Well. We’ll see if I’m brave enough.
I log into Grandma’s Instagram to sneak a peek at Maya’s profile. I really like her last picture—a selfie from yesterday near a buffet table, captioned Eid Mubarak. She just looks so goofy and cute with her lips pressed together and her eyes gazing upward. It’s weird, but I almost wish I could comment. And not as Grandma.
Maybe I should bite the bullet and get my own Instagram.
I tap into my camera app and flip it to selfie cam, studying my face. I look . . . okay. I think? My hair’s thankfully at that just-right semi-overgrown stage—note to self: avoid haircuts. And Mom and Grandma say my summer freckles are cute, so who knows?
I’m going to ask her. This doesn’t have to be a big deal. Not a Brianne Henke slowmance situation. Just a casual, friendly invitation.
So . . . any interest in going to cafe intermezzo after canvassing for the inaugural post-Eid chocolate cake?
Cool. We’re cool. Staying calm. Even though there are ellipses, which means Maya’s literally typing right this second. Probably just trying to think of the nicest way to say eww no, never. God. She’ll probably cancel Target and canvassing too, just to drive the message home. I bet—
Intermezzo sounds perfect!!
Wow. Okay, wow. She just—
But before I can fully process it, there’s Grandma. “Knock knock!”
I play it chill. Like a regular Jamie. As opposed to a Jamie who just successfully invited Maya to Café Intermezzo tonight. Not that it’s a date. But Café Intermezzo—I mean, it’s Café Intermezzo. That’s literally where my parents met. And, okay, my parents aren’t exactly relationship goals. But still. Café Intermezzo’s about as close to a date as a non-date can get.
Unless Maya thinks it’s a date?
Hahahahahahaha. Yeah right. Like that would even occur to Maya. Pretty sure Jamie and dating are two mutually exclusive concepts. To Maya and literally everyone else.
“Jamie? My goodness, you’re not still sleeping, are you?” Grandma says through the door. “It’s almost noon!”
“I’m up! Sorry. Come on in.”
She opens the door, peering at me from the doorway. “Aren’t you supposed to be canvassing today?”
“You’re going canvassing?” yells Sophie from the hallway, careening past her, into my room. “When?”
“Not until four. Picking up Maya at three, though—we’re going to Target first to grab some Goldfish. We’re doing a taste test.”
“Perfect.” Sophie clasps her hands. “Mom’s leaving work early today to finish the chalkboard sign, and she’s out of control. I’m texting her right now that I’m coming with you guys. Ha!”
I narrow my eyes. “Shouldn’t you be studying your Torah portion?”
“Nope!”
“Or something . . .”
“Nope! I’m all yours and Maya’s.”
“Lucky us,” I say, sighing. But Sophie just grins.
Of course, Sophie’s in full chatterbox mode, talking nonstop all the way to Target. And it’s even worse when we get there.
“You should have seen his face,” Sophie says as we make our way through the home decor. “He was trying so hard to pick them up, but they kept dropping. It was raining tangelos. Hold on, I think I have the Boomerang saved.”
“Can we not—”
“Oh, hey! Here’s the Snapchat filter that makes Jamie look like Rachel Maddow.”
“Sophie!”
“I thought you loved Rachel Maddow!” She shoots me a guilty sidelong glance. “Maya, he loves Rachel Maddow. He and Mom used to watch her show every single night, and like, take notes, and discuss it, and—”
“I’m going to go shrivel up and die now,” I say.
Maya laughs. “I think it’s cute!” She hugs me quickly, before veering off to look at a stuffed unicorn wall mount. “What is this supposed to be—a hunting trophy?”
Sophie gasps. “Who would hunt unicorns? I love unicorns!”
“She does,” I tell Maya. “A lot.”
“At least I know they’re not real.” Sophie pats my arm.
“Excuse me, Siberian unicorns were real,” I say. “They’re just extinct.”
Maya grins up at me. “Interesting.”
Sophie lets Maya drift a few feet ahead, and then leans toward me, beaming. “She’s totally flirting with you.”
“Shh!”
She pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry, I got this. Gonna go probe for info.” I watch as Sophie sidles up to Maya near the table lamps, gesturing slyly to a Ryan Gosling look-alike in a crisp button-down. “Ooh,” Sophie says, just loud enough for me to overhear. “He’s cute. Maya, what’s your type?”
Then Sophie—I could murder her—turns and winks at me over her shoulder.
Thank God Maya doesn’t notice. “No way,” she murmurs. “Too fancy. And why isn’t he wearing socks? Who wears shoes like that with no socks?”
Sophie laughs. “Right?”
Well well well. Looks like Ryan Gosling’s little brother should have thought harder about his footwear. You know who always wears socks? Jamie Goldberg. I’m just saying.
Sophie’s going in deeper now, probing for what kind of guys Maya does like, if she likes guys. I can’t tell if Maya’s flustered or amused. I guess it’s nice that Sophie’s trying, but if she really wanted to help, she could just . . . not be a third wheel.
Sophie’s like that, though. She’s always calling me out for being too innocent, or insisting that I should have a girlfriend. But I don’t think she actually cares about me having a girlfriend. She just wants to find me a girlfriend. She wants to captain the ship. And God forbid she miss a single moment of that doomed voyage.
By the time we swing by the campaign office, my brain’s entirely elsewhere. And during canvassing, I can barely remember my own name, much less Rossum’s platform and credentials. But Maya’s as sharp as ever, and even Sophie seems to have a surprisingly detailed grasp on the issues. Not going to lie. My sister amazes me sometimes.
But I still have to find a way to ditch her before Intermezzo. I mean, I don’t even want to mention Intermezzo out loud, because I know Maya will invite Sophie to join us. Either that, or Sophie will straight-up invite herself. And it’s Sophie—if I ask her to go home, she’ll be even more dead set on sticking around. So I can’t just give her a reason to leave. She has to think it’s her own idea.
I wait until Maya’s a few yards away, tucking a walk piece behind someone’s doorknob.
“Hey, Soph? I had a thought.”
“Is it about you having a crush on M—”
“Shh!” I glare at Sophie, cheeks burning. Maya’s coming up the driveway behind her. “It’s about the teen room,” I add quickly. “I thought of another angle you could try with Mom.”
Sophie eyes me. “I’m listening.”
“What if you agreed to have a chaperone?”
“That’s literally the opposite of the point.”
“Yeah, but what if you got to pick the chaperone,” I say quickly. “Someone really chill. How old is Andrea’s sister? Talia, right? Isn’t she a sophomore?”
Sophie nods slowly. “Talia never looks up from her phone. Ever.”
“You should see if Mom will pay her to come. Extra hands on deck, right?”
“Jamie, you’re . . . kind of a genius?”
“Why is Jamie a genius?” Maya asks. “I mean, no question, he is one.”
She pokes my arm—and my brain dissolves on the spot.
Genius. I mean, I can barely blink and breathe at the same time, but sure. “I’m not—”
“I need to talk to Mom,” Sophie interrupts. “Jamie, drive me home. And don’t take Roswell Road, it’s almost six. Maya, put our address in Waze.”
And just like that, I’m blinking and breathing and grinning my face off. All at once.
Maya spends the whole ride to Intermezzo gushing about chocolate cake—but the moment we step inside, she goes silent.
; The hostess leads us to our table, handing us menus. Maya plops into her seat, cupping her chin in one hand and staring vaguely at the dessert display.
I settle in across from her, trying to act as normal as possible. Which isn’t the easiest thing to do at Café Intermezzo. The room is softly candlelit, crowded with small round tables, each barely big enough for two people. Waiters and waitresses weave through tight quarters with mug-laden trays, and there’s a buzzy drone of quiet conversation all around us.
Maya’s still quiet.
I pause. “Everything okay?”
“Oh! Yeah.” She looks up, startled, smiling faintly. “Sorry. Zoned out.”
“You’re totally fine.”
“No, I’m just.” She makes a face I can’t quite decipher. “It’s weird. I’ve always come here with Sara.”
“Oh.” I hesitate. “Do you want to go—”
“No! Not at all,” Maya says quickly. “I’ll come back with her another time. It just made me realize how little I see her lately. It’s been really hard with her schedule. She’s so busy with work, and now she might be leaving early for UGA if she gets this job she applied for.” She pauses for a moment, staring at the candle in the center of our table. “I guess I feel like I’m being replaced?” she says finally. “Sara has this friend—her roommate, Jenna, and all summer, Sara’s been so focused on her. I mean, I barely see her anyway, but when I do, every other word out of her mouth is Jenna. And then yesterday—this is really embarrassing, but I was waiting all day for Sara to say Happy Eid, because she always does—she always remembers. But she never did, and then I checked Instagram, and—” Maya looks up at me suddenly, her expression abashed. “I’m so sorry, Jamie. You don’t need to listen to my stupid friend drama.”
“It’s not stupid. I’d be really upset if I were in your position. Maybe you should tell her how you feel.”
“Maybe. It’s so confusing. This is why I want to be a veterinarian. Animals are way less complicated.”
“It’s true. People suck. Who needs them?”
“Exactly.” She glances sideways and smiles a little. “But people watching is pretty fun. Especially here.”
I follow her gaze—a man and woman have just been seated at the next table over. Maya leans in conspiratorially.
“You realize basically everyone is having a first date here, right?” she whispers. “This is like Atlanta’s first date factory.”
“I know! My parents actually had their first date here. Not here. The Buckhead one.”
Maya’s eyes flare wide, for just a split second.
And I’m an idiot. Wow. I’m an absolute, next-level, record-shattering idiot. Who does this? Who brings a girl to his parents’ first date spot? And then tells her it was his parents’ first date spot?
“Right.” Maya bites her lip.
Lip biting. The universal gesture of freaked-out people who are trying not to hurt the feelings of the person who freaked them out. I mean, of course she’s freaked out. How could she not be? I basically just proposed marriage and offered to father her children. I stare at my hands, pulse quickening. I might as well—
“Can I ask you a question?” Maya asks.
“Um. Sure. Yes!”
She hesitates. “I was just wondering . . . you never really talk about your dad.”
“My dad?” I look up, startled.
“Or not. We don’t have to talk about it,” she says quickly.
“No, it’s fine.” My heartbeat slows back to normal. I meet her eyes, and she just looks curious.
Not freaked out.
I can’t believe she’s not freaked out.
“I don’t mind talking about him,” I say finally. “I just don’t talk to him that much. My parents divorced when I was six. You probably don’t remember my dad—he used to work a lot, even before he left. He lives in the Netherlands now. Sophie and I go out there for a few weeks every summer.”
“I didn’t know that. Are you seeing him this summer?”
I nod. “End of July. He’s not coming to the bat mitzvah. He says he’s saving vacation days so he can take off work when we’re out there.”
Maya looks stricken. “Wait, aren’t bat mitzvahs really important? He’s just not coming?”
“He didn’t come to mine either. He didn’t have a bar mitzvah as a kid, so I don’t think he sees it as a big deal.” I shrug. “He’s, like, super involved when we’re out there, though. He borrows bikes for us, and we go into town every day and eat at pancake restaurants. He knows everyone. He’s kind of like Sophie—he’ll talk to anyone. Mom says she always thought he’d run for office one day. She says he’s too charming. He’s like a politician without the politics.”
Maya laughs. “I can’t figure out if that’s a compliment.”
I smile a little. “I doubt she means it as one.”
Funny how I can know that, and still wish she’d say it about me. Too charming.
Maya’s smile falters. “But that must be hard, with him not coming home much.”
“I mean. Utrecht is his home.”
“God, this whole time, you’ve been listening to me whine about my dad moving five minutes up the road—”
“What? Maya, no—this stuff with your parents . . . it’s not trivial. You’re not whining.”
“I feel bad that I didn’t realize, though.” Her eyes look almost liquid in the candlelight. “Do you miss him?”
“Not really?” I blush. “That sounds awful. Sorry. No, I do . . . kind of. But it’s been over a decade, and I’m really used to it. I still see him every year, and we do Skype sometimes. I mean, I guess I feel weird about it every now and then, but I don’t miss him like I miss my grandpa.”
Maya reaches out, almost like she’s going to touch my hand—but suddenly, the waitress appears. “What can I get you two?”
I look at Maya. “The seven-layer, right?”
Maya turns to the waitress. “Can we get two slices of the seven-layer cake? And also, if you don’t mind bringing the check . . .”
“No prob.” Our waitress smiles like it’s nothing, but I have to admit, I’m thrown. We just ordered, and Maya’s asking for the check? She already has an exit strategy?
The waitress leaves, and Maya looks at me. “Sorry.” Her dimple flickers. “It’s just, they can be so slow here. Sara and I always ask for the check right away. And it’s more crowded than I expected for a Tuesday.” She eyes a hipster-looking man and woman seated at a high-top table near the wall.
“First daters.” I smile. “What do we think they’re talking about?”
Maya watches them for a moment, and then cups her chin in her hand again. “Okay, he’s like, seen any good movies lately? And she’s like, no.”
“Just—no?” I ask. “Nothing?”
“Nope. Look, she’s no bullshit. Look at how she’s sipping her drink.”
“Okay.” I nod slowly. “But now he’s leaning forward. He’s totally like, well, bucko—”
Maya laughs. “Bucko?”
I grin. “I don’t know.”
“Do you usually call girls you date Bucko?”
“I . . . don’t usually date. So.”
“Ah,” says Maya.
“I’m really cool, I know.”
“What? No, you are,” Maya says, looking up at me earnestly. “Not everyone has to date in high school. I haven’t.”
“You haven’t?”
“Well, I’m not—” She stops herself, mouth snapping shut. But then, a moment later, she shrugs. “I guess I don’t really see the point of it.”
“The point of dating?”
Maya nods. “It’s so messy and unpredictable in high school. I can’t tell you how many times my friend group at school has totally fractured because of a breakup. And there’s always a breakup.”
“I don’t know. My friend Felipe has been with his boyfriend almost a year, and they seem pretty happy.”
“I mean, there are exceptions. But let’s be realistic. Even adul
ts can’t keep their shit together half the time. What are the odds that some random high school couple will? And that’s assuming it’s even a mutual thing to begin with! I’ve seen friendships totally ruined just because one person has a crush on the other.”
“Oh.” My stomach drops. “Right.”
“No, seriously. You know Kevin, right? I’ve known him since middle school. We sat by each other in history class, and we even did a huge project together. He’s a really good guy—”
“Even though he’s a Republican?”
“Right?” Maya laughs. “Yeah, he’s a legit non-racist conservative. He just likes to talk about economic policy and stuff. It was cool hanging out with him. He’s really into video games, so he’d use all these gaming metaphors to explain stuff.”
“Well, of course! He knows you’re a gaming expert—”
“Excuse me.” She grins. “I’m actually amazing on assist mode.”
“Touché.”
“Anyway, the point is, we were actually becoming friends. But then he started liking Sara, and she didn’t like him back, and it’s been so painfully awkward for all of us. Sara kept darting into empty classrooms to avoid him for the rest of the school year.”
My mind is reeling. So Maya’s never dated anyone. I can hardly wrap my head around that. She’s so self-assured and funny and brave. And pretty. And I guess I kind of assumed she’d find my lack of experience to be this huge turnoff.
But now she’s saying she doesn’t see the point of dating, and I don’t even know how to interpret that. Is she getting . . . some sort of vibe from me? Maybe this is her way of rejecting me without actually rejecting me. Like the whole thing about unreciprocated crushes ruining friendships—is that supposed to be some kind of gentle heads-up? An emotional caution sign?
It occurs to me that it’s been an agonizingly long time since either of us has spoken.
Deep breath. “So . . . seen any good movies lately?”
“No.” Maya smiles. “Bucko.”
And just like that, the tension disappears. “Want to know a secret?” I ask. “I don’t even watch movies that much. They feel so short, because I’m so used to bingeing TV shows.”
Yes No Maybe So Page 15
