“Sophie. This is a big deal.” I wrap my arms around her, hugging her tightly. “I’m really glad you told me.”
“Okay.” She squirms out of the hug. “Just don’t be weird about it.”
“I love you so much.”
“Jamie! I said don’t be weird.”
Suddenly, she bursts into tears.
“Soph.” I hug her again, and this time she buries her face in my chest. “Shh. Hey. It’s going to be fine.”
“I know.” Her voice is muffled. “I’m just relieved. And I feel ridiculous. Like I just made a big deal out of nothing.”
“You’re not ridiculous.”
She draws back, wiping her eyes. “Listen. I can’t promise I won’t steal your girlfriends—”
“Okay, someone needs to have a serious talk with you and your friends about appropriate age gaps.”
“I love you too, by the way.” Sophie smiles tearfully. “You’re my favorite person. That was a rock solid coming-out talk. Ten out of ten.”
“Ooh, good call. There should be Yelp ratings for this—”
“Hey. I have something to show you,” Sophie says, reaching down into the stroopwafel box. She roots around for a moment before pulling out a manila envelope.
“Should I be worried?” I narrow my eyes. “It’s not from Maddie, right?”
She laughs, pinching the clasp open. “Nope. Well, sort of. It’s from everyone.” She upturns the envelope, dumping a pile of postcards onto the bed. “You kind of inspired us.”
I pick one up, examining it. It’s addressed to Congressman Holden. Hi, my name is Andrea Jacobs, I’m an almost eighth grader at Riverview Middle School, and I’m writing to say please vote no on H.B. 28. It is an unfair discriminatory bill and it is racist and cruel. Please vote no or I will remember and vote against you in five years which is when I am old enough to vote. Thank you for your time. Sincerely, Andrea Jacobs.
I look at Sophie. “Andrea wrote this?”
“I know Holden’s not going to vote against his own bill,” Sophie says. “But a bunch of Hebrew school people live in other districts, so maybe their Congress guys will listen? I don’t know. Maybe it’s pointless—”
“It’s not pointless.” I shake my head. “Sophie, this is amazing.”
“Everyone wrote one. Every single person,” she says, nudging me sideways. “See, my friends aren’t scary. Well, except Tessa. She’s terrifying.” She pulls Tessa’s postcard out of the stack to show me.
Dear Congressman Holden, My name is Tessa Andrews and I’m thirteen, I go to Riverview Middle School. I am writing this postcard to tell you to vote against Racist H.B. 28 or I will tell my parents not to vote for you. Discrimination is not okay!!!!! Yours truly, Tessa Andrews.
“I can’t believe you got everyone to do this. Sophie.” I look at her. “During your bat mitzvah reception.”
“In the teen room.” She shrugs.
“I legit thought you guys were going to use that room to make out with each other.”
Sophie stares at Tessa’s postcard and sighs. “Yeah. I wish.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Maya
The clock blinks 12:45 p.m. when I finally sit up in bed.
I didn’t sleep all night. My chest constricts now, thinking of Jamie’s face—the way his eyes widened when I told him we couldn’t date. How he yanked his hand away from me. Tears spring to my eyes again. You’d think a person has only so many tears in their head—I know better now.
I pick up my phone from the nightstand. The texts keep coming. I even have a missed call from Shelby. I let her know I’m not up for talking, but appreciate her checking in. Thumbing through my messages, I land on my last exchange with Jamie. We’d been at the bat mitzvah reception when I sent it.
You’ll see this text when you finish the toast—but you’re killing it! My cake smash trick is genius. I’m going to write a book about it and make millions.
And then, two minutes later, I’d added—
Oh! Remind me to tell you about Drew and Rachel.
I blink back more tears. Such casual messages—like I had no doubt there’d be a million more texts to follow.
I think back to the parking lot outside the temple, overlooking skyscrapers and oak trees. I always thought those parts in the movies where two people grew silent and leaned forward to kiss seemed so unrealistic. But in that moment with Jamie, kissing him seemed like the most natural thing in the world.
But we didn’t kiss. We almost kissed. And an almost kiss isn’t a kiss.
I wonder what Jamie’s doing. The look on his face, the tear trailing down his cheek as the car pulled away—my stomach hurts. I should have let him drop me off at home. Maybe we could have talked. Sorted things out.
I can’t imagine how upset he must be right now.
I open Instagram. I was so upset last night, I soft blocked Jamie and InstaGramm—but searching now, I find Jamie’s profile. It’s the same four photos from when he opened the account, plus the one of the Rabbi Rothschild quote he snapped yesterday. But nothing since then. No record of everything falling apart. I can look at these photos and almost pretend yesterday never happened.
I wish so badly it was true.
Rossum’s official campaign account pops into my feed. I hesitate, before scrolling down to the video. Our video. I brace myself for the comments. I know I shouldn’t do it—this is like picking a scab—but I need to know. As soon as I dip into the first few, I remember, yet again, you can’t brace yourself for things like that.
They’re the cutest.
Maya’s got the most kissable lips.
She’s not that hot.
He could do better.
How much you want to bet they’re doing it?
There are twenty-seven nested replies to that one.
It feels like I got dipped in an ice bath. I drop the phone on the bed. I understand why Jamie didn’t read the comments to me. But I don’t know how I’ll be able to look him in the face again.
I exhale and stand up. I throw a sweatshirt on over my pajamas. When I step into the hallway, a glass clinks in the distance. My mother. I don’t want to talk to her about this. She tapped on my bedroom door late last night and peeked in at me. I did my best to look asleep. But I live here. I can only hold her off for so long.
I take my time brushing my teeth and washing up, but when I step into the kitchen, I freeze. I must be having an official nervous breakdown, because my brain just conjured up both the most bizarre and most ordinary figment possible: My mother brewing tea in the kitchen. My dad on the love seat, feet kicked up on the coffee table, watching soccer in the family room.
“Maya.” My father looks over at me and sits up.
It’s real. He’s really here. He’s sitting on our couch, watching television like he always does on Sundays. They’re hanging out together in this house—under the same roof—like on a regular weekend. A jolt of sunshine kicks in. As randomly and suddenly as they announced their separation, it’s over.
My mother turns off the stove and hurries to me as my father strides over.
“You’re back?” I whisper to my dad. “I knew you’d get back together. I knew it.”