“Jamie, they’re basically all the same thing.”
“Yeah, right.” He laughs. But then he glances at me and pauses. “Wait. Are you serious? You know they have Oreo-flavored Goldfish, right? Are you saying even those taste the same?”
“Well, obviously the Oreo ones are different, but the rest of them are similar. It’s just marketing.”
He looks like that kid in kindergarten who I accidentally let slip to that Santa wasn’t real.
“No way. This calls for a taste test. But we’ll need to get some regular Goldfish crackers to do it right.”
“We can’t just use the ones here?”
“It’s important to have a neutral one to cleanse the palate between taste tests. We’ll get some before canvassing tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.” I smile.
I settle into the couch after Jamie drops me back home. Willow hops in my lap. I flip on The Office—my go-to show I’ve seen so many times, I know most of the dialogue by heart at this point. It’s the ultimate comfort viewing.
I pull out my phone as the theme music opens, and scroll through my feed. Four likes on my Eid selfie. A comment from my aunt Jameela in Philadelphia about how big I’m getting.
Nothing from Sara.
I click the home feed. And then I freeze.
It’s a post from Sara. A repost of Jenna’s, actually. The time stamp says it was posted forty-five minutes ago.
It’s a photo of their dorm room, all set up with cream curtains, a fluffy pastel-blue rug, and lights strung around the windows. The metal trash can is there too. The caption reads, Check out my dorm, thanks to the amazing artistic eye of my bestie and future roomie, Jenna!
It’s like I’ve been physically punched.
I screenshot the photo and text Sara.
Nice dorm room. Loving the BFF lingo.
Sara responds quicker than she has in weeks.
Ha. I’m still as much of a cheeseball as I ever was. Isn’t the room great?!
My finger hovers over the phone’s keyboard. I want to ask her why, if she’s on Instagram right now, she hasn’t even so much as liked my Eid photo? I want to tell her why the term bestie cuts straight to my heart. Best is quantifiable. It means someone is better than all the rest.
Jenna is her bestie.
Where does that leave me?
Part of me wants to ask her if she’s free. But I can’t bring myself to hear that she’s busy.
The room is great, I tell her. I put the phone down and rub Willow’s ears. On-screen, Michael Scott is explaining why he’s the best boss ever. Jim deadpans into the camera. Like he’s wondering what on earth is happening and how did he end up here.
Today, I completely understand.
Chapter Seventeen
Jamie
Hi, everyone. Thank you all for being here. I just want to take a minute to say mazel tov to my amazing sister—
Delete.
Jewish tradition says Sophie’s an adult now, but I’ll always think of Sophie as the little girl who peed on the floor so often—
Delete. Sophie would kill me.
When Sophie was six, she replaced an entire carton of eggs with Barbie heads, and I screamed so loud—
Yikes.
I don’t know how YouTube makes it seem so effortless—or where everyone’s finding these troves of funny, sentimental childhood stories. No joke: all my memories make Sophie and me look like complete weirdos. Even the ones that seem funny in my head just sound tragic when I try to write them out.
Remember when Sophie called me da-da for a year because she forgot I wasn’t her dad? Delete. Delete. Delete.
I stare listlessly at my Notes app—it’s so blank, it’s taunting me.
I can’t do this. I roll onto my stomach, checking the clock on my phone. Time’s been moving so slowly all morning. I just want it to be three o’clock, so I can pick Maya up for Goldfish and then canvassing. And maybe—
Well. We’ll see if I’m brave enough.
I log into Grandma’s Instagram to sneak a peek at Maya’s profile. I really like her last picture—a selfie from yesterday near a buffet table, captioned Eid Mubarak. She just looks so goofy and cute with her lips pressed together and her eyes gazing upward. It’s weird, but I almost wish I could comment. And not as Grandma.
Maybe I should bite the bullet and get my own Instagram.
I tap into my camera app and flip it to selfie cam, studying my face. I look . . . okay. I think? My hair’s thankfully at that just-right semi-overgrown stage—note to self: avoid haircuts. And Mom and Grandma say my summer freckles are cute, so who knows?
I’m going to ask her. This doesn’t have to be a big deal. Not a Brianne Henke slowmance situation. Just a casual, friendly invitation.
So . . . any interest in going to cafe intermezzo after canvassing for the inaugural post-Eid chocolate cake?
Cool. We’re cool. Staying calm. Even though there are ellipses, which means Maya’s literally typing right this second. Probably just trying to think of the nicest way to say eww no, never. God. She’ll probably cancel Target and canvassing too, just to drive the message home. I bet—
Intermezzo sounds perfect!!
Wow. Okay, wow. She just—
But before I can fully process it, there’s Grandma. “Knock knock!”
I play it chill. Like a regular Jamie. As opposed to a Jamie who just successfully invited Maya to Café Intermezzo tonight. Not that it’s a date. But Café Intermezzo—I mean, it’s Café Intermezzo. That’s literally where my parents met. And, okay, my parents aren’t exactly relationship goals. But still. Café Intermezzo’s about as close to a date as a non-date can get.
Unless Maya thinks it’s a date?
Hahahahahahaha. Yeah right. Like that would even occur to Maya. Pretty sure Jamie and dating are two mutually exclusive concepts. To Maya and literally everyone else.
“Jamie? My goodness, you’re not still sleeping, are you?” Grandma says through the door. “It’s almost noon!”
“I’m up! Sorry. Come on in.”
She opens the door, peering at me from the doorway. “Aren’t you supposed to be canvassing today?”
“You’re going canvassing?” yells Sophie from the hallway, careening past her, into my room. “When?”
“Not until four. Picking up Maya at three, though—we’re going to Target first to grab some Goldfish. We’re doing a taste test.”
“Perfect.” Sophie clasps her hands. “Mom’s leaving work early today to finish the chalkboard sign, and she’s out of control. I’m texting her right now that I’m coming with you guys. Ha!”
I narrow my eyes. “Shouldn’t you be studying your Torah portion?”
“Nope!”
“Or something . . .”
“Nope! I’m all yours and Maya’s.”
“Lucky us,” I say, sighing. But Sophie just grins.
Of course, Sophie’s in full chatterbox mode, talking nonstop all the way to Target. And it’s even worse when we get there.
“You should have seen his face,” Sophie says as we make our way through the home decor. “He was trying so hard to pick them up, but they kept dropping. It was raining tangelos. Hold on, I think I have the Boomerang saved.”