Yes No Maybe So

by Becky Albertalli

  Maya laughs. “Yes! I’m rewatching The Office now—”

  “Wait, seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously.”

  I just stare at her for a moment. “That is my favorite show.”

  “Mine too!”

  “What’s your favorite season?” I ask.

  “Duh,” she says, “season two. All that Jim and Pam sexual tension.”

  I smile. “Jim and Pam are the best.”

  “They’re OTP,” Maya says. “They’re so cute and oblivious, and season two is so great, because Pam is so in love, and she doesn’t even realize it. I love them so much.”

  “Me too.” I grin back.

  “All right!” says our waitress. “Two slices of our seven-layer chocolate cake. And the check.” I blink up at her, startled.

  “Ooh, thank you!” Maya says.

  “No problem, sweetie. And I just have to say . . .” She looks from Maya to me, and back to Maya. “You two are the cutest couple, I swear. I’m so used to awkward first dates here. It’s nice to see the real deal.”

  Maya’s eyebrows shoot up.

  I shove a bite of cake in my mouth so quickly, I almost choke.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Maya

  I don’t normally buy into miracles, but sign me up as a true believer now.

  Because Sara is not working today.

  I tie my hair up into a messy bun and glance at the phone again.

  Hen’s mom just canceled. No babysitting today! Pick you up at 1?

  It’s 12:30 and she hasn’t followed up to cancel or postpone. Like I said, a genuine miracle.

  My phone buzzes.

  Jamie: I think I ate my entire lifetime supply of chocolate cake yesterday.

  Maya: Aw, bummer. I was hoping we could go for seconds today.

  Three dots blink and then—

  Jamie: I was totally kidding. I’m hanging with my friends at my place, but we can go after?

  Maya: Can’t Meeting up with Sara

  Jamie: Whoa. So it’s happening. The talk?

  Maya: I think so?

  Jamie: You got this, Maya!

  I press thumbs-up to his text and put the phone in my pocket. I’ll talk to Sara. I will. But right now, I don’t feel the tiniest bit upset. I’m just relieved to have a moment to hang out with her. To talk about our lives and fill her in on what’s been happening with my parents and canvassing. Everything. Suddenly, I feel a rush of missing her so much it makes me ache.

  I slip on my sandals in the foyer. Glancing up, my eyes land on my parents’ framed wedding photo on the wall. It’s been up there so long, I never notice it—but today it catches my eye. It’s not a normal wedding photo with the couple posed like royalty wearing clichéd smiles. They’re in front of a wedding cake. My mother is wearing a velvety red outfit with a gold tikka on her forehead. My dad’s wearing a cream sherwani kurta with a matching turban on his head. They do look like royalty, but my mom has icing on her nose and chin, and my dad looks like someone slammed a meringue pie in his face. My mother’s bent slightly at the waist, her hands on her hips, and even though it’s a picture—you can almost see her shaking from laughter. My father looks down at her with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.

  The front door jangles and parts open. My mother steps inside and kicks her shoes off. She glances at me and startles.

  “Hey, you.” She leans over and kisses my cheek. “Heading out?”

  “Yep. Home early?”

  “Quick detour to pick up my laptop,” she says. “Are you and Jamie going somewhere?”

  “Sara’s picking me up. We’re going to get a bite to eat and hang out.”

  “About time!” My mother smiles.

  “Why this picture?” I blurt out. She looks confused, and then follows where I’m pointing to their photo on the wall.

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “I was putting my shoes on, and I guess it hit me how random that photo is. Most people put up formal wedding shots, and you guys put the most ridiculous possible one on the wall. . . .” My voice trails off, and I glance at my mother. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about that right now, I guess . . .”

  “I forgot that photo was up there.”

  I wonder if she’ll reach over and yank it down. But she doesn’t. She’s looking at it quietly.

  “I’m not an extrovert,” my mother finally says. “And between the guest list for both sides, we had over five hundred attendees. You know the term stage fright? Your father and I were seated on a stage, and I panicked and completely froze. Your dad said he knew how to help me get comfortable and asked me if I would trust him. At the cake cutting time, your father took a piece of cake and smooshed my bite on my nose. And, well, my defense mechanisms kicked in, and I smashed a whole slice in his face.” She shook her head. “We couldn’t stop laughing. Your grandparents were mortified.”

  “And you put that photo on the wall.”

  “We have a ton of stuffy wedding photos.” She smiles a little. “But this one was my favorite. The unscripted part of the wedding, just about us. It made me the happiest.”

  “You guys met in college, right?”

  “My sophomore year. His freshman year.” She nods. “He asked if he could study at my table because the tables were all full at the library.”

  “Likely story.”

  “It worked.” She smiles.

  “So, it was love at first sight?”

  “No.” She wrinkles her nose. “You know your dad, he’s such a chatterbox. But we were friends for a long time.”

  “When did things change?”

  “I’m not sure. It wasn’t one moment in particular. A movie here, a meal there . . . and then before you know it . . .”

  She’s talking about my dad and smiling wistfully. This was the thread I needed to follow—trailing back to their past, to help them remember how it all began. To realize they can get back there again.

  “What kind of restaurants did you like to go to on your dates?” Even if they don’t have the exact same restaurant in Atlanta, I could figure out something equivalent and come up with a way to get them there—so they can stop “reflecting” and finally talk.

  “We didn’t really date. We hung out.”

  “Hanging out is dating, Mom.”

  “Most of the time we went out with friends.”

  “Group dating.”

  “I guess you could call it that,” she says reluctantly. “I didn’t see it that way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we were keeping it halal.” She eyes me. “You know, Maya, intimacy is for after marriage.”

  “TMI!” I fling my hands up. “I was just asking what your favorite restaurant was.”

  “I’m only saying,” she presses. “Kissing and all the rest—those are sacred moments between a husband and wife. And since we’re on the topic. It’s one thing to date just to date, and another to pursue a relationship because you’re seriously thinking of marriage.”

  I’ve heard this refrain since middle school. I get what she’s saying, but . . .

  “So, you have to want to marry the person in order to date?” I ask. “That’s a lot of pressure when you’re just getting to know the person.”

  “It’s not that you have to marry them, but you should be thinking along those lines.” She hesitates. “And that’s why I’ve told you it’s not a good idea to get into a relationship with anyone until you’re in college. There’s too much going on in high school to add one more thing to your plate.”

  “Isn’t there plenty on people’s plates in college too?”

  She studies me for a second.

  “Are you thinking about dating?”

  “Me?” I stare at her.

  She looks at me expectantly.

  “How did this become about me? I was asking about your favorite restaurants to see if maybe you and Dad might want to have a talk at some point. Maybe go out for dinner—just to connect? You’ve been focusing and
reflecting for weeks. A talk might be nice.”

  Way to show all your cards, Maya. I sigh.

  “Oh, honey,” she says. “We are talking.”

  “I never see you talk.”

  “We talk every week, during our therapy sessions.”

  Therapy sessions?

  “And we meet with Imam Jackson weekly too. I hate that our issues have to affect you like this. We both hate it. So much.”

  They are talking.

  All this time, they’ve been talking.

  And my dad still bought a bed.

  Settling down on the front steps to wait for Sara, I click on Instagram. The first picture in my feed is InstaGramm. Jamie’s in this photo. It’s the first time I’ve seen him on her feed. They’re taking a selfie in front of a Rossum yard sign. The caption reads: Behind every grandmother is a wonderful grandson. Meet the man behind the scenes—the Stories expert and filterer extraordinaire: Jamie. And look at those cheeks. Isn’t he cute?

  I laugh. There’s no denying Jamie is cute, but he’s not toddler cute. The way his hair frames his forehead, his easy smile—you can’t deny the guy is objectively good-looking. And the way the green of Jamie’s eyes shifts depending on the day or the light or what he’s wearing . . . Yesterday, under the glow of the dim lights at Intermezzo, they looked touched with a hint of honey. I smile a little. Last night was perfect.

  But all my good feelings vanish when I see the next photo.

  It’s a selfie. Of Sara and Jenna. They’re holding mugs with rainbow straws. The caption reads: It’s official—rainbows do make everything better.

  This isn’t a repost. This isn’t a throwback. The time stamp is yesterday. The geotag is Brookhaven. Three miles from my house.

  Sara honks.

  Numb, I get in the car.

  “Hey, Maya.” She grins at me. “Intermezzo for some cake?”

  “I went there yesterday,” I manage to say.

  “Well, I’m kind of hungry for real food anyway. How about Mellow Mushroom? For old times’ sake?”

  “Okay.”

  She doesn’t stop talking all the way to the restaurant. About how complicated it is to organize the things she’s buying. How her mom wants to repurpose Sara’s bedroom once she’s gone so it can double as a sewing studio. Lucas trying to get out of every shift, using his arm as an excuse.

  Old Sara would have noticed I haven’t said anything in response. Old Sara would know something was wrong. But this isn’t that Sara anymore.

  Except for some men sitting at the bar watching ESPN pundits on television, the restaurant is empty. Sara gives the waitress our usual order of pizza with olives and a side of cheesy bread. This is a vintage Maya and Sara destination. We’ve been coming here since we were in fifth grade and our moms dropped us off for our Percy Jackson book club for two. But I don’t feel nostalgic right now. The numbness from the car ride is wearing off. Something else, harder, is taking its space. I exhale and try to calm down. Jamie thought I should talk to her. He said it would keep building if I didn’t. And that’s what’s happened, isn’t it? The longer we go without talking, the worse things keep getting. I need to stop this avalanche.

  But before I can say anything, Sara does.

  “I’m so glad we’re doing this.” She leans across the table with a huge smile. “I wanted to tell you the news in person. I heard back from Avid. Guess what? I got the job!”

  My mouth goes dry like sandpaper.

  “Can you believe it? The competition was fierce, but Ashley fought for me, so I’m in! It’s such a cute bookshop, and I’m so excited to only have one job!”

  “When are you moving?”

  “That’s the thing.” Her smile falls. “They need me ASAP. I’m going June twenty-eighth.”

  “That’s . . . that’s Friday.”

  “Can you believe it? I am scrambling. Thank God Jenna has summer session. My financial aid doesn’t kick in until the fall so I didn’t know what I was going to do if I couldn’t crash in our place until then.”

  She’s telling me about how financial aid and living arrangements work. How she might be able to add on a summer class if the school lets her. But I can’t focus on any of it. I can’t process the fact that our first real hangout of the summer is now also our last one.

  “I’m sorry.” She leans over and squeezes my hand. “This summer was intense. I wish we could’ve hung out more.”

  But you found time to hang out with Jenna.

  Everything I was going to say flies out the window. My brain is a complete blank. Sara looks at me expectantly. I need to say something that won’t end with me crying. I take a deep breath. Something neutral. Something safe.

  “You’ll come back to vote, though, right?” I ask her.

  “What?”

  “Vote.” I clear my throat. “The special election is in less than two weeks. It’s always low turnout for local elections. Every vote is going to count.”

  “Wow.” She pulls back. “That’s what you want to know? No congrats? No questions about my move? Thanks for being happy for me.”

  “Why do you need me to be happy for you?” I spit out. “You have Jenna, don’t you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You were together.” My voice cracks. “Yesterday. I saw the picture.”

  “Seriously? Is that what you’re upset about? She was driving through on her way up to Athens. We went to the coffee shop next door on my break.”

  “When’s the last time you asked me to meet up with you during a break?”

  “I’m sorry, but aren’t you too busy ‘canvassing’?” She raises her fingers into air quotes.

  “What are you trying to say?” My eyes narrow.

  “You know exactly what I’m saying.” She crosses her arms. “Don’t act like you’ve been sitting around sobbing about me. You’ve been plenty distracted.”

  I get that she didn’t understand what H.B. 28 was about. And it’s fine that she didn’t want to go knocking on doors—even I didn’t want to until my mom pushed me into it. But to belittle everything we’ve been doing?

  “Maybe some of us want to try to effect change around here. Maybe some of us care about things beyond ourselves. This election is important.”

  “If you think I’m wasting gas money to drive down here to vote for that smiling potato, you should take up stand-up comedy, because that’s fucking hilarious.”

  “It’s not funny!” I stare at her. “This election has huge stakes. How can you not get that?”

  “I go to rallies and marches. I do my part, but I’m not participating in a corrupt system and pretending I deserve a cookie for it.”

  “How can you say that?” The men at the bar glance over at us. I know I’m talking way too loudly. But I don’t care. “They’re going to ban hijab!” Sara looks surprised and I feel a tiny bit of satisfaction. “You didn’t know. Why would you? You’re too focused on yourself—and fucking trash cans—to notice what else is going on. You didn’t text me to say Happy Eid or anything.” I blink back tears. “I posted a photo on Instagram, since I know you live on there, but you didn’t even like it. You’re too busy with Jenna to notice anything or anyone else.”

  “I’m sorry I forgot about Eid, but I can’t help it if I follow a thousand people on Instagram and you follow ten, Maya!” Sara exhales. “Do you know how impossible it is to be your friend? To be your only fucking friend? God forbid I have more than one person I’m close to. Most people do. Do you understand how much pressure it puts on me that you lean on me for all your emotional support?”

  “Believe me, the message is loud and clear that I can’t lean on you at all.” Tears stream down my face now. “When my parents split this summer—I had no one to talk to. No one. You were always too busy.”

  “What . . .” Sara’s eyes widen. She pauses as she digests this information. Then she shakes her head. “If you needed to talk about something, anything, all you had to do was tell me it was urgent, and I�
��d have made the time for you. But no.” She glares at me. “You had to be all precious about it, and now you’re acting like a martyr, like I chose not to be there for you when I didn’t even know.”

  “There was no time to tell you! You’re always working.”

  “Gee, I’m sorry, Maya. I’m sorry my dad isn’t a doctor who can fund my entire college education. I’m sorry I have to get scholarships and loans and even then have to save up so I can eat more than ramen noodles during college. Forgive me for trying to make a living for myself.”

  There is a long ugly silence. She leans against the seat and glances out the window. “Friday can’t come soon enough,” she mutters. “I can’t wait to have friends who aren’t such damn high schoolers.”

  I jump out of the booth, gulping down sobs. It’s hard to breathe. I can barely see through my tears. I rush outside and lean against the side of the brick restaurant wall. Sara hasn’t followed. Not that she would.

  That’s something old Sara would do.

  I pull out my phone and try to keep my hands from trembling. Acting like a martyr? The words feel like needles cutting into me.

  I have to get out of here.

  But I’m not going home. I can’t.

  I open the rideshare app.

  I type in Jamie’s address.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jamie

  “Jamie, your roll,” says Felipe, but I hardly hear him. I’m frozen, staring at the text on my screen.

  Maya: I’m outside your house.

  I scramble to my feet, leaving Felipe, Nolan, and Drew gaping at me from around the Catan board. “Everything okay?” Nolan asks.

  “Maya’s here.”

  Felipe’s brows shoot up. “Right now?”

  “I want to meet her!” says Drew.

  I’m already halfway down the hall, my heart in overdrive. I just . . . can’t believe this is happening. Maya’s here? Other than last night’s drive-by when we dropped Sophie off, I don’t think she’s been to my house in almost a decade.

  I open my own front door.

  And there she is on the doorstep, sobbing, clutching her elbows. The minute she sees me, she crumples. I rush outside, bumping the door shut behind me as I envelop her in a hug. “Hey. Hey.” I rub her back as she sobs against my chest. “It’s okay.”