Before either of us can respond, he’s marched off to the next unsuspecting sucker.
Lauren and my mother talk a little more, while I glare at my mother’s profile. She acts like I’m not even there.
As soon as they’re gone, I turn to my mother.
“Why did you volunteer me like that?” I explode.
“What’s the problem? You have time, don’t you? Plus, you need volunteer hours for school.”
“Sara was going to see if she could take off that evening so we could hang out together. You know how busy she’s been.”
“Honey, you know how her plans always change and you end up sulking on the couch all night.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to go canvassing with some random person.”
“Random? He was your best friend before you could even talk.”
“Friendships when you’re still in diapers don’t count! And now I have to knock on strangers’ doors? Like I don’t have enough to deal with?”
“Look.” She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “I know how much you have to deal with. And I know change is difficult for you—I bet this is all landing extra heavy. But doing something positive will take your mind off things. It’s just one day. If you don’t like it, you never have to do it again.”
“I’m not going.”
“This wasn’t a request.” Her voice grows sharp. “Mom Card getting pulled, kiddo. You are going.” Before I can say another word, Imam Jackson walks up to the podium at the front of the hall and clears his throat in the microphone. Everyone grows quiet.
“Asalamualaikum. Thank you for attending our seventh annual interfaith iftar,” he says. “And what a special honor to have none other than Jordan Rossum with us. We will hear from him later this evening. In a few moments, the adhan will sound for evening prayers, which will conclude another day of fasting. Please join us in food and conversation as we remember, yet again, that there is far more that unites us than divides us.”
Imam Jackson continues his talk as I glance around the room. After the frenetic energy that came with Rossum’s arrival, everyone is standing quite still now, listening attentively. When he finishes, the adhan sounds from the loudspeakers. Rabbi Levinson and Pastor Jones pass out plates with dates for people to open their fasts. A line begins to form at the iftar table.
“Hey, Maya.” Jamie approaches me. His hands are in his pockets. “I’m heading out after this meal. I’m happy to give you a ride home. I mean if you need one. I could drop you off. No problem.”
“Um, no.” I look at him. “I’m all set.”
“Oh yeah, sure. Of course.” He nods quickly. “Well, see you tomorrow.”
I watch him walk away and think of my empty house. Sara, who will soon be two hours away. And now, a Friday knocking on strangers’ doors.
Suddenly, I’m not so hungry.
Chapter Five
Jamie
Maya’s not even here yet, but I can’t stop thinking about how the campaign office is going to look through her eyes. I’ve been in and out of this annex all summer. How have I never noticed the hellscape of empty coffee cups and half-eaten pizza bagels on Gabe’s desk, or the weird eggy smell wafting up from the trash bin? No one would mistake the office for fancy, but I guess it seemed passable. Now I realize it’s basically the room version of Gabe’s beard—scraggly, unfinished, and kind of painful to look at.
Something tells me Maya won’t exactly be blown away.
I can’t believe she was at the Rossum dinner. Or at Target. How does that happen? How do you go nine years without seeing someone, and then run into them twice in the span of two days? It’s like when you learn a new word, and suddenly it’s everywhere.
I guess seeing her kind of threw me—though not in a bad way. Really, it was the opposite of a bad way. I don’t believe in signs, but it’s so weird. There I was, kicking myself for not talking to her at Target—and then there she was again. An unmissable second chance. For a split second, I actually thought mingling might not be such a terrible concept after all.
Until I made the mistake of actually speaking to her. Wow. I didn’t think anything could come close to the Snow Ball, but this may have actually been worse. Who knew it was possible to squeeze so many painfully awkward moments into two five-minute interactions? Let’s start with the fact that I knocked over a whole table of food and water bottles. Because of course I did. And I still feel stupid for offering her a ride. After all, we’re practically strangers at this point. But when I heard her tell her mom she was stranded, not offering just felt mean.
Turns out, Maya would rather be stranded than ride with me.
Of course, there’s no point worrying about what she thinks about me, or the campaign office, or anything. Frankly, I don’t even know if she’ll show up.
It’s the first time I’ve ever been here with a real group of volunteers. I’m pretty good at popping in during off-hours when it’s just Gabe and Hannah and sometimes their lead intern, Alison. And anyway, the canvassers usually start from the main office, out in Dunwoody. But now there are a dozen people here, mostly Hannah’s friends from Spelman, plus a friendly-looking black woman with deep dimples and a pair of middle-aged white women in scarves and chunky jewelry. I know a dozen’s not a particularly huge number of volunteers in the grand scheme of things, but quarters are so tight, people are crowded all the way to the stack of cardboard boxes and yard signs lining the back wall. Everyone’s holding the manila envelopes Alison distributed when we walked in, but nothing’s really happened yet, even though we’re a few minutes past the start time.
I glance back toward the door. Still no Maya.
Though I guess I shouldn’t judge her for being late when Gabe isn’t even here yet. And sorry, but if Gabe doesn’t show up, I’m bailing.
But right then, Gabe emerges from the side-entrance door, wearing a blindingly bright white T-shirt with Rossum’s logo across the chest. He climbs onto a kick stool and cups his hands around his mouth, like he’s doing crowd control. “Welcome, one and all, to volunteer orientation,” Gabe announces. “Now holler at me if you’re ready to have a Rossumly awesome time. State District Forty is about to get hella canvassed, and I am so here for it.” He pounds a fist in the air.
It’s like watching your oldest, cringiest teacher try to win over the class with slang they googled during their planning period. And I’m pretty sure Gabe being only twenty-three makes it worse.
After a few minutes of Gabe booming a bunch of vaguely campaign-related words, Maya slinks in through the back. I wave tentatively, and she walks over. “I grabbed you an extra packet,” I whisper.
“Thanks. And FYI, there are at least two car alarms going off in the parking lot right now.”
“Gabe’s greatest talent.” I attempt a casual smile.
Maya’s smile back is ninety percent grimace.
“Now I know this all may be a little out of your comfort zone,” Gabe is saying. “So let’s take a minute to emotionally prepare. Repeat after me. We’re awesome.”
“We’re awesome,” I mumble, with the rest of the volunteers. Maya looks skeptical.