“So we’ll keep fighting.”
“Yeah, definitely.” I nod. “If you want, I can pick you up next time.”
“Oh, awesome. Thanks,” she says. “So . . . tomorrow?”
She’s looking at me with the sweetest half smile, and I make a million promises to myself right on the spot. I’m going to be a badass. I won’t freeze up. I don’t care who opens the door. Even if it’s literally Fifi the white supremacist dog meme. I don’t care. I’m going to knock that cup of tea straight in its racist poodle face.
I look Maya right in the eye and smile back. “Tomorrow’s perfect.”
Chapter Eight
Maya
“So, what do you think?” my dad asks.
We’re standing in the apartment. His apartment. Unopened cardboard boxes line one side of the family room. The old futon that lived in our basement has made a comeback—it’s propped against the other side of the wall like it’s trying to be an official and proper sofa. Then I notice the folded-up blanket on the edge. The pillow.
Or maybe it’s trying to be a bed.
I almost ask him if he’s going to buy a table to eat on, but I stop myself. No need to fill this place up with furniture. This is temporary.
“They have valet trash.” He clears his throat. “You put your garbage outside and someone gets it. Like magic. And the appliances are all brand-new and up-to-date.” He gestures toward the stainless-steel fridge, which apparently tells time. And the stainless-steel oven. That also tells time. I glance around at all the appliances blinking 11:15 a.m. at me.
“How was the ride? Did the app work okay?”
“Four minutes door-to-door, like you said. Ten minutes if you count waiting for the car to show up.”
“Great. And oh!” His eyes light up. “I didn’t even show you the best part of this place. I set up your room. You’re going to love it.”
“My room?”
“Yep.” He grins. “Follow me.”
I follow him down a carpeted hallway with cream-colored walls. He swings open a door with a dramatic flourish. When I step inside, I blink.
“It’s . . . pink.” I glance at the walls. There’s a lavender bedspread. A poster of Zayn Malik eyes me from next to the window, and a gray kitten with a beanie hat grins above my bed.
“Yep.” He smiles proudly. “And look at the posters. I couldn’t find an exact match but it’s pretty close, isn’t it?”
“Exact match?”
“To your room back home.”
My first instinct is to laugh. I mean, this room is definitely very Maya—circa five years ago. But the laughter fades in my throat when I look around and realize—he’s right. It’s a little fun house mirror-ish. But all of this stuff is up in my other room. I cringe at the Imagine Dragons poster next to the closet. That was my intense Haris Divan phase. He taught my Sunday school Seerah class when I was twelve and always wore Imagine Dragons T-shirts, so somehow I became a fan for the three months he taught us. It’s weird to wrap my head around the fact that I didn’t recognize my own bedroom decor. All these things have been up for so long, I stopped noticing.
My father has the I-hope-I-didn’t-screw-this-up look on his face right now.
“Thanks, Dad.” I hug him. “It looks . . . terrifyingly identical.”
“I know this is hard enough as is for you,” my father says. “I wanted to make sure your personal space at my place was as comfortable as it could be.”
His place. Suddenly, my heart feels so heavy, I can’t breathe. How can the two people I love most in the world not love each other anymore?
“I miss you,” I whisper.
“I’m four minutes away, silly,” he says. But his voice is tight. He understands what I mean.
The phone rings just then. My dad glances down. “Gotta take this, bug,” he says. “On call this weekend. Why don’t you get settled into your room?”
He heads to the kitchen with the phone balanced on his shoulder. I glance up at the poster above my bed. I swear, that kitty is winking at me. I snap a picture and text it to Sara.
Maya: My new art aesthetic, courtesy of my father. Do you see all the fun you’re missing out on? #SaveMe
I check the screen, waiting for the three dots to appear like they normally do. But they don’t. It’s never been a problem before to have only one close friend, but I feel the scarcity now.
My phone buzzes then. But it’s not Sara.
Jamie: Two minutes away.
“Jamie’s on his way,” I tell my dad as I walk past him.
“Have fun canvassing.” He covers the mouthpiece with his hand. “Home in time for iftar?”
“Does pho sound good?” I ask.
“Pho is always good.”
I kiss his cheek and head down to the curb. Jamie’s still not here yet. I lean against the stone exterior of the building and pull out my phone. I have to admit, I was a bit skeptical, but the truth of the matter is, InstaGramm is the absolute best.
There’s a new photo posted. I stifle a laugh. This one is too much. She’s lying down on the grass with her arms spread wide, Boomer licking her face, and the Valencia filter is on full force. The caption says: Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.
It’s too cute for words.
Jamie’s faded green Subaru pulls up just then. His phone, balanced in the cup holder, flashes and buzzes when I get in.
“Do you need to get that?” I gesture to the phone.
“No.” He glances down. “It’s just my friend Drew. I was supposed to get together with him this afternoon.”
“Oh, well, I mean, if you had plans . . .”
“It’s fine. He’s just going to be gaming, and I’m seeing him later anyway.”
“Gaming? Like video games?”
“Mostly Fortnite, lately. He and some other guys from school are planning a marathon today. I forgot.” He sighs.
“A gaming marathon? You sit around in a darkened room and stare at a screen all day?”
“Yeah—it’s fun.” He nods. “What’s your favorite system?”
“I don’t have a system,” I tell him. “I don’t think I’ve played a video game. Ever.”
“What?” The car slows down as he glances at me. “That is . . . so sad.”
“You know what else is sad? Listening to the best retirement options for government employees.” I point to the radio station. “I’m down with NPR, but we’re not the target demographic for this interview.” I lean over to change the station, but nothing happens.
“Oh yeah, that,” he says. “Sorry, it’s stuck on NPR.”
“Seriously?”
“This is my mom’s old car. I think she listened to that station so hard, poor old Alfie forgot any other station exists.”
“Alfie?”
“The car,” he says.
“I can use my dad’s Spotify account. Do you have a cable? I can connect my phone.”
“Sorry, Alfie’s old-school. No USB capabilities. But if it’s annoying, I could turn the radio off?”
“Nah.” I sink back against the car seat. “Maybe I’ll pick up some retirement tips. Can’t start too early, right?”