I scratch Boomer’s ears. “Right.”
“You can even work on it tonight at the Rossum event. What if you made it your goal to chat with five people? Just casual everyday stuff, quick and painless. Or even just one good conversation. It would be such a great step for you.”
“Does Siri count as people?”
“No, Siri doesn’t count.” She smiles wryly. “You have a clean button-down shirt, right?”
“I was gonna wear a dirty one. With no buttons.”
“Very funny.”
What’s actually funny is that Mom thinks I don’t know by now what to wear to these things. I’ve been to more than two dozen Rossum events. Which she should know—she’s the one who forces me to go to every single one of them, even when she can’t make it.
Grandma ruffles my hair. “It won’t be so bad. I’ll pop in for the first bit. We’ll hang out. We’ll mingle.”
I hate that word. Mingle. I mean, the word itself is fine; I just hate the concept. When has anyone in the history of earth ever made a meaningful connection while mingling? It’s like, hey, let’s have only the worst parts of a conversation—the approach, the small talk, the trying-to-figure-out-when-and-how-to-disengage part. It’s not that I dislike being around people. I just wish we could skip to the sitting-in-comfortable-silence part, or the inside-jokes part, or even the we-both-love-The-Office-so-let’s-overanalyze-it part.
“You should invite Felipe and Drew,” Grandma suggests.
“Highly doubt they’d come to a campaign event.”
“Never hurts to ask,” Grandma says. “Which reminds me . . .” She stands and crosses over to the counter, and Boomer leaps up, ready to follow her to the end of the earth. But all she does is pluck her phone out of her purse, setting it before me on the table. “What do you know about adding links to Instagram Stories?”
“I’ve never done it,” I say, taking her phone. “I’m sure I can figure it out.”
“Can you? Thank you so much, lovey. I swear, being verified is a whole new world.”
I tap into the app, biting back a smile. Grandma’s blue check mark arrived two weeks ago, and she humblebrags about it at every opportunity. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen Sophie visibly impressed by a family accomplishment.
I mean, the last thing any of us expected was for Grandma’s Instagram to go viral. She started it after Grandpa died, mostly to take pictures of her and Boomer visiting Grandpa’s favorite local spots. But then Creative Loafing did a feature on her, which led to a few YouTuber shout-outs. I wouldn’t say she’s famous or anything, but lots of local people know about her, at least in Brookhaven and the northern suburbs. Of course, Gabe just has to milk every bit of Grandma’s notoriety to get attention for the campaign. I don’t think Grandma minds too much—she’s a big-time Democrat—but still. When Gabe named our seventy-five-year-old grandma as an official campaign social media surrogate, he pretty much sealed my fate as unofficial campaign tech support.
There’s a Story sitting in Grandma’s drafts—just a still-frame shot of Boomer wearing a custom Jordan Rossum bandanna, with a caption about tonight’s event. “Are you trying to attach the event page or the donation link?”
“Ooh.” Grandma leans forward. “The event page, but then let’s do another one with the donation link.” She sits up straight, cocking her finger at me. “I like the way you think.”
I figure out the link stuff pretty easily, and hand it back to her. “This is one hundred percent the real reason you made me breakfast, isn’t it?”
“Not a hundred percent,” she says. “Fifty percent? Sure. Seventy-five percent? Probably.”
I shake my head, smiling.
“You’ll see,” Grandma says. “When you’re my age on Instagram—”
“I don’t even have Instagram now.”
“I didn’t either when I was your age,” she says, shrugging.
Naturally, I beat Drew and Felipe to the track, so I hang back near the bleachers, trying to look like I belong there. It’s so strange being at school in the middle of the summer. I know some of the sports teams practice here all year round, but that’s never been my scene. Nothing about this is my scene. There’s a group of cheerleaders warming up on the football field, and at least a dozen runners circling the track at all different speeds. I sneak a glance at them, trying to guess which one’s Beth. I don’t recognize a single person here. Which probably tells you everything you need to know about my own athleticism.
Drew and Felipe finally show up around 9:15, looking puffy-eyed and half asleep. Felipe greets me with a half-hearted fist bump, but Drew scans the track and turns back to us, crestfallen. “She’s not here.”
“Beth?”
“I can’t believe it.” Drew shakes his head.
Felipe yawns. “Maybe she’s running late.”
I snicker, which earns me curious looks from both of them. “Running late,” I say. “Get it? Because she’s a runner?”
Felipe shoots me finger guns. “Goldberg, bringing the dad jokes.”
“Uh, no.” I scoff. “That’s a grandma joke.”
“I don’t know if that’s something to brag about.”
Drew ignores us. “Their practice started at seven. How is she not here?”
I follow his gaze to the runners, a couple of whom have stopped for water near the far goalpost. I don’t blame them. It’s eighty degrees out already, maybe more. I mean, I’m breaking a sweat, and I’m barely even moving.
“I think . . . I’m going back to bed,” Felipe announces.
“Oh hell no.” Drew’s blue eyes narrow. “We’ve got to investigate. Come on.”
He takes off at a sprint, and Felipe and I shrug and jog after him. But I’m panting before we’re even fully past the bleachers, and Felipe’s an even bigger disaster. “Nope,” he says breathlessly. “We’re not doing this.”
“Literally . . . can’t . . . ,” I huff, stopping short. Felipe stops too, gripping his thighs and breathing heavily.
Drew circles back around to meet us. “Wow. You guys are terrible wingmen.”
“No, we’re terrible runners,” says Felipe. “That is a completely unrelated skill set to wingman ability. No wingman should have to wing in these conditions.”
“A true wingman must wing in all conditions.” Drew runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in places. “Snow, hail, hurricanes . . .”
“You’re thinking of the postal service,” I say.
Drew shoots us one last disdainful look before jetting off toward the goalpost to catch up with the track girls. I follow Felipe onto the edge of the football field, sinking cross-legged onto the grass beside him. “So.” I lean back on my hands. “Do we think Drew’s going to hold out for Beth, or end up with a different girl’s number?”
Felipe snorts. “It’s fifty-fifty.”
I uncross my legs and let myself fall backward on the grass. Closing my eyes makes it feel like we’re in some big, empty field, miles away from every other human on earth. The noise fades in my brain. No bat mitzvah speeches, no failed interviews, no tumbling produce displays.