Yes No Maybe So

by Becky Albertalli

  “Hopefully you like it,” my mother says.

  “It’s certified pre-owned. And it’s only got twelve thousand miles,” my dad says. He continues to rattle off the features as I walk over and trace a hand over the metal exterior. I peek inside. Black seats. Car mats. A pink bow on the steering wheel.

  “Thank you so much,” I whisper. I pull them both into a group hug.

  My father hands me the keys. He’s getting in the passenger seat. We’re going to take it for a spin.

  I turn on the engine. I’m happy about this, but sadness seeps in too—because part of happiness is sharing things with the people you care about most.

  And the one person I want to share this with more than anyone else is Jamie.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Jamie

  Gabe has been avoiding me since Saturday, and I guess I’ve let him. But I can’t put this off any longer.

  I park and walk in through the Fawkes and Horntail side entrance, stomach churning.

  Hardly anyone’s here—I guess everyone’s at the Dunwoody office. It’s just Hannah and Alison, yawning at their desks under the fluorescent lights of the annex. But a moment later, Gabe rolls his chair into view, iced coffee in hand. He pauses a few feet from Hannah’s desk, laptop resting on his crossed legs.

  I feel like puking. I’m not even kidding. My breakfast may not make it out of here with me.

  Of course, Gabe grins when he sees me, like everything’s totally normal. “Big J! You here for poll observer training?”

  I glare down at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Uh. Whoa.”

  “I’m not kidding. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Gabe sets his laptop on the floor and takes a sip of his drink. “If this is about the picture—”

  “Of course it’s about the picture!”

  Hannah and Alison exchange glances, eyebrows halfway to the ceiling. “We’re gonna just . . .” Hannah’s already halfway to the annex door; moments later, Alison clicks it shut behind them.

  “Dude,” Gabe says. “Chill. I took it down.”

  “Yeah, from Rossum’s site.” I step toward him. “Great. What about BuzzFeed, Upworthy, Hypable—”

  “Mashable now too.” Gabe pokes his finger up cheerfully. “And Bustle and the HuffPo. You guys are more popular than Fifi! Who knew?”

  “You knew! This was completely calculated!”

  Gabe leans back, calmly gripping his cup. “Did I think it could potentially drive a little traffic to the campaign at a critical time? Sure. But did I know it would go viral—”

  “You’ve been obsessed with going viral! All summer! Don’t act like this wasn’t your endgame.”

  “Look. Does it help the campaign? Yeah. More enthusiasm means more people actually showing up to vote. That’s how this works.”

  The look on Gabe’s face right now. The way his lips tug casually upward. Like me losing my temper is just a funny little Monday morning distraction.

  “I swear to God—”

  “Look, Big J, don’t hate the player—”

  “Are you even hearing yourself? You used us. You put a really private moment up on the internet without our consent.” My fists clench as I stare at him. “And thanks to you, Maya’s not speaking to me.”

  “Oh, so it’s my fault she overreacted—”

  “She didn’t overreact!” My entire body floods with heat. “Maya’s not allowed to date, and you put up a picture that basically looks like we’re making out. In public! You think that’s how Maya wanted her parents to find out about us? From BuzzFeed?”

  Us. One tiny syllable. The word feels like an open wound.

  There’s no us anymore for Maya’s parents to find out about.

  “Dude, how they find out isn’t the dealbreaker here,” Gabe says. “If they’re freaking out, they would have freaked out anyway.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Okay, you know what?” Gabe sets his coffee down, then stands abruptly. “How about you stop being selfish for one minute. Are you forgetting the election is tomorrow? Tomorrow! We have a red-as-hell district, and this is the first time we’ve ever had a real shot at flipping it. And with a supermajority at stake? Big J. If you’re so worried about Maya’s family, you should be on your knees, thanking me for pulling out all the stops. We both know this hijab ban is moving forward if Newton wins—”

  “Okay, fuck you,” I yell.

  “Whoa.” He gapes at me. “I’m on your side—”

  “No you’re not. You don’t give a shit about the hijab ban. You want Rossum to win so you can win. Full stop. So stop pretending you care. Of course I want Rossum to win! But I’m not going to exploit people to get there. Because that’s what you’re doing! You exploited me. You exploited Maya. Have you even looked at the comments? They’re not all fun and heart eyes, Gabe. You think the comment sections are kind to women? To Muslim women?”

  Gabe rolls his eyes. “That’s a few people. Stop blowing this up. Ninety-nine percent of them think you’re adorable. You’re going to have adorable babies together—”

  “Right, that’s your narrative, isn’t it? You saw the first comments and decided to keep fanning the flames. Does Rossum know what you’re willing to do to win?”

  “Jordan doesn’t know shit about this.” Gabe’s face heats up. “You think this is just about winning? My ego?”

  “That’s exactly what I think.”

  “Do you even read the local news?” Gabe slams his hand down on Hannah’s desk. “Do you even get what’s at stake? H.B. 28 is the tip of the fucking iceberg, dude. Representative Karpenter from deep red fucking north Georgia’s got one in the pipeline to remove discrimination protections in public schools. In the name of religious freedoms. We all fucking know what that means. Maybe think about your pals Felipe and Nolan before you come after me.”

  Gabe’s words knock the wind out of me. A discrimination bill. Here in Georgia. I’ve seen them pass in other states, but our economy’s so tied up with the film industry, Governor Doyle’s never wanted to risk stirring up a boycott. But if Newton wins, and there’s a Republican supermajority . . .

  I think of Felipe and Nolan. Thank God they’re graduating in a year. But what about all the kids who aren’t graduating yet?

  What about Sophie?

  My heart slams around my rib cage, pressure building behind my eyes. I don’t know if I’m about to burst into tears or detonate.

  I whirl on Gabe. “That doesn’t make what you did okay.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Jamie, if my main fucking concern the day before the election is winning the goddamn election. I’m sorry Maya freaked out on you, dude. I am. But last I checked, Maya’s not the only girl on earth—”

  “Okay, that’s—”

  “Your comments are full of girls who think you’re hot,” Gabe continues, completely unfazed. “Dude. You want a girlfriend so badly? Make it happen, Big J. Go slide into some DMs. You know you’ve got, like, three thousand new followers since Saturday.”

  I just look at him.

  “So, you’re welcome,” he adds.

  “I’m . . .” I open Instagram, head spinning. Random girls think I’m hot. Not that I care, but that’s, like, bizarro-world, alternate-universe levels of unexpected. Me? And three thousand followers? From the kiss picture? I wasn’t even tagged. . . .

  I tap over to Maya’s profile, almost without realizing I’m doing it. But it doesn’t load her usual feed.

  It loads a picture of a lock in a circle. This Account is Private.

  I can’t catch my breath. It’s like someone scraped me out from the inside.

  This Account is Private.

  “She.” I blink. “I think she blocked me.”

  I sink back against Hannah’s desk, legs suddenly weak.

  Gabe’s expression softens. “Oh, man. I’m sorry, bro. That’s rough.”

  He reaches out to pat my shoulder, but I flinch away from him, voi
ce choked. “Oh, now you’re sorry?”

  “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have done it. Look, man. I’m trying to pull out an impossible win. I don’t even know what I’m doing half the time. This is my first rodeo. I’m just stumbling around in the dark here.”

  I stare dumbly at my phone.

  Gabe keeps talking. “Want to know the truth? I’m really fucking scared. This—all of this—could be for nothing. It rains? Boom. Low turnout.”

  I shake my head dazedly. “The weather’s supposed to be—”

  “That’s just an example! I mean, you can do everything, every single thing right. Knock on every door. Organize the fuck out of everything and everyone. Stay on top of every media opportunity.” He scrapes his hands through his hair. “And it could all go to shit tomorrow for literally no reason.”

  I look at him. “Then why do you do it?”

  “Well, what’s the alternative?” Gabe laughs, but it’s strained and panicked. “Hand these fuckers the election? Believe it or not, cuz, I care about this shit. You think they’re paying me well for this? You think I have a fancy job lined up in DC if this goes well? Look, 2016 fucking wrecked me. Turned my world upside down. And I’m just another white Jew. Not even close to the worst off.” He exhales. “I can’t fix this mess, but I want to fix a part of it. And this election? Jamie, it’s so fucking small. You know, in the grand scheme of things. We win this? Nobody cares. It will be in the news cycle for a day or two, maybe, and that’s literally just because of the Fifi story—”

  “And me and Maya,” I say.

  “At least you put us on the map.” He sighs defeatedly. “Even if we win tomorrow, it’s the puniest, most nothing victory. But it’s my whole life right now. And it all comes down to the numbers—”

  “No it doesn’t,” I say, and Gabe snorts. “It doesn’t! It’s not about the numbers. It’s not even about the end result. Not entirely.”

  Gabe smiles sadly. “Oh, to have your shiny-eyed optimism—”

  “I mean, the numbers are important. Really important. But that’s now.” I clutch the edge of Hannah’s desk. “Yeah, in this moment, the numbers are everything. But when you step back from it, it’s just another point on the timeline. History’s a long game. It’s the longest long game.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Gabe says. “Frankly, I don’t give a shit if the world rights itself in a thousand years. That’s not good enough.”

  “But I’m not talking about the world righting itself. I’m talking about us righting the world.”

  Gabe looks unmoved, but I keep going.

  And it’s the weirdest thing. I feel so messy and heartsick and completely off-kilter. But my mouth is saying exactly what I want it to say.

  “It’s not about waiting for the good parts of history. We’re the ones who have to make them happen. We have to draw the timeline ourselves.”

  “Yeah, well. Right now, that just feels like a fuckton of pointless work.”

  “But the work itself is the point. You keep doing it, because otherwise, how do you keep from feeling helpless? It’s like those sharks that keep swimming or they die,” I say. “It’s about the act of resisting. Waking up every day and deciding not to give up.”

  I peer down at my phone screen. Maya’s locked profile, with its tiny circular profile picture. The soft brown of her skin. Her hair. Her smile, in miniature.

  This girl who hates change, but wants to change the world. This girl who never holds back when it matters.

  I didn’t even know I could miss someone like this after two days.

  “Hey.” I glance up at Gabe. “You know, even if we lose, your work matters. All of this. It all counts.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “It matters,” I say again. “Not that I think we’re going to lose. No way. But I’m just saying.”

  Gabe snorts, but he’s smiling. “You’re pretty inspiring, Big J. You’re going to be quite the politician one day.”

  I smile back. “I know.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Maya

  I’m driving my car to the polling station. It still feels weird. Not standing in my driveway waiting for a friend or a ride. This is my car. I made a list last night of all the places I want to apply to for a job, now that I can actually hold one down. Barnes & Noble and Starbucks are both high on my “want” list.

  Target would’ve been there too, but I’m not sure how Kevin would feel about hooking me up with a job, after what went down between us. And, well. There’s the matter of Jamie too. Taking a job at his favorite place feels like a nonstarter.

  My throat constricts, thinking of him. We spent nearly a month knocking on doors, handing out flyers, putting up signs. Now it’s election day. And we aren’t even speaking.

  I park at the polling station, and pause to look at the Instagram photo I posted this morning. A selfie of me with a Rossum button, encouraging all fifteen of my followers to get out the vote. I glance at the other pictures from this summer. The Eid brunch, a selfie with Boomer from last week. I look like I’m having the best summer ever. Insta-Maya and real Maya don’t even live on the same planet.

  I click over to Sara’s feed. I’d thought she’d have texted me after the post went viral. But she’s not following the election stuff, so it probably didn’t even fly by her radar. It’s strange how something can be someone’s entire universe, but not even register as a blip for someone else.

  Her most recent photos make me smile. You’d honestly think she works for the University of Georgia’s marketing team. There are filtered photos of the campus, a selfie with a Georgia bulldog in full red-and-white gear. I pause at one from four days ago. She’s posing with my favorite author on the planet—Angie Freaking Thomas. They’re both smiling and Sara’s holding up her latest book. I look down at the caption: Standing room only for the one and only Angie Freaking Thomas.

  I laugh a little at that. Even in our estrangement, we manage to think the same thoughts. I hesitate before texting her.

  Hope college is great. I hate how things ended with us. I miss you.

  There are no three ellipses bubbling back to me. And that’s okay. I love Sara, and even if I don’t get back what I had, it was a beautiful friendship while it was mine. I don’t regret telling her how I feel.

  I feel a little silly about it now, but I’d built up election day so big in my mind, I almost expected bells to toll and confetti to spray on my head when I stepped into the polling precinct. But the Briarwood recreational gymnasium is definitely anticlimactic this late afternoon. For one thing, it’s completely silent. Electronic voting booths line one end of the wall, and folding tables are set up on the other side of the room, with registration volunteers drumming their fingers. Some are reclined so far back in their seats, I swear they might be asleep. A police officer sits by the front door. Hannah is also here. She hands me my poll observer vest, and I sign in on the log. One woman in a business suit is punching in her vote, but otherwise, no one else is here.

  My phone buzzes. I pull it out as a news alert flashes on-screen. H.B. 28 passed in the Georgia State House. I click open the article. I’m not supposed to be on my phone, but this has to be a mistake. They weren’t voting on this until after the election.

  But it’s no mistake.

  H.B. 28 passed. Evidently, the GOP is so confident Newton will win, they’ve begun the first step in making my mother’s existence a crime.

  The front door chimes. An elderly woman is struggling to get through the door with her walker.

  Get with the program, Maya. I shove my phone into my pocket. I’m here to help the elections run smoothly. This is what I signed up for. I hurry over and open the door for her.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” the woman tells me. “You are absolutely wonderful.”

  While the woman fills out her information, Hannah walks over to me.

  “It was sweet of you to open the door,” she says, “but as poll observers we can’t interact directly with voters, even
if it’s to be helpful.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Sorry. Got it.”

  The woman finishes voting and heads to the exit.

  “Thank you, again, dear,” she says.

  “Of course,” I tell her. “Have a nice day.”

  “You know, you have the prettiest smile.” She pauses by the door and turns to look at me. “It’s the kind that makes you know the world is a beautiful place.”

  “Um, thanks.”

  “Hope you have a blessed day.”

  I watch her amble toward her car. It didn’t escape my notice that she was wearing a Newton button. Neither did I miss the red hat she had on. I think of Kristin from Dickers’s office. She was just like this lady, full of sugar and sunshine, saying the nicest things. And yet this woman. Kristin. They can look at someone like me—grin at Hannah—and still vote for Newton.

  The lines pick up as the afternoon progresses. Some people coming through are walking advertisements of which way they’re leaning, but I can’t read most of the voters. I watch now as a couple in line whisper intensely to each other. The guy keeps raising his hands high up in the air every so often.

  “I bet he’s telling her he can bench-press her,” I tell Hannah. “He totally looks like the type of guy to do that. She’s like, ‘Stop being obnoxious,’ but he’s like, ‘I totally can!’ I mean, why else is he putting his hands up like that?”

  “Maybe.” Hannah smiles politely at me, and then looks back at the crowd.

  My smile fades. This is one thing I’m trying not to focus on. Hannah is great. She’s wonderful. But she’s not Jamie.

  I clock out of my shift at five and pull out my phone. I click over to Jamie’s page. I scroll down past the photo of the poster at the temple, and the handful of photos from our Jordan Rossum meet-up. I look at the one with us and Rossum. Then the selfie with just Jamie and me. And the next one. Where I’m grinning into the camera like meeting Jordan is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.