Yes No Maybe So

by Becky Albertalli

  “‘Conflict Resolution.’ I’m so ready.” Maya presses my arm.

  So here’s the thing. I don’t want to read too much into a bunch of Instagram comments from strangers. But maybe it’s not just that. After all, there were two drawn-out Maya hugs today during canvassing, not to mention a double high five after our first voter commitment. And not just any double high five. It was a lingering, finger-lacing double high five. Plus, ever since we got back to my place, there’s been the sitting-with-no-space-between-us-on-the-couch thing . . . and now the arm press! That has to be a deliberate flirtatious gesture, right? So maybe the comments are right. Or maybe Maya’s secretly reading them, and they’re making her braver.

  I think they’re making me a little braver.

  Maya’s glued to the episode, and I’m doing my best to match her focus. Concentrating on The Office isn’t usually a problem for me. But I can’t stop thinking about the way Maya’s thigh brushed against mine when she tucked her knees up onto the couch. On screen, Jim recounts all the pranks he’s played on Dwight, and Maya winces.

  “I have such mixed feelings,” she says. “Like. On one hand, it’s a lot. And some of the stuff he did to Dwight was pretty mean. I don’t think it was harassment, per se, but was it punching down? I don’t know.” She leans in closer to me. “But then again, it’s Jim.”

  I sneak a peek at her face. “You’re so starry-eyed right now.”

  Also, she’s sitting. So. Close.

  She sighs. “How could anyone not be starry-eyed over Jim? He’s like Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. Universally swoon-worthy.”

  “What’s so great about Jim?”

  “Everything! He’s just so cute. It’s his confidence,” Maya says, “and his sense of humor. He’s so comfortable in his skin.”

  My stomach sinks.

  Jim’s literally nothing like me.

  “I can’t believe we’re about to watch ‘Casino Night.’ This is the most romantic episode of any show on television, ever.”

  The most romantic episode of any show.

  Most romantic.

  I swear, sometimes I don’t even know if Maya hears the things she says.

  The episode starts, and I can’t shake the feeling that something’s shifted. Like the entire room is holding its breath.

  “I always forget about Michael’s two dates,” Maya says, reaching for my hand. “I can barely watch this part. He’s so cringy!”

  So that’s happening. Yup. Maya’s holding my hand, and not because either of us are upset. We are literally sitting here. Right now. Holding TV and watching hands.

  Watching TV.

  And holding hands.

  I think my brain is short-circuiting.

  She drops my hand, leaning forward, and suddenly she’s a million miles away. Fully absorbed in the television. Probably doesn’t even remember I’m back here.

  But when Jim and Pam exchange smiles playing poker, Maya leans back abruptly. “The way they look at each other!”

  The way they look at each other. It’s just like the Instagram comment. The way I look at Maya. And how people seem to be rooting for us, in the same way Maya roots for Jim and Pam.

  “God, Roy’s so bad for her.” Maya shakes her head. “Good riddance.”

  By the time Jim approaches Pam outside, I’m watching Maya more than I’m watching the screen. When Jim opens his mouth to speak, Maya makes a noise so high-pitched, it wakes up Boomer.

  “Was that a squeak?”

  “Shh.” She swipes my arm, smiling.

  “It was cute!”

  She wrinkles her nose at me, then turns back to the screen. “Oh my God, he’s about to do it.” She presses her hands to her cheeks.

  On screen, Jim tells Pam he’s in love with her. Maya leans her head on my shoulder, sighing.

  Her head.

  On my shoulder. During a love confession. I’m just—

  Okay, but how am I supposed to read this? Is this a friend thing? Is this what friends do? I’ve never had a close female friend before.

  Her head’s still on my shoulder, even though I’m the king of awkward, with my arm just hanging down stiffly.

  God. Speaking of stiff—

  I adjust the blankets, blushing furiously. Think of Asa Newton. Think of Ian Holden. Jennifer Dickers. Fifi. Fifi’s humanoid hands—

  Crisis averted.

  Except Maya’s head on my shoulder is a different sort of crisis entirely. My heart’s hammering all around in my chest. I don’t know what to do next. Should I put my arm around her? Is that what you do when someone puts her head on your shoulder during a love confession?

  When the girl you’re in love with puts her head on your shoulder.

  During a love confession.

  Everything’s stopped working. My brain my heart my lungs. Have stopped working. I can’t do this. I’m not a guy who can do this.

  But.

  I tuck my arm around Maya’s shoulder.

  And without missing a beat, she curls up closer to me. On screen, Pam sneaks into the office to call her mom. Maya’s completely transfixed, biting her lip, hair falling loosely past her shoulders. So close to my hand.

  Of course Maya has the softest hair in the world.

  I run my fingers through it, tentatively. And then again, letting it thread between the tips of my fingers. And again.

  She turns to look at me, smiling almost quizzically. And I lose my breath. I just.

  Stop.

  Breathing.

  But she just turns back to the TV, nestling deeper into the crook of my arm.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been this completely, nonsensically happy in my whole entire life.

  Of course, we’ve barely made it through the credits when Mom, Sophie, and Grandma burst in, talking a mile a minute about dress alterations. Maya lifts her head dazedly when they reach the living room. Mom raises her eyebrows, making me blush to my feet, but at least she and Grandma keep it moving.

  Sophie, on the other hand, flings herself dramatically backward onto the love seat.

  “I haaaaaaate going to the alterations place. Mom and Grandma are so embarrassing. I’m like, great, fine, it’s perfect, but Grandma’s like, let’s try pinching it under the arm more. Grandma, let your armpits live! That should have taken five minutes, tops, but no.”

  Maya straightens. “Ooh. So you’re wearing something custom-made?”

  “No, it’s from Nordstrom.” Sophie rolls her eyes. “They’re just obsessed with everything fitting exactly perfectly. Whereas I’m like, okay, can I zip it? And does it not fall off? Great. We’re done here.”

  I lean toward Maya. “Don’t let her convince you she’s so chill about this. She tried on twelve dresses—”

  “Uh, that’s not a lot. Andrea tried on fifty-four dresses.” Sophie smiles brightly at Maya. “I’m so glad you’re coming, by the way!”

  “Yes! I can’t wait. Thank you so much for letting me crash it.”

  Sophie narrows her eyes. “Are you kidding? Pretty sure my brother’s—”

  I give her a death glare. If Sophie says girlfriend, I swear to God . . .

  “—best friend is VIP material.” Sophie shoots me a tiny smile.

  Best friend. At first, Maya looks almost startled by the phrase, but then she turns to me and grins.

  Kind of hard to know what to make of that. I mean, at this point, she really is my best friend. No question. But also . . . is that how Maya sees us? A pair of really touchy-feely best friends?

  “Okay, Sophie, Jamie’s no help,” Maya says. “I need your advice about what to wear. It’s kind of fancy, right?”

  “Medium fancy. It’s semiformal.”

  “Right.” Maya furrows her brow. “So . . . not a ball gown, but not like a sundress, right? Should I wear a long dress to be safe?”

  “Safe from what?” I ask.

  “Oh God, you don’t have to wear a long dress,” says Sophie. “I mean, you can. But I’m not. Hold on. I can poll the sq
uad.” She pulls out her phone.

  “Okay, thanks!” says Maya. “And for the service, I should go pretty conservative, right?”

  “Yup, conservative,” I say. “The goal is to dress as much like a Republican senator as possible—”

  “Shut up.” Maya covers my mouth. “Cardigan and skirt, right?”

  “That works!” Sophie checks her phone. “Okay, FYI, everyone’s wearing short dresses. And Jamie, Maddie wants me to tell you she’ll see you at the bat mitzvah.”

  “Um. Okay.”

  Maya raises her eyebrows. “Sounds like Maddie has a crush.”

  “I think she’s into some guy at the mall,” I say.

  Sophie rolls her eyes. “Ugh, no. That’s Tessa. Did I tell you they’re dating now?”

  “Isn’t he a lot older?”

  “He’s like a year and a half older, so not really, but . . . he’s also kind of really skeevy?” Sophie wrinkles her nose.

  “I can’t believe you guys are already dating,” says Maya.

  “Well, I’m not.” Sophie grimaces. “That’s all Tessa.”

  “Weren’t you actively trying to make this happen?” I turn to Maya. “She made me drive her to the mall, acted like it was this big emergency, all so she could be a wingwoman, and now—”

  “It’s called being a decent friend,” says Sophie. “But I didn’t actually think Tessa would be able to seal the deal. He’s fifteen!”

  “So your friends are all into older guys, huh,” says Maya.

  “Her friends are out of control.” I shake my head slowly. “Now you know why I’m terrified of giving this toast.”

  When I get back from driving Maya home, Mom’s parked on the living room couch, waiting for me. “Hey! Can we talk?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Okay . . .”

  “Don’t look so scared.” She pats the couch, beckoning for me to sit. “Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  Translation: she saw me on the couch with Maya, and is now planning to make the next half hour of my life as excruciatingly awkward as possible. Pretty sure this is going to end with Mom saying the word condom. Can’t wait to hit this exciting new low point.

  I settle in cross-legged at the opposite end of the couch. “I’m good.”

  Mom doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me with this gentle, searching expression. Which—wow—may actually be even worse than talking about condoms.

  I rush to fill the silence. “Everything’s good. The campaign is going really well. They’ve had at least three dozen volunteers every day this week. Maya and I did a shift in Dunwoody. It was good—”

  “Great!” Mom says.

  “Great,” I repeat.

  God. Why? Why are we doing this?

  “I’m so glad you’re having fun with this,” Mom says, “and I really am so proud of you, Jamie. Canvassing a handful of times—that alone is incredible, but to have sustained that effort for so long now . . .”

  “If we get Rossum elected, it’s worth it.”

  “Right.” Mom pauses. “Okay, here’s the thing.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Nothing bad! You’re not doing anything wrong, sweetie.” She looks at me. “I just wanted to make sure you’re going into this with eyes wide open. I’m scared you’re getting your hopes up about Rossum.”

  “I’m not supposed to be hopeful?”

  “No, of course you are! And there’s a lot to be hopeful about, for sure. But . . . I guess I just want to make sure you understand that progress may not always happen as quickly as we want it to. Our district has been red for a very long time. Overwhelmingly so—”

  “Are you following the polls, though? Yesterday, the AJC was showing Rossum behind by less than four percentage points, which is barely outside the margin of error. And you should see the momentum at headquarters. It was packed—”

  “And that’s great!” Mom smiles. “That’s all so promising, and you never know. I just want to make sure you’re emotionally prepared either way. No election is a guarantee.”

  “I know that.”

  “I don’t mean to be discouraging. I think what you and Maya are doing is amazing. I love how invested you are. I just don’t want you to get so invested that it breaks your heart.”

  So invested that it breaks my heart.

  I try to push the thought from my brain before it even lands. Is it possible to be too invested in a candidate? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Commit one hundred percent?

  But maybe I really am on track for heartbreak.

  Maybe the person I’m too invested in isn’t Rossum.

  “Jamie?” Mom asks.

  “No, I know. I get it. I just think we have to believe it’s possible. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  “Just remember,” Mom says. “The fact that we even have a fighting chance is a win.”

  I smile faintly. “Okay, Mom.”

  She scoots closer, reaching out to pat my arm. “Anyway, I’m just happy you and Maya gave yourselves a night off for once.”

  Aha. There it is.

  “You two looked pretty cozy,” she adds.

  “Mom, we’re not—”

  “I know you’re not dating,” she says quickly. “I just think it’s good that you guys are also doing non-election-related things together. You should do more of that.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “I’m serious! You should do something just for fun, like the aquarium, or the nature center, or even just dinner and a movie.”

  I blush. “It sure sounds like you think we’re dating.”

  Mom laughs. “Well, I do think you guys would be cute together. Have you thought about asking her out?”

  “Mom.”

  “Just a suggestion! Sometimes we tend to build this stuff up, you know? And it doesn’t have to be a huge deal. Would you want to date Maya?”

  I laugh incredulously. “That doesn’t matter. She has to want to.”

  “You’re right,” Mom says, “but I’m not asking if she wants to. That’s for her to figure out. I’m asking if you want to.”

  “I guess.”

  “And does she know how you feel?”

  She would if she read all those Instagram comments.

  “I don’t know,” I say finally.

  “Maybe you should spell it out for her.”

  I gape at Mom, horrified. “That’s not—”

  “Or just start simple, and invite her to something!”

  “I have!” I shake my head. “Intermezzo, the bat mitzvah—”

  “Oh!” Mom peers at my face for a moment, clearly biting back a smile. “Sophie mentioned Maya was coming, but I didn’t realize she was your plus-one.”

  “Yup. Sure. Can we stop talking about this?”

  I’m sorry, but it’s ridiculous. Mom’s here acting like this Maya thing is already a home run. How can she be so confident about that? And especially when she’s so lukewarm about Rossum’s chances! God knows what the polling data would say about my chances with Maya. Imagine if that were a thing.

  Though. I guess it is kind of a thing. On Instagram.

  Of course, the real problem is the fact that I’ve just told Mom that Maya’s my plus-one to the bat mitzvah. Whereas Maya probably thinks she’s my political accomplice.

  And I have no idea which one’s closer to the truth.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Maya

  The mall isn’t the same without Sara.

  The pagoda with the obnoxiously funky outerwear just looks like a sad stall with overpriced hats and scarves. Nordstrom, where we could spend an entire day trying on all the different high-heeled shoes, feels flooded with too many options. Even the Apple Store, where we’d check out the newest iPhones and iPads, looks like an ordinary electronics store today.

  I’d debated asking Jamie to come with me, but this place is so “Maya and Sara” I didn’t want to risk another sobbing, snotty-faced experience with witnesses. And I was right—memories lurk around every cor
ner.

  Focus, Maya. I’m on a mission: Buy a dress. Get Sophie a gift.

  But the Fourth of July banners and sale signs are overwhelming, and even the smaller stores like Francesca’s and Banana Republic feel dizzying with all the possibilities. If Sara were here, she’d pluck out the top five outfits. Where do I even begin?

  I look at a dress hanging inside a store and pause. All those times Sara and I went shopping, it was me buying the outfits. Sara came along to help me decide. She jokingly called herself my “fashion consultant”—but why hadn’t I ever stopped to consider why she never bought anything herself?

  My phone buzzes.

  Jamie: Hey, Maya! Cool if I put us down for some canvassing tomorrow? How’s 11:00 a.m.? Would that possibly work for you?

  I laugh at his weirdly formal tone.

  Maya: Why yes, Jamie. It certainly does.

  Jamie: Awesome! Pick you up at 10:45!

  I walk through the food court. My stomach rumbles. I’m going to get something to eat and recalibrate.

  “Maya!” a voice calls out just then. It’s Nolan. He’s getting up from a table right by me.

  “You work at the Disney Store?” I glance at his name tag with mouse ears.

  “If you ever want a stuffed animal or figurine, hit me up. I’ll get you the employee discount.”

  “You don’t sell formalwear there, do you?”

  “If we did, it’d be covered in Mickey Mouse.” He grins. “It’s weird to see you out and about without Jamie. You have been inseparable all summer.”

  “I’m on a Jamie-related mission,” I tell him. “I’m looking for an outfit for the bat mitzvah.”

  “Right! Felipe told me about that! Your first date.”

  “Oh! Um, no,” I stammer. “We’re not—”

  “You guys are so cute together. Felipe and I met kind of the same way. We got assigned to do a school project, and then boom—it worked out perfectly.”

  “Oh, no. We’re not . . . that’s not us.” My cheeks feel like they’re burning. “I’m tagging along to the bat mitzvah to help spread the word about that racist H.B. 28 bill. And I mean—to support Sophie. And hear Jamie’s toast.” Maybe it’s the way Nolan’s smiling at me, but I can’t seem to stop talking. “I’m serious. We got pushed into canvassing, and it was fun and important, so we’re doing it but—” I feel myself flush. “I mean, you and Felipe really are perfect together; but—Jamie—that’s not us.”