own family care—”
“I care,” I say quietly.
“So what? You can’t even vote.”
I want to scream. I’ve been canvassing. I’ve addressed postcards. I’ve gone to campaign events and run errands and I woke up early to plead with a racist in a neck scarf.
I do care. Kind of a lot.
And I wish—for the eleventy billionth time—that I were a mic-drop kind of person. The kind of person who harnesses words and stacks them together. Someone like Rossum. Maybe Gabe would listen to me then. I’d make him listen. I’d make everyone listen.
But then something inside me deflates. I rub my forehead, peering up at Gabe. “I can do yard signs, okay?”
“Okay, sweet,” he says, perking up. “We’ll get you hooked up tomorrow morning.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be like a million degrees tomorrow?”
“So wear sunscreen,” says Gabe. “We really can’t go another day. Newton’s got the whole district postered. We gotta step up. You got it under control?”
“I—”
“You care about Rossum winning, right?”
“Of course I—”
“Great. I’ll text Hannah and Alison—they’ll have the signs ready for you to pick up by eight thirty. And before I forget, let me snap a quick pic of Fifi on your car.”
Mom’s jaw drops. “Excuse me? We agreed—”
“No names mentioned. Just hanging on to it in case we can fold it into some kind of narrative later.” Gabe grins. “It’s bound to happen to someone else soon, right?”
Grandma and Mom exchange glances, and even Boomer sighs.
Chapter Fourteen
Maya
It’s still dark out as I finish up my cereal and OJ.
My dad, aka Mr. Morning Person, is all about making an elaborate suhoor spread to start off a full day of fasting. He always woke up an hour before my mom and me to make coffee, whip up omelets, fry turkey bacon, and chop up fruit.
But he’s not here. My mother is nursing a microwaved cup of tea and moving some leftovers around her plate, and I’m looking down at some soggy Cheerios.
I used to get annoyed with my dad’s nonstop chatter so early in the morning. It should be illegal to have spoken conversation before the sun is up—but now that he’s not here, I’d give literally anything for a 4:00 a.m. rundown of our weekend plans.
“Are you really canvassing again today, on a weekday?” my mother asks. “I thought I misread the Google calendar this morning.”
“We were,” I tell her. “But Gabe needs us to put up signs and posters around town.”
“I’m impressed. You’re going above and beyond.” She pauses. “And is there anything we need to talk about?”
“Like what?”
“Jamie and you . . . the two of you have become close, haven’t you?”
I look up at her. She’s looking at me meaningfully.
“Yeah, we’re close.” I roll my eyes. “And how close am I to a car now?”
“After the special election, we’ll talk about it,” my mother promises. “By the way, we still have ten minutes until suhoor ends.” My mother g
lances at the oven clock. “Sure you don’t want a little of my chai? I made too much.”
“No caffeine. I’m crashing as soon as I finish praying.”
“I miss those days.” My mother takes a sip of tea. “But starting my day now means I can get done sooner and come home early to nap.”
“Except you never do,” I tell her.
“This case is eating up way more time than I thought.” She sighs. “But it’ll calm down after the trial.”
“Imam Jackson hasn’t announced if Eid is Sunday or Monday. You’ll take time off if it’s Monday, right?”
“It’s been so cloudy lately, I doubt they’ll see the moon to call Eid earlier. I’m betting Monday. I’ll take off either way, but I hope it falls on Sunday.”
“How’s Eid going to work?” I swallow. “You know, with Dad . . .”
“We’re both going to the masjid for Eid prayers,” my mother says. “You’ll go with whoever you stayed with the night before, and we’ll all be there for the potluck brunch. Maybe you and I could go out for manicures after, and then you and your dad could get dinner in the evening?”
“With Ramadan ending soon . . . what’s the status of the separation?” I ask her.
“We’re working on it.”
“But you had a chance to focus and reflect, didn’t you?”
“Maya, it’s not that simple.”
“It’s not that complicated either.” I stare at her. “How can you just have no timeline?”
“Because things like this aren’t neat and organized.” She looks at me. “I wish I could give you an idea of what exactly to expect. But some things, you just have to walk through to know where they will lead.”
“But what happened?” I burst out. “How can you undo everything and not even tell me why?”
“Honey, there’s no big secret. You were there. You know. You heard the fighting. . . .”
“You and I fight all the time,” I tell her. “Fighting means you stop being a family?”
Yes No Maybe So Page 12
