Mom stares at me, wide-eyed. “Someone targeted you? A Nazi?”
Grandma squeezes my hand. “It’s been happening quite a bit.”
“Oh yeah,” Gabe says brightly. “It’s all over the district. They’re going after Rossum supporters, anyone with a magnet or bumper sticker. Big J, we gotta get a photo of you with that sticker.”
“With me?” I look at him. “Why?”
“Because we’re not going to take this sitting down.” Gabe’s cheeks flush. “Gram, get this down. Local Nazis Vandalize Car of Rossum Assistant Campaign Manager’s Seventeen-Year-Old Cousin.” He punches the air. “We’re gonna go viral with this.”
My stomach sinks. “You want me to go viral?”
“Hell yes!” Gabe says. “This is exactly the narrative we need to wake up all those Dems who were planning to sit this election out.”
I stare down at Boomer’s head. “Okay . . . you don’t need to interview me or anything, right?”
“Absolutely not,” Mom says loudly. “Gabe, you can’t attach Jamie’s name to this.”
“How about something anonymous,” Grandma suggests, “like Local Nazi Vandalizes Teenager’s Car.”
“No!” Gabe says. “No, you’re missing the point. The fact that he’s my cousin—that’s the game changer. That’s what makes it personal. Like the Rossum campaign is under attack. What? Oh no! How do we stop the bad guys? Guess we should donate! Guess we should VOTE!”
Mom stands abruptly. “So you’re just going to put your Jewish cousin out there as a target for these Nazi monsters? Jamie Goldberg? You think the name Goldberg isn’t going to attract their attention?”
“You don’t get it. The local guy is just going after Rossum supporters.” Gabe shakes his head. “It’s not a Jew thing.”
“Your grandmother just said Fifi is used to target Jewish journalists—”
“On Twitter!” Gabe says. “Jamie doesn’t even have a Twitter.”
“Well, now we know there’s a Nazi prowling around Sandy Springs. At least one, who knows how many! I don’t want Jamie’s name out there.”
“But the narrative—”
“Screw your narrative!” Mom smacks her hands down on the chair back.
“Okay, let’s all calm down and think about this rationally—”
Grandma raises her eyebrows at Gabe. “Bubalah, should we try dialing back the condescension?”
He glances down at her sheepishly. “I just want to make sure we’re considering all the angles here.”
Mom shakes her head firmly. “You are not putting my Jewish son’s name on the internet in this capacity. You’re not going to make your cousin a target for Nazis. That’s final.”
“Hello! I’m Jewish too!” He turns to Grandma. “Don’t you think—”
“She’s right,” Grandma says.
“Oh, come on—”
“Lovey, listen to what your aunt is saying. We have to step back for a moment and realize our experience may be a little different here. You, me, your aunt Lauren—we walk through the world with the last name Miller, and people don’t automatically associate that with being—”
“Jewish. I get it! But look, I’m putting myself out there too,” Gabe says. “I’m saying Jamie’s my cousin. You want me to be clear in the post that I’m Jewish? No problem.”
“I’m just saying we owe it to Jamie to hear his perspective.”
My perspective. I don’t have a perspective. How could I? I’ve never felt threatened because of my last name. Never. I mean, yeah, everyone’s always known I’m Jewish. It’s the first thing people know about me when they hear my name. But no one’s ever made that seem dangerous.
Except . . . maybe the danger’s been there the whole time, like a sleeping Voldemort everyone knew to be on quiet alert for.
Everyone but me.
Or maybe a part of me knew. Not intellectually, not a kind of knowing I could put into words. But there’s this nervous prickle I get reading certain news articles. Or when I saw Fifi smiling up from Alfie’s bumper. It’s not so much like someone pulling the floor out from under you. More like someone tugging the floor sideways, just a little. Just to remind you they can. But how do I even compare that to what Maya must feel? Pretty sure Maya hasn’t had a solid floor to stand on for years. I think a lot of people haven’t.
I mean, in the face of something like H.B. 28, does a symbolic cartoon poodle even matter?
“We’re not doing the perspective dance,” Mom says, rounding on Gabe. “I’m Jamie’s mom, and I say it’s not happening. It’s a done deal.”
Gabe sputters. “Well, excuse me for trying to give the Dems a reason to give a shit about this random local election in the middle of July.” Gabe glares back and forth at them. “If I can’t even make my own family care—”
“I care,” I say quietly.
“So what? You can’t even vote.”
I want to scream. I’ve been canvassing. I’ve addressed postcards. I’ve gone to campaign events and run errands and I woke up early to plead with a racist in a neck scarf.
I do care. Kind of a lot.
And I wish—for the eleventy billionth time—that I were a mic-drop kind of person. The kind of person who harnesses words and stacks them together. Someone like Rossum. Maybe Gabe would listen to me then. I’d make him listen. I’d make everyone listen.
But then something inside me deflates. I rub my forehead, peering up at Gabe. “I can do yard signs, okay?”
“Okay, sweet,” he says, perking up. “We’ll get you hooked up tomorrow morning.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be like a million degrees tomorrow?”
“So wear sunscreen,” says Gabe. “We really can’t go another day. Newton’s got the whole district postered. We gotta step up. You got it under control?”
“I—”
“You care about Rossum winning, right?”
“Of course I—”
“Great. I’ll text Hannah and Alison—they’ll have the signs ready for you to pick up by eight thirty. And before I forget, let me snap a quick pic of Fifi on your car.”
Mom’s jaw drops. “Excuse me? We agreed—”
“No names mentioned. Just hanging on to it in case we can fold it into some kind of narrative later.” Gabe grins. “It’s bound to happen to someone else soon, right?”
Grandma and Mom exchange glances, and even Boomer sighs.
Chapter Fourteen
Maya
It’s still dark out as I finish up my cereal and OJ.
My dad, aka Mr. Morning Person, is all about making an elaborate suhoor spread to start off a full day of fasting. He always woke up an hour before my mom and me to make coffee, whip up omelets, fry turkey bacon, and chop up fruit.
But he’s not here. My mother is nursing a microwaved cup of tea and moving some leftovers around her plate, and I’m looking down at some soggy Cheerios.