ahead through the windshield. “Maya’s mom wears hijab.”
Sophie’s still curled up in the passenger seat, clutching her Hebrew school tote bag. “Everything’s going to be fine. People aren’t going to vote for Newton. He’s so racist.”
I laugh humorlessly. “Right.”
Sophie hugs me before she leaves, which is unusual, but suddenly I’m barely thinking of Sophie at all. Still parked by The Temple, I tug my phone out of its car charger. Before I can talk myself out of it, I text Maya. Just heard about the bill. You okay?
She writes back immediately: Um. Not really.
And then, a moment later: Hey, are you doing anything right now? Maybe you could come over or something.
I’m so busy entering her address into my GPS, I almost forget to write back.
Chapter Ten
Maya
Mom picks up on the first ring.
“I’m walking into a meeting. Everything okay?”
“No,” I tell her. “It most definitely isn’t.”
“What happened? I’ll tell Chris I need to duck out. I’ll be home in twenty.”
“No! The bill. Didn’t you hear about the law they’re trying to pass?”
“Oh, that.” She exhales. “Yes, I know about it.”
“Well? Aren’t you upset?”
“Of course I am. It’s infuriating.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
“You are doing something. You’re canvassing.”
“Knocking on doors? This can’t wait until the election! We have to handle it now.”
“The board is meeting tonight to discuss next steps.”
“I’ll tell you the first step. Tell Newton to go fuck himself.”
“Maya. Language.”
“Sh—shoot.” I wince. “It’s just that he’s such a racist . . . armhole.”
“I promise I’ll keep you posted,” my mother says. “But trust me, we’ll make him sorry. They will not get away with it.”
I smile at the fire in her voice. No one’s telling her what she can and can’t wear.
“How’re things over there?” my mother asks. “The apartment shaping up okay?”
I stop smiling.
“It’s fine.”
“What’s the plan for iftar tonight?”
“Dad’s picking up pho after work.”
“Yum. Pho Dai Loi?”
“Yep.” I straighten. “I could tell him to pick up an extra order.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“It’s Ramadan. Who wants to eat alone?”
“Aw, sweetie, you’re so thoughtful. But I won’t be by myself. We’re having that emergency board meeting tonight.” She pauses. “And now I really have to step into this meeting. Call you back after I’m done?”
“Sure.”
“Love you, Maya Papaya.”
“Love you too.”
We hang up and I look down at my phone’s wallpaper photo. It’s us three cheesing it up in front of the Grand Canyon last year. That was the summer we decided bunny ears were peak hilarity. Things were good on that trip. I’d have noticed if they weren’t.
I wish I knew how their time apart to reflect and focus was going. They definitely don’t talk to me about it. But considering she can’t comprehend having a shared family meal together, it can’t be going all that well.
Which sucks.
My phone buzzes. It’s Sara. A selfie with her eyes wide, holding up a scoop of something green and colorful. Beneath it a text: Presented without comment: Froot Loop custard.
Maya: The face you’re making is comment enough.
Sara: This should be illegal.
I text her a barf emoji just as Jamie’s name flashes up:
Jamie: Almost there.
I flush. I was so upset by the proposed bill that when he texted me, I instinctively told him to come over, but now after talking to my mom and seeing our Grand Canyon picture, there’s this weird hollowness inside me I can’t shake. I unlock my phone to tell him it’s not a good time when there’s a knock.
Too late.
“Hey,” Jamie says when I open the door. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He looks at me with such genuine concern, I’m suddenly so relieved he’s here.
I part the door and gesture for him to come inside.
“I heard the news,” he says. “I thought I was misunderstanding it at first . . .”
“Me too,” I tell him. “My friend Lyla texted a bunch of us to turn on WPBA, which was so weird, until I heard Imam Jackson talking . . . it feels too real now.”
“He did a great job,” Jamie says. “The way he called them out was perfect.”
“It’s ridiculous. Women are problematic if they show too much skin and problematic if they don’t show enough?”
“What people wear is their own business,” Jamie says. “If I want to wear a tiara every single day of the year, who is anyone to tell me I can’t? I mean . . .” He pauses. “Not that I plan to wear one, but . . .”