But a sudden burst of laughter from the cheerleaders knocks me back to earth. I sit up hastily, cheeks burning.
Felipe eyes me. “You think they’re laughing at you?”
“No. I don’t know.”
“Man. Your brain.” He shakes his head. “Why would they be laughing at you? What are you doing that they could possibly be making fun of right now?”
I stare at my feet and don’t answer.
“No, seriously. Walk me through it. Why are these cheerleaders making fun of you?”
“Because.” I shrug. “I don’t know.”
Because I didn’t even finish a lap around the track before I had to lie down. Because I’m sweating. Because my shirt’s riding up. Because I’m too awkward to function.
“Because I’m this.” I gesture vaguely to my entire self.
“You are straight-up paranoid about girls, I swear.”
“I’m just . . . rightfully cautious.”
“Why? Because of what happened at the Snow Ball?” Felipe raises his eyebrows. “Dude, that was four years ago.”
“Three and a half.” And it’s not like anyone’s forgotten.
In retrospect, it was a terrible idea. I mean, eighth-grade dances are a terrible idea in general, but asking Brianne Henke to dance was next-level terrible. And of course I have this awful, almost photographically detailed memory of the moment itself—everything from the paper snowflakes dangling over the dance floor to the tight little smiles flicking across Brianne’s friends’ faces. Brianne looked at me and said, “Hi, Jamie,” without the slightest shred of enthusiasm. Without any inflection at all, really. But I took a deep breath anyway, and forced myself to go through with it.
I asked her to slow dance. Except my mouth didn’t say slow dance. It said slowmance.
“It wasn’t even that bad.” Felipe laughs. “It was iconic.”
I roll my eyes. “Right. Iconic.”
So iconic that the concept of slowmance became a Thing. Among the jock bros, mostly. They morphed it into every part of speech too, like slowmantic and slowmantify. Once I heard someone’s mom say it. People literally petitioned for A Night of Slowmance to be our homecoming theme last year, and were pissed when the seniors overruled it.
“Listen,” Felipe says, “if that’s your most embarrassing moment—”
“It’s not.”
That would be the fifth-grade presidential reception, when I called former president Carter a penis farmer.
I grasp desperately for a subject change.
“Hey,” I blurt. “Any chance you’re up for an insanely boring campaign dinner tonight?”
Felipe grins. “Wow. That is a compelling pitch. Insanely boring—”
“Did I say insanely boring? I meant amazing. Insanely amazing and fun and . . . amazingly insanely fun.”
“No way. Nolan and I both have tonight off, so we’re watching the Christmas Prince sequel.”
I look at him. “It’s June.”
“It’s always Christmas in Aldovia.”
I mean, I get it. Felipe’s been working all summer, ringing up self-serve frozen yogurt at Menchie’s. It’s for college money. He qualifies for the HOPE Scholarship, but the thought of books and housing expenses has him scrambling to take as many hours as possible. And his boyfriend, Nolan, works a lot too, which means their hangout time this summer is vanishingly rare. I know there’s no way I’d be going to this campaign event if the alternative was spending time with my girlfriend. I guess it’s pretty lucky for Gabe that girlfriends are so far from my reality, it’s laughable.
Felipe shrugs. “Maybe Drew will be down?”
“Ehh. I’m not expecting much.” I glance back at the goalposts, where Drew’s talking animatedly to a red-cheeked girl with a messy blond bun. “It’s for Rossum, so.”
“Ah.” Felipe nods. “Got it.”
Rossum campaign stuff is kind of a tough sell for Drew. Not because he’s conservative. But his parents are—Newton sign in the yard and everything. Drew’s already on thin ice from the time I dragged him to the campaign office and Gabe sent him off with a stack of Vote for Rossum postcards. His parents found them tucked into the side pocket of his car door, and they . . . weren’t exactly cool about it.
“I don’t even know if I should ask him,” I say.
I watch Drew smile at the girl, high-five her, and start jogging back to us.
A moment later, he plops down beside Felipe. “So. I’m an idiot.”
Felipe pats his arm. “We know.”
“No, seriously. Just talked to Beth’s friend Annabel, and she says Beth works at Catch Air on Thursdays, which opens at ten, so Beth has to be there by nine, so, like, she was here, but only until eight. She left early.”
“I am literally not following this at all, even a little bit.” Felipe yawns.
“And I don’t think they’ll let you into Catch Air without a kid. So, my lads, we are firmly SOL today.”
“Catch Air . . . ,” I say slowly.
And it clicks. Catch Air. That’s why the girl from Target looked so familiar. It isn’t just that I’ve met her before. I spent half my childhood with her.
Maya Rehman. It’s been almost ten years since I’ve seen her.
But her face hasn’t changed at all. Same wavy hair, same giant eyes, and I bet she still has that dimple in her cheek when she talks. She’s always looked kind of like a less pale, darker-haired Belle from Beauty and the Beast. But personality-wise, she was a total Mulan. Super badass, completely self-assured. She would climb anything, ride anything, stand up to anyone. I swear, running around Catch Air or the park with her made me braver. I mean, yeah, she was the Disney princess and I was basically the animal sidekick, but I kind of liked that. It’s not like I ever wanted to be the prince.
I can’t believe I actually saw Maya Rehman yesterday. Like, grown-up, real-life Maya Rehman. She’s not even a month younger than me, so of course she’d be seventeen. But my brain doesn’t know what to make of the time jump. It’s like catching a glimpse of the future.
I should have talked to her.
Except—right. I was too busy exploding tangelos all over the produce section.
In front of her.
Because I’m me. And wow, do the hits keep coming.
Chapter Four
Maya
Twenty more minutes until the sun sets and I can break my fast with a crispy fried samosa. Though to be honest, I’d eat just about everything on that table, including the fruit salad with the green apples and Auntie Samra’s soggy pastry puffs. There’s so much food today, the puffs are set up next to the bottled water on the poker table, where the overflow items go. I swerve around two toddlers chasing each other, sidestep a man setting down extra folding chairs, and casually position myself by the plates and forks. Someone has to be first in line, right?
Glancing around the masjid’s gymnasium, I’m taken aback by just how many people are here today. It’s always busy during Ramadan, but with the Atlanta Interfaith Alliance cohosting this iftar dinner with us, there are so many people milling around you’d think we were waiting for Taylor Swift to show up for an impromptu concert. Pastor Jones, Rabbi Levinson, and Imam Jackson are huddled over by the punch bowl. Bits of their conversation like the defense is weak and fouls are how they get us drift over to me, which means they’re discussing their summer basketball league. Typical. My mom stands over by the entrance with some of her friends. They’re chatting and playing it cool but they crane their necks every so often toward the entrance to see if our special guest has arrived. She was so distracted today, she didn’t even remind me to wear the shalwar kamiz my nani mailed me from California—so I got away with jeans, a long-sleeved striped shirt, and my favorite pink scarf for prayers wrapped like an infinity scarf around my neck. I’d feel smug about this, except I know why she didn’t notice my outfit choice—and there’s nothing to smile about when it comes to that.