“Busy day?” my dad asks. He’s making coffee and scrambling eggs. “You’re up way too early for summer vacation.”
“It’s ten in the morning.” I glance at the clock.
“At your age, I hibernated until lunchtime.”
“I can’t imagine you sleeping in. You’re such a morning person.”
“It’s your fault.” He takes a sip of coffee. “When you were a baby you woke up every morning at five. Screaming. As if there was some important meeting you urgently needed to be at. Ever since then, I get up at five and hit the gym. You sleep trained me pretty good.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be! Look at these guns.” He flexes his arms.
“You are ridiculous.” I roll my eyes and laugh.
“Canvassing with Jamie today?”
“We’re doing something different.” I pull up the flyer Jamie and I designed and formatted. We were up late last night FaceTiming and figuring it all out.
My dad squints at the screen. “Love, not hate. Say no to H.B. 28. . . . It takes thirty seconds to be a hero. Call your state senator today!”
“The second part was me, the first part was Jamie.”
“Wow, Maya. When your mom offered a car in exchange for canvassing, I figured you’d follow in your dad’s footsteps and do the bare minimum to seal the deal, but you’ve gone above and beyond.”
“Yeah.” I shift in my seat. “It’s not just about the car anymore. . . .”
“I’m proud of you, bug.” He kisses my forehead.
My dad heads off to work, and I wander to my bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I reread the text from yesterday where Jamie invited me to Sophie’s bat mitzvah. For a split second, I felt goose bumps. He asked if I wanted to go with him to the bat mitzvah. His plus-one. Which—we hang out all the time, but being an official date for his sister’s bat mitzvah—what does that mean, exactly? I had no idea how I’d explain it to my mom (and way to go, Maya, for defining all hangouts as dating). But it’s not a date. Jamie made that very clear.
So, dilemma solved.
Whatever it is, I’m excited about Sophie’s bat mitzvah. I really like her, and plus I’ll get to hear Jamie’s toast in person. I spent the evening googling gift ideas for a bat mitzvah. Some people give money in multiples of eighteen because it symbolizes life—but it feels so impersonal to give cash. And then what to wear? I went to a few when I was twelve, but I’m sure fashion standards have changed. Also, according to my research, you can show up in jeans at some bat mitzvahs, and some have people wearing full ball gowns.
Jamie hands me my invitation when he picks me up that afternoon.
“An official invite!” I squeal, opening the envelope quickly. “Look at this.” I trace my hands along the embossing. “It’s so fancy, like a wedding card.”
“My mom has no chill.”
“So that means this will be a fancy event, right? I should dress up?”
“That’s up to you,” Jamie reassures me. “You can wear whatever you want.”
“I’m not showing up in my pj’s. Any guidance at all on what to wear?”
“I’m wearing a suit and tie, if that helps.”
“Suit and tie isn’t my aesthetic.” I shoot him a look. “I just wanted some ideas. I don’t want to show up looking completely ridiculous.”
“You couldn’t look ridiculous if you tried.”
I meet his gaze, expecting a half grin, but he’s looking at me with such utter sincerity, I suddenly feel shy.
“I printed out the flyers.” He clears his throat. “They’re at your feet.”
I pull up the cardboard box. Opening it, my eyes widen.
“How many are in here?”
“Three hundred. To get us started.”
“These are in full color! This must have cost a fortune.”
“It’s my house printer.”
“Your mom was cool with that?”
“I figure all the unpaid labor for this bat mitzvah is worth at least a pack of ink cartridges.”
I look at the freshly printed flyers. They looked nice on the computer, but holding them in my hands, it feels real.
“I can’t wait to show these to Kevin. He’ll love them.”
“Yeah.” Jamie glances at me. “My grandma was saying we might not be allowed to just hand them out at Target, though.”
“Maybe most people can’t, but we have inside connections.” I grin.
Kevin is at customer service helping someone with a lamp when we walk in. He nods to us as he finishes up her return, and then waves us over.
“Hello, my dudes!” he exclaims. “Welcome to casa Target. Returning that box?”
“Hey, Kev.” I open the lid and hand him a flyer. “No. Actually, had a question for you. A favor. We want to hand these flyers out to get the word to customers about this bill. It’s set to be passed after the election. But we want to squash the narrative they’re trying to build before it gains steam.”
Kevin reads it. He frowns.
“This is so messed up!” he says. “I’ve never even heard about it.”
“Exactly!” I say. “That’s why we need to get the word out.”
“Definitely. This is straight-up racist.”
“Thanks, Kevin.” I feel a rush of relief. “We were thinking we could maybe park ourselves somewhere, by the patio section or the dorm room displays, and hand them out.”
“Oh.” He shakes his head. “Sorry, Maya. That’s going to be a solid no.”
“What do you mean? You said this bill is messed up.”
“It is. I’ll call this number on my next break. Who doesn’t want to be a hero? But you can’t campaign here. Customers want to buy their hand towels and head on to the next thing, you know?”
“It’s not campaigning,” I tell him. “It’s handing out a flyer.”
“Well, it sort of is campaigning when there are two sides you can take, and one side wants this policy, and one doesn’t,” Kevin says.
“Taking sides?” I repeat. “This is a fucking racist policy. There’s only one side to take—the right side.”
“Whoa.” Kevin holds his hands up. “I’m on your side here. There’s no need to raise your voice.”
Raise my voice?
“That’s the whole problem these days,” he continues. “Everyone is in this constant state of outrage. How are you going to build bridges between both sides when everyone’s so angry, they won’t listen?”
“There’s no two sides to this,” Jamie says.
“You say that, my dude. But there are. That’s why there’s so much anger.”
“Well, Kevin.” I grit my teeth. “I’m sorry I’m not speaking to you politely. But I’m not sure how to be upbeat when the other side says your mere existence is a problem to be outlawed. First headwear. Then what? Where will it end? When will it be okay for me to raise my voice?”
“I wasn’t thinking of all that, but—”
“Of course you weren’t,” I tell him. “None of it affects you. This world is set up for you—and the rest of us? We have to be nice while people tell us they’ll arrest us for what we wear.”
I grab the box of flyers and storm out. Jamie hurries to catch up.
“You okay?” he asks.
“He’s unbelievable.” I exhale. “Fine. Maybe handing out flyers there was a long shot, but the nerve of him. Both siding it?”
“I know,” Jamie says. He puts an arm around me. I bite my lip to fight back tears.
“I can’t believe I yelled at Kevin,” I say softly.
“The way he looked at you, I don’t think Kevin believed that someone yelled at Kevin.”
I laugh a little at that. But it’s true. There are a few people at school I could reasonably see myself getting into it with. Never Kevin.
Jamie’s phone chimes. He glances down.
“My grandma,” he says. “She’s at that new restaurant that just opened up, Scavino’s. The owner bought all the servers optional Rossum gear to wear for work until the special election. She wanted to do some Stories about it for Instagram and maybe a live thing too. . . .” He hesitates. “Want to come with?”
“Are you serious? I get to meet InstaGramm?”
“You met her before.”
“Oh yeah.” I flush. “Sorry about that.”
“You can make it up to me by coming along.” He grins. “These photo shoots can go on for a minute. I love my grandmother, but she gets into full diva mode. On the upside, though—” He points at our box of flyers. “She can sweet-talk people into doing anything. I bet she’ll get those flyers up and around for us.”
“I’m all in,” I tell him.
Grandma’s diva side shows up before Jamie exits the parking lot.
“Jamie, dear,” she says through his phone’s speaker. “I could use a good cup of herbal tea. Can you be a darling and pick up some chamomile? Bon Glaze carries the brand I like. And swing by the house for my red scarf? It’ll really make the photo pop with the color and lighting they have here.”
We load up with the necessary accessories and drink, and meet up with her at the restaurant parking lot.
“Maya, sweetie!” Grandma approaches me. Boomer trots alongside her.
“Hello . . .” I falter. Should I say Ms. Miller? Mrs. Miller? Grandma? Ruth? But before I can think too long, she’s smooshed me into a huge hug.
“What an absolute pleasure to see you again. Jamie just goes on and on and on about you. He just—”
“Here’s your tea, Grandma,” Jamie interrupts.
“Look at this darling.” Grandma kisses Jamie’s cheek. “He’s just wonderful, isn’t he?”
“He really is.” I smile at him. Jamie has turned a delightful shade of radish.
“Grandma, do you think we could put up the flyers here?” Jamie asks.
“Of course.” His grandma nods. “They have the cutest little corkboard up on the wall with all sorts of resistance stuff. I’m sure they’d be thrilled.”
“Do you want to start with some exterior shots of the building?” Jamie asks.
“First let’s go in and interview Devon and Chris while the restaurant’s a little quiet. They’re the sweetest couple you’ve ever seen.” Grandma clicks a few buttons on her phone and hands it to him. “And then after the video . . .”
She pauses. She’s looking at something just over my shoulder.
“Grandma?” Jamie says.
“Hold my tea, sweetie.” She thrusts the cup into my hand.
Before we can say another word, Grandma is marching past us, Boomer fast at her heels.
“Hey, you! Yes, you!” she shouts. “Think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
“What is going on?” I glance at Jamie. “Is this . . . is this part of the process or something?”
“No, definitely not . . .”
We turn around. And then we see.
Someone’s on their knees in the parking lot. And next to him on the ground is a stack of bumper stickers. Fifi stickers.
“I asked you a question,” Jamie’s grandma says loudly. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
The guy looks stunned for a moment, but recovers quickly. He holds a bumper sticker defiantly in his hands and smirks.
“You need to mind your own business, old lady.”
Boomer growls. The smirk vanishes pretty quickly.
“Is that how you speak to people, Nicholas Jacob Wilson?” Grandma asks. At this, the boy startles. “Oh yes, I know who you are. Your grandmother is always showing off your photos at Jazzercise. She goes on and on about what a hardworking boy you are. Is this the kind of work you’re doing? Vandalizing people’s property?”
Nicholas stands up slowly.
“Wait,” he says. “Listen. It’s just a prank.”
“Terrorizing people is a prank? Including my own family, for that matter. You have some nerve, young man. When your grandmother finds out . . .”
“No, please,” he cries out. All the carefully manicured cool is gone. He looks like a ten-year-old, caught red-handed with a cookie before dinner. “Don’t tell my grandma. Please.”
“Give me one good reason why I wouldn’t?”
He doesn’t respond. His lower lip trembles. Is he about to cry?
“I just have one more semester till graduation,” he says shakily. “Please. She’ll cut me off.”
Jamie’s grandmother crosses her arms, but before she can say another word, he starts to cry. It starts off like a leaky trickle, but before I can even blink—he’s sobbing. About how this will ruin everything. How no one can find out.
“Is this real life?” I whisper.
I glance over at Jamie for the first time.
He is holding Grandma’s phone. He’s . . .
“Are you recording this??”
Jamie’s jaw is tight.
“Instagram Live just got a whole lot more interesting,” he says.