“Okay.”
“Why do you think you’re so awkward?”
I furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”
“What’s your evidence? What makes you such a screwup?”
“Um.” I look up at her. “I mean . . . I vomited on your boss.”
“Okay, but look at all the people you didn’t vomit on.”
I nod slowly. “That’s a low bar for success.”
“I’m just saying. This is your narrative. You get to pick the framing. Why does that one interview have to define you? Maybe it was just a shitty morning. Maybe you ate something weird for breakfast. Whatever! Look at everything you’ve accomplished since then. The canvassing, the videos, the toast. You know that toast was amazing, right?”
“Amazing? Yeah, right—”
“Hey, you’re smiling.” She pokes my cheek. “Because you know you killed it up there.”
“Okay.” I roll my eyes. “I killed it. I’m amazing. I’m an amazing speaker who inspires the masses and hardly pukes on anyone. You happy?”
“You did,” Mom says firmly. “And you are. And I am.”
I don’t want to cry again. I don’t even think my eye muscles have enough strength left for round three. But a tear breaks free anyway.
“Love you, Mom.” I swallow thickly.
She kisses my forehead. “Love you too.”
She leaves, Boomer trotting out behind her, and my whole body deflates. But the moment I settle back onto my pillow, my phone buzzes. And then buzzes again. I tug it out of my charger, my heart lodged in my throat—
It’s Grandma. Of course. Not that I thought . . .
Yeah.
Grandma: Hi, lovey! Just wanted to let you know that a certain picture is officially gone from Rossum’s page! All I had to do was threaten to delete every single piece of Rossum content from my personal account, and your cousin was very reasonable about the whole thing. Apparently there’s an election in two days he’d like to promote. Who knew? And I’m emailing Buzzfeed, Hypable, and Upworthy right now.
I shove my phone under my pillow. God. The picture made it to Upworthy too? Hypable?
There’s a knock. “Let me in.” Sophie’s morning voice, husky with sleep.
I sit up, cross-legged, yawning.
“It’s open.”
Sophie’s in pajama pants and a tank top—half loosely curled bat mitzvah hair, half bedhead. There’s an open cardboard box tucked under her arm.
“Dad sent stroopwafels,” she says. “Global overnighted them. Probably cost a million euros. Here.” She sets the box by my feet on the bed, and then plops down beside it. “I guess we should eat them. Or something.”
“I do like stroopwafels.” I grab two packs of them, handing one to Sophie, before sliding the box onto the floor. Sophie stares at it, glumly.
Okay. Got to rally. Sophie’s clearly in that post–bat mitzvah slump. Which means she deserves a real big brother, not a catatonic mess.
“Do you feel any different?” I ask. “You’re a woman now—”
“Shut up. What happened with Maya?”
My stomach drops. “We don’t have to talk about that.”
“Excuse me. I woke up at the ass crack of dawn the day after my bat mitzvah to bring you stroopwafels. The least you can do is fill me in. Mom won’t tell me anything.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
Sophie looks at me witheringly. “Oh, so you didn’t spend the last hour of my party hiding in Mom’s car?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to—”
“Jamie! It’s fine. I’m just worried about you. I’m trying to be a supportive sister here.”
“That’s not how it works. You’re the little sister. I’m supposed to be the supportive one. And it was your night, which I ruined—”
“You didn’t ruin anything.” Sophie scoots closer. “Shut up and just tell me what happened.”
“Okay, those are slightly contradictory demands—”
She pushes my arm. “So, you and Maya kissed.”
“No! No, we didn’t. It just looks like that.”
“Fine. You almost kissed.”
“And then somehow Maddie photographed us? I didn’t even see her there.”
“She feels awful,” Sophie says. “She saw Gabe looking for you at the luncheon, so she followed him outside. She really likes you, Jamie.”
“Then why would she want a picture of me with another girl?”
“I mean, I don’t think she really thought it through. She just snapped it, and texted it to the squad—”
“And Gabe, apparently.”
“Well, Gabe specifically asked for it,” she says.
“And Maddie gave it to him.”
“She didn’t know he was going to turn it into a campaign ad!” Sophie tilts her palms up. “I’m telling you, she feels so bad.”
“It’s fine.” I stare at my barely nibbled stroopwafel. “I mean, it’s not fine, and Maya’s never going to speak to me again, ever. But that’s Gabe’s fault, not Maddie’s.”
Sophie’s face falls. “You don’t think Maya will come around?”
“Well, seeing as she said—and I quote—it’s not going to happen. Ever. . . .”
Sophie’s face falls. “Jamie, I’m so sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. It’s the morning after your bat mitzvah. The last thing you need is my girl drama.”
She sighs. “Girl drama is the worst.”
“You have no idea.”
“I have some idea,” she says.
“Yeah, okay.” I smile weakly. “I guess your friends are a little dramatic.”
Sophie doesn’t say anything.
I turn to face her. “Everything okay with the group? The squad isn’t fighting, is it?”
“No, not squad drama.” Sophie pauses. “It’s Tessa.”
“Oh, right. With the sketchy boyfriend. Ugh.” I make a face. “Sorry, Soph. That has to suck. I don’t know what I’d do if Drew or Felipe dated someone awful.”
“Oh my God, Jamie.” Sophie presses her hands to her face. “You are missing the point in, like, fifty billion ways right now.”
“I’m missing . . .” I shoot a fuzzy glance at Sophie, who’s now staring pointedly at her knees. And then it hits me. “Tessa. Oh. Sophie.”
Her cheeks flush. “Don’t tell Mom, okay?”
“Of course not. Soph.” I sit up straight, scooting closer. “So . . . you and Tessa. Are you guys—”
“No!” She winces. “It’s just a stupid crush.”
“It’s not stupid.” I peer at her profile. “Does she know?”
“No one knows.”
“Okay.” I nod. “Wow. So this is like . . . is this . . . you’re coming out?”
“I don’t have, like, a label or anything. I don’t know.” Sophie shrugs uncomfortably. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just saying, maybe I kind of get the Maya thing—”