Yes No Maybe So

by Becky Albertalli

  Everyone blinks at this. An older woman raises her hand.

  “My app is showing more houses assigned than usual.”

  “Darn right.” Gabe nods. “We need to hit as many doors as possible.”

  “How many doors exactly?” asks someone.

  “It’s not too many. Each of you has about two hundred homes.”

  The crowd collectively gasps. One of the women with the baby carriers raises her hand.

  “I’m sorry, but that is a lot of houses,” she says. “I was planning for a two-hour commitment.”

  “I have to take my son to soccer practice,” a man says.

  “My mom has physical therapy at four,” another chimes in.

  “My baby will need to go down for a nap by noon. . . .”

  The crowd murmurs quietly.

  “You people are unbelievable!” Gabe shouts. His face reddens. “Your baby can nap after the election! Yes. It’s a lot of work. But we need Rossum to win! Is that what you all want? Or only if it’s convenient for you?”

  He stalks off and slams the VIP supply closet shut behind him.

  I glance at Jamie. What just happened?

  Hannah clears her throat and hurries to the front of the room.

  “Hey, y’all.” She smiles brightly. “We’re just so super excited to be in the home stretch for Rossum! Let’s aim for one hundred doors, and if you can’t do that, just do as many as you can. Whatever you accomplish today is amazing. We’ll sync the data we collect from the app when you return.” She glances at the supply closet. “And Gabe and I both want you to know we appreciate you volunteering your time, and we know how valuable it is. Don’t forget to grab water bottles on your way out. It’s a hot one today! We’ll have pizza waiting for you as a thank-you when you return.”

  The crowd relaxes a bit. Everyone starts filing out of the room.

  “Hannah to the rescue,” I say.

  “That could have gone really badly,” Jamie agrees.

  We walk over to the VIP supply closet. Jamie taps the door and peeks in. Gabe is pacing the cramped area and looking down at his phone. His forehead is coated with sweat.

  “You okay, Gabe?” Jamie says.

  “That was kind of rough out there,” I add.

  “Too tough?” He looks up at us. “I should go out there and say something.” He moves to hurry out, but Jamie reaches out and stops him.

  “Hannah took care of it,” he says. “What is with you? Your face is red. Do I need to take you to urgent care?”

  “No.” Gabe wipes his sweaty forehead with his arm. “The VIP room doesn’t get good ventilation, that’s all. It’s just. This campaign. We’re in the last gasps—fundraising isn’t going as well as we hoped. I reached out to every Atlanta celebrity, and only two responded with donations. I just don’t get it.”

  “A lot of people showed up today,” I tell him.

  “Twenty-four people is nothing,” Gabe snaps. “We need quadruple times quadruple that if we want to actually hit every door.” He massages his temples. “I don’t know what to do. Every angle feels futile. There’s no traction with ads. People glaze over. Ditto yard signs. What we need is for something to go viral. Do you know that two of our folks got Fifi’d while canvassing? I pitched it to every local station, no one picked it up! They said they covered it a few weeks ago. So what? I’m handing you content, people!”

  “Yeah,” I say slowly. “That sucks. That people got Fifi’d.”

  “Fifi’s messaging is the problem.” Gabe paces the room. “It’s all, pardon the pun, dog whistles—anti-Semitic stuff no one except for people in the know would get. Does any ordinary person know the 88 on her cup stands for Heil Hitler? Or the okay sign she’s doing while holding her teacup is another anti-Semitic nod? Now, if it had a swastika, everyone would be all over it.”

  “Gabe.” I look at him. “Are you saying you wish it had a swastika?”

  “Look.” He lowers his voice. “I know it’s not PC. But it would help move the needle for Rossum to win. I’m just being honest.”

  “You’re honestly being the worst,” Jamie interrupts.

  “No need to be condescending, Big J.” Gabe frowns at him.

  “You’re asking for a swastika on a teacup. Do you hear yourself?”

  “This isn’t about me. I’m trying to get Rossum this election.”

  “But sooner or later this election will be over,” Jamie says. “And when it’s behind you, you’ll still have to be you. Make sure you’ll be able to live with yourself when it’s done.”

  Jamie turns and walks out. I glance at Gabe.

  “He’s right,” I tell him before I follow Jamie to the car.

  “You okay?” I ask him when we get back inside.

  I thought he’d be freaking out. But Jamie is grinning.

  “I’m great,” he replies. “Can you believe I got him to shut up for a second?”

  “I’m not sure I’ve seen Gabe without a comeback before.” I wipe the perspiration off my forehead. “Hannah’s right, though—it is really hot today. Can we swing by to get some iced coffee?”

  “I need a palate cleanser after that too,” Jamie agrees. “Sometimes, I can’t believe that guy is my cousin. I mean—he’s not usually this ridiculous. The problem with Fifi is they’re not actual swastikas?”

  “Dog whistles are worse, because they’re designed for maximum plausible deniability.”

  “Exactly! People can throw up their hands and say, ‘What do you mean the 88 is anti-Semitic?’” Jamie says. “‘I just like that number. Am I not allowed to have a favorite number?’ Or, ‘Hey, it’s an okay sign. It’s just me saying all is cool—why would you think it’s bigoted? You’re overreacting.’”

  “Gaslighting is way worse,” I agree.

  We pull up and order our coffees. He hands me mine and I take a sip.

  “Oh, yum. I’ve missed iced coffees.” I glance at him again. “Sorry again about that time I nearly bit your head off for getting me one.”

  “I get it. I mean, I should have gone past the first Google search page.”

  “I think I was just stressed about Dickers,” I say. “That woman probably has a PhD in dog whistles.”

  “As crappy as that went, I don’t regret going.”

  “Me either.”

  We park by the neighborhood sign for the street we’re about to canvass. But neither of us gets out. I glance out the window. There are no clouds in the sky. The sun is blazing so hot, steam rises from the concrete.

  “Gabe’s speech knocked all my enthusiasm out of canvassing. We’re not doing it for Gabe,” I say. “But still . . .”

  “No.” Jamie nods. “I get it.”

  Jamie puts the car in park as Lois Reitzes finishes up an interview with local author Laurel Snyder.

  “Next up,” Lois says, “Tammy Adrian, with a look at today’s local headlines.”

  “Good afternoon, Atlanta listeners, Tammy Adrian here with your local news updates. First up is H.B. 28.”

  Both of us fall silent.

  “Asa Newton announced yesterday at a fundraising event that passing H.B. 28 will be his first order of business in office. Whether the law passes constitutional muster, however, may be a matter decided in the courts if it’s passed. Meanwhile, the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra just celebrated its . . .”

  Jamie clicks off the radio.

  “Speaking of coded assholes.” I sigh. “Holden and Newton are literally the worst.”

  Two kids bike past us. Jamie glances at them, and then he looks at me.

  “What if we don’t canvass today?” he asks.

  “Really?”

  “Let’s do something about this bill. Maybe we can figure out how to get a rally set up at the capitol or something.”

  “Don’t we need to get permits for that?”

  “Oh, right.” His face falls. “That’ll probably take a long time to get through.”

  We sit quietly for a few seconds.

  “What abou
t informational flyers?” I say. “That’s more important anyway, because so many people aren’t aware of H.B. 28. NPR is covering it, but Sara didn’t know the bill existed.”

  “We could print them out and stick them on people’s mailboxes.”

  “And hand them out at restaurants and shops!”

  “Should we get a notebook and brainstorm?” he asks.

  “To Target it is.” I smile.

  The patio section is all ours today. We load up on two notebooks, a pack of colored pens, and a little more coffee, before settling into a little couch that fits both of us perfectly. Jamie’s T-shirt brushes against my bare arm.

  “It has to be catchy,” I tell him. “The slogan. Something to roll off the tongue, like Nike’s Just do it or The few, the proud, the Marines.”

  “Or Break me off a piece of that Kit Kat bar.”

  “Yeah.” I look at him. “Like that.”

  “I got it!” he says. “How about Love, not hate. Say no to H.B. 28.”

  “Jamie! That’s genius! It makes a good rally cry too!”

  We doodle talking points and sketch out ideas on how to design it. The hours slip by until Jamie gets a buzz on his phone.

  “That’s my alarm reminder,” he says reluctantly. “My mom made me promise this morning to swing by and get some confetti before dinner tonight.”

  I glance at the clock with a start. We’ve just spent five hours here. That’s got to be some sort of record for a Target hang. After a crappy few days, it feels good to have done something positive today.

  I flip on the TV that night and settle into the sofa with the notebook we were working in. My mom’s door is closed, the lights are off.

  New Ninja Warrior today, my dad texts me. I’ll save it to watch with you tomorrow.

  I send him back a heart eyes emoji. Our favorite show to watch together, rooting for every single person and getting choked up at all the emotional personal stories.

  My thoughts drift to Jamie. It was probably just the welcome reprieve of air-conditioning on this absurdly hot day, but curling up with him at Target was the happiest I’ve felt in so long. I wonder what Jamie is doing right now. Is he watching a movie with his friends? Drafting his toast?

  I load up The Office on my TV and glance back at my notebook. I love the slogan Love, not hate. Say no to H.B. 28, but we need another piece. I just have to figure out what it is. . . .

  I glance at the television. Michael Scott is sharing the downsides of depression and deciding if he’ll jump off the roof onto a bouncy castle below, before Pam and Darryl stop him.

  “I saved a life today,” Michael says solemnly into the camera. “My own.”

  And that’s when it hits me. The perfect slogan.

  I pull out my phone and call Jamie.

  He picks up immediately.

  “Hello?” he says in a hushed voice.

  “Oh,” I falter. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I’ll call back tomorrow.”

  “No, no . . . one sec.” I hear some noise in the background, and then a door shutting. “Sorry,” he says. “I was just watching TV. No one calls me, really.”

  “Yeah.” I blush. “Same here. I got so excited because I had this idea for our flyer.”

  “Cool! What were you thinking?”

  “Everyone likes to think of themselves as a hero, right? So, what if we have in big print on the bottom of the flyer: ‘It takes thirty seconds to be a hero—call your state senator today.’ And then we have a phone number. So we have a message, but also an action item.”

  “That’s brilliant,” Jamie says. “I can’t believe you came up with that out of nowhere. I’ll fiddle around with the design tomorrow.”

  “I was watching The Office,” I admit. “Michael Scott gave me inspiration. I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

  “I’m watching The Office too!” he says. “Which episode?”

  “The one where he talks about depression on the roof?”

  “I was about to start season two again. The one where he does the Dundies.”

  “I love that one!” I exclaim. “Hold up, let me switch over.”

  The intro music starts up on his end as it plays on my end too. I settle back onto the couch.

  “This guy cannot read the room. Literally no one wants to do these awards,” Jamie says.

  “Well, Dwight does,” I respond. “Look, he’s the musical accompaniment to the award night.”

  “Dwight is the worst,” Jamie says.

  “By worst you mean the best, right?”

  “Of course.” Jamie laughs.

  We watch the episode together, my phone pressed against my ear. I’ve never seen this show with anyone. I know he’s at his house three miles away, but if I close my eyes, it’s like he’s sitting on the couch next to me.

  The next episode autoplays. And then the one after that. I sink further back into the couch, the phone tucked against my ear. We should probably get some sleep, I want to say. Jamie yawns on the other end. But even as my eyes grow heavier, as Jamie’s hot takes get softer and softer, I don’t hang up.

  Jamie doesn’t either.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jamie

  I wake up in a contented fog, phone still pressed to my cheek. The battery’s totally dead. But when I plug it in, Maya’s name pops onto my screen.

  Incoming call. 8 hours. 25 minutes.

  I fell asleep watching TV with Maya. Which is . . . kind of the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me.

  I mean, yeah, it was technically just a phone call. But there’s something nice about that too. No pressure or weirdness or worrying about where my hands go. Just our voices and Dunder Mifflin in the background and Maya’s soft laughter in my ear. We’d started drifting off after the third or fourth episode, waking ourselves up only enough to migrate to our bedrooms. But we didn’t hang up.

  For eight hours and twenty-five minutes.

  Probably only six hours of that were actual sleep. I’m definitely having trouble keeping my eyes open. To be fair, it’s barely seven in the morning, but going back to bed is pointless.

  Is there such a thing as being too hazy and happy to sleep?

  Turns out, everyone’s awake but Sophie. Mom’s at the kitchen table in her work clothes, frowning at her laptop while she sips from a mug. But Grandma’s pacing all around the kitchen, opening and closing drawers, and stepping over Boomer, who’s gnawing on Mr. Droolsworth in the middle of the floor. “I love that boy, but my goodness.” Grandma clenches her fists. “Wants me to cross-post, do more videos, message more celebrities. DM Oprah—can you imagine?”

  Mom chuckles without looking up.

  “And he’s texting me thirty times a day. Driving me batty.”

  I pour a mug of coffee, grabbing a bagel from the bread box before settling in next to Mom at the table. “Are you talking about Gabe?”

  “I swear, bubalah. I’m this close to blocking him.”

  “He was really intense at the campaign office yesterday. I guess he’s pretty stressed about the election.”

  “Oh, I know.” Grandma joins us at the table. “Don’t mind me. I’m just being a grouch.”

  “No, you’re totally right. He needs to chill.”

  Grandma rubs my arm. “How are you doing, sweetheart? So, you were at the campaign office yesterday? Good for you.”

  Mom looks up from her laptop, meeting my eyes. “I really am so impressed, Jamie. All this canvassing.”

  “Well, we didn’t actually knock on any doors yesterday,” I admit. “But we will! Right now we’re working on flyers to push back against H.B. 28. Maya came up with the whole concept—it’s pretty brilliant. We’re FaceTiming tonight to finalize the design, and then we’re meeting at Target tomorrow to start handing them out.”

  “Oh, wow,” Grandma says. “At Target? Are you sure that’s allowed?”

  “It’s worth a try. We’re starting small,” I add quickly. “Just local places. But eventually we want to hand th
em out at Emory, Tech, Georgia State, and Kennesaw. We really just want to educate people. And Maya was thinking—”

  I catch Mom smiling.

  “What?”

  Mom’s eyebrows shoot up. “Nothing.”

  I pause. “Anyway, we’re hoping to put more pressure on people to make phone calls. No one ever calls state legislators, so if we flood their phones, that could really have an impact. I may even shout it out at Sophie’s reception during the toast.”

  “Jamie.”

  “Actually, we could bring flyers to the reception! And I could mention it in the toast. We could do both.”

  Mom and Grandma exchange quick glances.

  “Jamie,” Mom says slowly. “I’m glad you’re resisting the bill, and frankly, I’m glad you’re thinking about the toast—but are you sure your sister’s bat mitzvah is the right moment for that?”

  “Why not? There will be a hundred and fifty people there! I’ll have a captive audience. I can shout out the Rossum campaign too, and remind everyone about the election date. And even Sophie’s friends can make phone calls—”

  “Jamie, no.” Mom presses her lips together. “That wouldn’t be appropriate. You’re a cohost of this event. And it’s about Sophie, not politics.”

  My cheeks flush. “But H.B. 28 isn’t about politics! That’s the hijab bill. It’s a human rights issue. You can’t just pretend this stuff doesn’t exist because we’re at a party. The election is three days after Sophie’s bat mitzvah!”

  “I get it! I do. H.B. 28 is completely vile,” Mom says, nodding. “But sweetie, there will be other opportunities to protest. Your sister’s bat mitzvah isn’t just a party. It’s a really important moment for her—”

  “But—”

  “End of discussion,” Mom says. She turns back to her laptop.

  I set my mug down with a clank and stand so abruptly, I startle Boomer. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this furious at my mom.

  “End of discussion? Seriously? You’re the one who goes on and on about political action, and how important the Rossum race is. You’re the one who made me canvass in the first place! So, what, it’s important to care, but only sometimes?”

  “That’s not fair. Jamie, you have to remember, we’re hosting—”