I want to be that guy, though.
I’d rather be him than me.
I wait until Mom’s gone before flipping my phone back over, which probably looks extremely shady. But I swear it’s not like that. It’s just that Maya finally accepted my Instagram follow request, and even with my mom there, I had to sneak in a quick scroll. But now that she’s in the living room looking for a DJ who won’t be journeying to find love this month, I can finally take a real look.
I tap back into Instagram, where Maya’s page is already open, arranged into the standard stacks of squares. It’s not the kind of account with a careful, planned aesthetic, or even a general tone and mood like Grandma’s InstaGramm. It’s really just Maya’s life. There’s a selfie with sunglasses, a close-up of a raggedy, well-loved Elmo doll, and, scrolling back a little, a bunch of pictures with the curly-haired friend I saw her with at Target. Her friend Sara, I now know. And there’s even a close-up of one of the Rossum walk pieces we’ve been distributing, posted Sunday afternoon—which means I must have been right there when she posted it. The caption says, awesome Rossum day.
I can’t help but smile when I read that.
But my favorite picture—the one I keep coming back to—is this black-and-white close-up selfie. Just Maya’s face. Her dark hair hangs past her cheeks, wavy and long enough to fall out of frame. She’s smiling slightly with her mouth closed. But her eyes have this glint—not like she’s mad. More like she’s silently teasing someone.
It’s, uh. Not a bad look.
Then, out of the blue, as if I conjured her with my own thoughts—she texts me.
That’s never happened before. I mean, we’ve texted. But unless you count the initial This is Maya Rehman text from when we first exchanged numbers, I’ve always been the one to initiate contact. But this? This is an actual, spontaneous, non-logistical Maya text, popping onto my phone screen like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I almost drop my spoon.
InstaGramm followed me!! And before I can even respond, there’s a second text: Okay I know it’s because she’s your grandma and I met her etc, but also I’m kind of fangirling???
I set my phone down on the table.
So here’s the thing. Technically, Maya never accepted my Instagram follow request. That’s because technically, I don’t have an Instagram. I just don’t see the point of it, since I myself am not particularly Instagram-worthy. And if there’s something I want to look at, I just pop into Grandma’s account.
Which is . . . basically what I did this morning with Maya.
So she clearly thinks I’m Grandma. An honest mistake, seeing as I’m logged in as, well, Grandma. But it’s not like she would have denied my follow request if I’d followed her as myself. You don’t block your social media from someone you’re already texting—that’s just backward. Anyway, I’m almost positive Maya said her mom is the one who made her stay on private in the first place.
I feel a little guilty, though. It’s almost like I snuck past her privacy settings under false pretenses. I guess I could tell her right now that it’s me . . . but that feels awful too. I don’t want to rain on her followed-by-a-local-celebrity parade. And after the iffy first impression Maya had, it’s clear she’s now one hundred percent Team Grandma.
So I suck it up and write back: NICE.
And then I make Grandma’s account like a few of Maya’s pictures, because hey, Grandma would like Maya’s pictures if she saw them.
But I don’t click the heart on the black-and-white one. Not even from Grandma.
I’m just so painfully bad at anything girl-related. I don’t even know how to talk to them. I suppose I can technically form words around most of them.
But I don’t know how to do any of the other stuff.
Like that thing certain guys do where they tease a girl just the right amount. Or when the guy touches a girl’s arm in this very particular way, where it’s not a big deal, but it IS a big deal.
Drew’s always telling me not to stress about it. To just trust my instincts and let things play out. But that really only works if you have good instincts. And I can’t let things play out because there’s no thing to play out. They just don’t get it. Drew’s a huge flirt, but never in a serious way. And even though Felipe’s pretty guarded about boys, he stepped up big-time when Nolan entered the picture. I’m talking grand-gesture scavenger-hunt-promposal big-time. Meanwhile, I send one Shrek GIF, and days later, I’m still feeling like I came on way too strong.
I don’t even know where I’d turn for real advice on this stuff. Grandma, I guess—though her advice would be about communication and “opening your heart” and not about certain very physical sensations that happen when I look at a particular black-and-white picture.
Maybe it’s time for me to log out.
Sophie has a plan.
I mean, she pretty much always has a plan. When I was twelve, I don’t even think my brain had switched on yet, and here’s Sophie, forging schemes twice every day before breakfast.
“Here’s my thing about the teen room,” she says, settling deeper into the passenger seat. “It actually simplifies so many things. You’ll have more space in the ballroom—”
“Oh, you’re still stuck on this?”
“I’m not stuck,” she says—and I don’t even need to glance away from the road to know she’s rolling her eyes. “I’m just thinking out loud. Okay, so it also allows the lighting to be more customized to your guests’ needs. Right? Soft evening lights for the oldsters, dark mood lighting for the youth. Maybe a little bit of multicolored LED crystal ball strobe if we’re feeling fancy. And don’t say those words sound like drug names.”
“I didn’t say anything—”
“You were thinking it. And your predictability is a discussion for another day. But going back to the lighting . . .”
I tune in and out. It’s not that Sophie’s boring. But between the GPS on my phone and NPR droning in the background, I’ve missed a solid few minutes of her declaration.
“. . . Spin the Bottle, Seven Minutes in Heaven, right?”
“Wait, what?” The light’s red at 17th Street, so I can finally look at her face.
“Jamie, they’re games.”
“I know what they are. I just didn’t know you were playing them.”
“I never said I was.” She sniffs. “I’m just saying, these are the kinds of things that would be possible in a teen room. You just don’t know that, because you probably spent every weekend of seventh grade partying with people’s parents. You know that’s how they get you, right?”
I make the left onto Peachtree. “I don’t think it’s that diabolical, Soph. People are just trying to celebrate their kids.”
“I’m just saying. And even if Mom says no to the teen room, eighth grade is going to be totally different. Tessa said she’s having a no-parents birthday party this year, so yeah. We’re doing Spin the Bottle, we’re doing Seven Minutes in Heaven, we’re doing Suck and Blow—”
“Excuse me?”
“With a playing card. Jamie, you’re so innocent. Anyway, the other thing . . .”