God. Why? Why are we doing this?
“I’m so glad you’re having fun with this,” Mom says, “and I really am so proud of you, Jamie. Canvassing a handful of times—that alone is incredible, but to have sustained that effort for so long now . . .”
“If we get Rossum elected, it’s worth it.”
“Right.” Mom pauses. “Okay, here’s the thing.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Nothing bad! You’re not doing anything wrong, sweetie.” She looks at me. “I just wanted to make sure you’re going into this with eyes wide open. I’m scared you’re getting your hopes up about Rossum.”
“I’m not supposed to be hopeful?”
“No, of course you are! And there’s a lot to be hopeful about, for sure. But . . . I guess I just want to make sure you understand that progress may not always happen as quickly as we want it to. Our district has been red for a very long time. Overwhelmingly so—”
“Are you following the polls, though? Yesterday, the AJC was showing Rossum behind by less than four percentage points, which is barely outside the margin of error. And you should see the momentum at headquarters. It was packed—”
“And that’s great!” Mom smiles. “That’s all so promising, and you never know. I just want to make sure you’re emotionally prepared either way. No election is a guarantee.”
“I know that.”
“I don’t mean to be discouraging. I think what you and Maya are doing is amazing. I love how invested you are. I just don’t want you to get so invested that it breaks your heart.”
So invested that it breaks my heart.
I try to push the thought from my brain before it even lands. Is it possible to be too invested in a candidate? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Commit one hundred percent?
But maybe I really am on track for heartbreak.
Maybe the person I’m too invested in isn’t Rossum.
“Jamie?” Mom asks.
“No, I know. I get it. I just think we have to believe it’s possible. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“Just remember,” Mom says. “The fact that we even have a fighting chance is a win.”
I smile faintly. “Okay, Mom.”
She scoots closer, reaching out to pat my arm. “Anyway, I’m just happy you and Maya gave yourselves a night off for once.”
Aha. There it is.
“You two looked pretty cozy,” she adds.
“Mom, we’re not—”
“I know you’re not dating,” she says quickly. “I just think it’s good that you guys are also doing non-election-related things together. You should do more of that.”
“Okay . . .”
“I’m serious! You should do something just for fun, like the aquarium, or the nature center, or even just dinner and a movie.”
I blush. “It sure sounds like you think we’re dating.”
Mom laughs. “Well, I do think you guys would be cute together. Have you thought about asking her out?”
“Mom.”
“Just a suggestion! Sometimes we tend to build this stuff up, you know? And it doesn’t have to be a huge deal. Would you want to date Maya?”
I laugh incredulously. “That doesn’t matter. She has to want to.”
“You’re right,” Mom says, “but I’m not asking if she wants to. That’s for her to figure out. I’m asking if you want to.”
“I guess.”
“And does she know how you feel?”
She would if she read all those Instagram comments.
“I don’t know,” I say finally.
“Maybe you should spell it out for her.”
I gape at Mom, horrified. “That’s not—”
“Or just start simple, and invite her to something!”
“I have!” I shake my head. “Intermezzo, the bat mitzvah—”
“Oh!” Mom peers at my face for a moment, clearly biting back a smile. “Sophie mentioned Maya was coming, but I didn’t realize she was your plus-one.”
“Yup. Sure. Can we stop talking about this?”
I’m sorry, but it’s ridiculous. Mom’s here acting like this Maya thing is already a home run. How can she be so confident about that? And especially when she’s so lukewarm about Rossum’s chances! God knows what the polling data would say about my chances with Maya. Imagine if that were a thing.
Though. I guess it is kind of a thing. On Instagram.
Of course, the real problem is the fact that I’ve just told Mom that Maya’s my plus-one to the bat mitzvah. Whereas Maya probably thinks she’s my political accomplice.
And I have no idea which one’s closer to the truth.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Maya
The mall isn’t the same without Sara.
The pagoda with the obnoxiously funky outerwear just looks like a sad stall with overpriced hats and scarves. Nordstrom, where we could spend an entire day trying on all the different high-heeled shoes, feels flooded with too many options. Even the Apple Store, where we’d check out the newest iPhones and iPads, looks like an ordinary electronics store today.
I’d debated asking Jamie to come with me, but this place is so “Maya and Sara” I didn’t want to risk another sobbing, snotty-faced experience with witnesses. And I was right—memories lurk around every corner.
Focus, Maya. I’m on a mission: Buy a dress. Get Sophie a gift.
But the Fourth of July banners and sale signs are overwhelming, and even the smaller stores like Francesca’s and Banana Republic feel dizzying with all the possibilities. If Sara were here, she’d pluck out the top five outfits. Where do I even begin?
I look at a dress hanging inside a store and pause. All those times Sara and I went shopping, it was me buying the outfits. Sara came along to help me decide. She jokingly called herself my “fashion consultant”—but why hadn’t I ever stopped to consider why she never bought anything herself?
My phone buzzes.
Jamie: Hey, Maya! Cool if I put us down for some canvassing tomorrow? How’s 11:00 a.m.? Would that possibly work for you?
I laugh at his weirdly formal tone.
Maya: Why yes, Jamie. It certainly does.
Jamie: Awesome! Pick you up at 10:45!
I walk through the food court. My stomach rumbles. I’m going to get something to eat and recalibrate.
“Maya!” a voice calls out just then. It’s Nolan. He’s getting up from a table right by me.
“You work at the Disney Store?” I glance at his name tag with mouse ears.
“If you ever want a stuffed animal or figurine, hit me up. I’ll get you the employee discount.”
“You don’t sell formalwear there, do you?”
“If we did, it’d be covered in Mickey Mouse.” He grins. “It’s weird to see you out and about without Jamie. You have been inseparable all summer.”
“I’m on a Jamie-related mission,” I tell him. “I’m looking for an outfit for the bat mitzvah.”
“Right! Felipe told me about that! Your first date.”
“Oh! Um, no,” I stammer. “We’re not—”