It’s not that I didn’t think Jamie could get mad. I’ve just never witnessed it before.
Irritated—maybe.
Frustrated—sure.
Terrified squirrel? On a daily basis.
But this—his cheeks flushed, jaw clenched, kneeling in front of Alfie’s bumper, scraping at the sticker with a flimsy plastic knife he dug out of the car? This is new.
The air is muggy, the humidity so thick you can almost taste it. Dark clouds hang heavy and low. It’s comforting when the outside world reflects how you feel on the inside.
“Any luck?” I ask him.
“Kevin was right. These stickers are impossible to remove.”
I dig around in my bag. There’s an old mint, a Sharpie, a few coins, and a nail file.
“This might work?” I kneel next to him with the file. “It might scratch up the bumper, though.”
“I don’t care. I want this off.”
The nail file adds a few marks on Alfie, but the sticker won’t budge. The poodle eyes us like she knew we’d never get her off but it was amusing to watch us try. I glance at all the office windows surrounding us. The dog is a meme. But whoever did this is real. Are they watching right now? A shiver runs through me.
“Let’s go get some Goo Gone,” I tell him. “We used that when my baby cousin made a sticker collage on our kitchen window. I’ll Sharpie over it for now.”
“It won’t work. It’s one of those glossy stickers.”
He’s right; the black ink I’ve colored on it is already smearing from the humidity.
“Maybe it’ll hold on long enough to pull out of the parking lot. If that jerk is watching us, they won’t get the satisfaction of seeing us drive off with it visible.”
“Good point,” Jamie says grimly.
We get in the car. I can’t believe this day. I knew Dickers wouldn’t agree with us. It’s not like I thought she’d hear our arguments and slap a hand to her forehead and exclaim, “I work for a racist bigot and I’m quitting to join the Peace Corps” or anything. But the gaslighting was awful—how she used our words against us and smiled like she does this every day for sport. Which, maybe she does. And now, this.
“How you doing?” I ask Jamie.
“The meme looked obnoxious online,” he says. “But seeing it on my car . . .”
“It felt like an attack?”
“Exactly. Were they watching us when we parked? Was it . . . was it aimed at me?”
“They’re doing it to anyone with Rossum stickers,” I tell him. “But I get why it feels aimed at you. I mean . . . it kind of was . . .” I trail off. Wow, way to make him feel better, Maya. Yep, it was in fact personal against you and who you are. But Jamie glances at me and nods, his jaw a little less clenched.
“You think someone on Holden’s staff did it? We were in their parking lot.”
“Maybe Kristin? That smiley routine has to be an act. Look who she works for.”
“It’s probably a team of people,” Jamie says. “And using a dog for your racist mascot? How low is that? Why not use a cat? It makes no sense.”
“Wait. Why a cat?”
“I just meant dogs are the symbol of unconditional love. Cats are a little more standoffish and aloof.”
“They aren’t aloof! They have standards!”
He glances at me sheepishly.
“You have a cat, don’t you?”
“Willow is definitively selective.” I nod. “But she’d claw the face off any garbage racist in two seconds flat.”
“Sounds like she’d get along with Boomer. He’s as fierce as a squeaky toy, but if anyone looks at Grandma sideways, he’ll make them pee their pants in two seconds flat.”
“I think I’d like Boomer.”
“You really would.” And for the first time today, Jamie smiles.
We pick up the Goo Gone and get in the car just as a light rain begins to drizzle down. Jamie’s looking out the window, lost in his thoughts. Again. I’m pretty sure I prefer angry Jamie to this downcast Jamie I see right now. I shift in my seat. He always knows what to say or do to make me feel better. I wish I could figure out how to do the same for him.
“You know what we should do?” I say. “We should go canvassing.”
“In the rain?” He glances at me. “Plus, it’s the middle of the day.”
“It’s just a drizzle. Maybe they have open slots in a retirement community or something? This is how we stick it to them, isn’t it? Dickers? The Fifi troll? We hand Newton and Holden their asses.”
“Yeah!” His expression shifts. “You know what? That’s exactly what we should do.” He turns on his blinker and pulls into a shopping plaza. “I’ll text Gabe to see if there are any slots.”
When he picks up the phone, his expression drops.
“What’s wrong?”
“Surprise, surprise.” He leans against the driver’s seat. “I’m urgently needed to assist with bat mitzvah planning—or more like bat mitzvah chauffeuring and delivering. Apparently, Mom ran out of sticky notes while mapping out the seating arrangements for the fiftieth time. Oh, and washi tape. There’s always some sort of washi tape crisis going on. I need to get some before I come home, because otherwise the world might literally end.” He sighs. “Do you mind a quick trip to stock up?”
“Not at all. Whose bat mitzvah?”
“My sister, Sophie’s. My mom talks about it from the time we wake up until we go to bed. It’s like this bat mitzvah is the most important thing to happen in the history of the planet. And.” His cheeks flush. “She wants me to do a toast! A toast! I don’t do toasts! I don’t do public speaking. I mean, has she met me?”
“You’ll be fantastic,” I tell him. “You’re so great at canvassing. You have the whole script memorized.”
“That’s different . . . we’re just stating facts about the candidate that someone else wrote for us. For this toast, I have to be funny and interesting and say the exact right thing to a crowd of over a hundred people. And when am I supposed to actually have time to think and work on this speech? My house is Rossum is awesome rah-rah-rah and bat mitzvah brouhaha all the time, and Sophie talking over my mom, and my mom talking over my grandma, and Boomer throwing in his two cents whenever he can get a word in? It’s utter chaos.”
“A noisy house sounds nice,” I tell him. “My house is pin-drop silent lately. Not that it was ever a carnival, but since the trial separation, it’s eerily quiet. It wouldn’t bother me as much if Sara was around, but she’s busy lately. And I’m pretty sure my parents won’t be cool with me racking up hundreds of dollars taking rideshares around anywhere I want. It can be really isolating, I guess.”
“I’m always happy to give you a ride,” he says. “It doesn’t just have to be for canvassing.”
“Thanks.” I smile at him.
“The secret to getting a car is you don’t try to get them to buy you one, you convince them to get a new car. Point out every single ding super casually, like ‘oh, that scratch on the fender isn’t too obvious’ until they can’t unsee it, and then they’ll buy one for themselves and give you their old one.”
“Good advice.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
A car.
I almost forgot that’s what the canvassing was all about. Don’t get me wrong, a car will be amazing, but what we’re doing now—it’s about more than just that.
The truth is, a car is the furthest thing from my mind.