It’s still dark out as I finish up my cereal and OJ.
My dad, aka Mr. Morning Person, is all about making an elaborate suhoor spread to start off a full day of fasting. He always woke up an hour before my mom and me to make coffee, whip up omelets, fry turkey bacon, and chop up fruit.
But he’s not here. My mother is nursing a microwaved cup of tea and moving some leftovers around her plate, and I’m looking down at some soggy Cheerios.
I used to get annoyed with my dad’s nonstop chatter so early in the morning. It should be illegal to have spoken conversation before the sun is up—but now that he’s not here, I’d give literally anything for a 4:00 a.m. rundown of our weekend plans.
“Are you really canvassing again today, on a weekday?” my mother asks. “I thought I misread the Google calendar this morning.”
“We were,” I tell her. “But Gabe needs us to put up signs and posters around town.”
“I’m impressed. You’re going above and beyond.” She pauses. “And is there anything we need to talk about?”
“Like what?”
“Jamie and you . . . the two of you have become close, haven’t you?”
I look up at her. She’s looking at me meaningfully.
“Yeah, we’re close.” I roll my eyes. “And how close am I to a car now?”
“After the special election, we’ll talk about it,” my mother promises. “By the way, we still have ten minutes until suhoor ends.” My mother glances at the oven clock. “Sure you don’t want a little of my chai? I made too much.”
“No caffeine. I’m crashing as soon as I finish praying.”
“I miss those days.” My mother takes a sip of tea. “But starting my day now means I can get done sooner and come home early to nap.”
“Except you never do,” I tell her.
“This case is eating up way more time than I thought.” She sighs. “But it’ll calm down after the trial.”
“Imam Jackson hasn’t announced if Eid is Sunday or Monday. You’ll take time off if it’s Monday, right?”
“It’s been so cloudy lately, I doubt they’ll see the moon to call Eid earlier. I’m betting Monday. I’ll take off either way, but I hope it falls on Sunday.”
“How’s Eid going to work?” I swallow. “You know, with Dad . . .”
“We’re both going to the masjid for Eid prayers,” my mother says. “You’ll go with whoever you stayed with the night before, and we’ll all be there for the potluck brunch. Maybe you and I could go out for manicures after, and then you and your dad could get dinner in the evening?”
“With Ramadan ending soon . . . what’s the status of the separation?” I ask her.
“We’re working on it.”
“But you had a chance to focus and reflect, didn’t you?”
“Maya, it’s not that simple.”
“It’s not that complicated either.” I stare at her. “How can you just have no timeline?”
“Because things like this aren’t neat and organized.” She looks at me. “I wish I could give you an idea of what exactly to expect. But some things, you just have to walk through to know where they will lead.”
“But what happened?” I burst out. “How can you undo everything and not even tell me why?”
“Honey, there’s no big secret. You were there. You know. You heard the fighting. . . .”
“You and I fight all the time,” I tell her. “Fighting means you stop being a family?”
“It’s complicated.” My mother’s eyes are fixed on her teacup now. “I know you want more details. Explanations. I wish I could give you an answer that would satisfy you, but I can’t. We need time to reflect and figure things out. That’s all I can say. When we know what the future holds, you’ll be the first person we tell, okay?”
It’s not okay. But I’m too tired to argue anymore.
Jamie picks me up at eleven o’clock sharp. He smiles when I get in the car, and I’m relieved he doesn’t look as upset as he did yesterday.
“Want to canvass after we’re done putting up the yard signs?” I ask him.
“Well, first check out how many he wants us to get up around town.” He nods to the backseat.
I glance back. It’s impossible to even see the cars behind us—the signs are stacked up to the car roof.
“The trunk is full too.”
“Gabe . . .”
“Yep.”
Turns out putting up yard signs isn’t that bad. It’s hot and definitely muggy, but it feels good to mix it up a little.
“This is the last stop,” Jamie says, a few hours later. We’ve papered every legal spot in Brookhaven and Sandy Springs, and stuck yard signs at every intersection. “It’s the grassy area across the street from Blackburn Park.”
Just as in all the other places, Newton’s beat us. Twenty of his signs litter the grass.
“I want to yank them out and throw them in the dumpster,” I say.
But we don’t. We angle our signs so they mostly cover his signs. A few people honk and wave as we put them in.
“All done,” he says as he sticks in the last of the signs.
“That wasn’t too bad,” I say. “Hot. But not awful.”
We duck under the awning of the strip mall to get a break from the sun as we head toward the car. Just then, I hear a familiar voice.
“Maya?”
It’s Sara. She’s standing halfway in the door of Skeeter’s custard shop. We walked by, and I didn’t even notice it.
“Sara! Hey!” My voice sounds a little too loud. Which makes no sense. Why am I surprised to see her working, of all things? I nod to Jamie. “This is Sara,” I tell him.
“Hi.” Jamie extends his hand. “I’m Jamie.”
Sara glances at his outstretched hand and grins at me before shaking it.
“Great to meet you, Jamie.”
The shop is empty. We follow her inside and sit down at a plastic round table.
“I know Maya’s fasting, but do you want anything?” she asks Jamie. “We have a great Froot Loop custard that . . .”
“Sara!” I side-eye her. “That’s just mean.”
“Ha.” She leans over and gives me a hug. “Only kidding. How about the strawberry custard? New flavor. On the house.”
“No, thanks,” Jamie says.
The doorbell chimes, and two mothers lugging four kids between them stumble into the shop.
“Give me a second,” Sara mouths, and heads back behind the counter to help them.
“You should take Sara up on her offer,” I tell him. “Everything here is delicious. I don’t mind if you eat around me.”
“Solidarity.” He thumps the table. “We can try it later once you’ve broken your fast.”
“You’ve come a long way from pushing Goldfish at me.”
“Yeah.” He blushes. “Sorry about that.”
I laugh. He looks so cute when he’s embarrassed.
“Have you been thinking any more about the toast?” I ask him.
“No.” He winces. “Or maybe, all the time. Every minute of the day? Something like that.”
“When do you have to give the speech?”
“In fifteen days, four hours, and twenty minutes. I mean, not that I’m counting or anything.”
“That’s so far away. You have more than enough time to come up with something.”
“It’s just that every idea I have is terrible.”
“You’re overthinking it. I’ve been to a few bat mitzvahs. The speeches aren’t that complicated. Tell Sophie you’re proud of her, thank people for coming, and tell a joke or share a funny story.”
“But how do I know what’s a funny story and what’s traumatic? What if I share a funny story about Sophie, but it ends up making her mad? And what if I make a joke and nobody laughs—it’s just crickets?”
“You can always run it by your sister first. And if you make a bad joke, so what? It happens.”
“It happens to me way too much.”
I pull out my phone.
“There are thousands of bat mitzvah and bar mitzvah toasts online.” I show him my search results. “Just look through them for examples or frameworks. Here’s one. It says ‘funny bar mitzvah speech’ and it’s got a ton of views.”
The video opens with a guy in a three-piece suit standing in front of a cake table. He’s telling the crowd how proud he is of his brother and his amazing accomplishments. He takes a sip of water, but before he can say anything else his eyes widen, and he starts coughing. Or choking? I can’t tell. He spits water all over the cake and flings his hands toward the audience. The glass flies into the air, knocking out a woman in the front row.
“Um . . .” I pause the video. “Well, that wasn’t what I thought it would be.”
Jamie looks green.
“Well, on the bright side, you’ll definitely do better than this guy?”
“So you think.”
“Don’t bring water up with you,” I say. “We learned something today.”
“Sorry about that.” Sara walks over to us. “Lucas is still out after the wrist fracture, and I’m the only one on shift. What are you both up to?”
“Putting up yard signs,” I tell her.
“For what? Concert coming to town?”
She’s joking, right? But she’s looking at me expectantly.
“Rossum,” I tell her. “The special election coming up in a few weeks?”
“Oh, that.” She wrinkles her nose.
“You don’t like him?” Jamie asks.
“Oh, of course I do. He’s awesome, right?” She glances at me and smiles a little and rolls her eyes.
I shift in my seat. I can’t blame her sarcasm. I know what she means. Yes, he is another white, cis, straight dude running for office. But—
“He’s better than Newton,” I tell her.
“Voting for the best of two bad choices still means you’re stuck with a bad choice.”
“I get that, but this is different. Newton is evil. He’s why H.B. 28 is on the table in the first place. He masterminded it years ago.”
“H.B. what?”
“House Bill 28,” I say slowly. “You know, the racist bill?”
Sara shakes her head.
“It’s the one with—”
But before I can say anything else, the front door chimes. A troop of tweens in cheerleading outfits march inside.
“To be continued,” Sara says apologetically. “Jamie, it was so nice to meet you. Come back for a custard with Maya once Ramadan is over.”
“Sara’s nice,” Jamie says.
“Yeah.” My phone buzzes. A text from Sara.
I can see why you’re canvassing now. He’s cute.
I look up at her. She winks at me and slips her phone in her pocket. And then she’s back to work, scooping and handing out tiny spoon-sized custard samples. It’s like I’m gone, even though I’m sitting right here.
We head out to the car, mapping out our day tomorrow. I think about what Sara texted to me. She doesn’t get it. I mean, yes. Jamie is cute, but if Sara thinks I’m doing all of this just to hang out with a good-looking boy, and not because my community is in imminent danger—how far apart are we drifting?