“So I’d be the obnoxious person in this scenario?”
“Yep!” He holds up the phone. A woman with dark brown hair in a bob wearing a topaz necklace smiles back at me. “Jennifer Dickers. Should I make an appointment?”
I can’t believe it’s as easy as making an appointment. I could actually sit down and explain to this woman why this bill is misplaced and harmful. Still, the thought is intimidating.
“Is it off the MARTA? I have a rideshare app, but it’s technically for getting back and forth from my place to here.”
“I can drive you there. And”—he hesitates—“I could go in with you to talk to her . . . if you want.”
“You’d do that?” Jamie’s never struck me as a confrontational sort of guy. But he nods and smiles. “You really think they’d talk to high schoolers?”
“You mean will they talk to someone whose community is directly affected by the law they’re proposing?” Jamie says. “You have every right to give them a piece of your mind.”
“Okay, I’m in,” I tell him. “Let’s make them sorry they ever said yes to this bull . . . shop plan.”
“Bullshop? Is that kind of like ‘fork you’? Like on The Good Place?”
“Well, yeah—but also, I’m trying not to curse during Ramadan. Just go with it.”
“Okay, yep, we’ll call them on their bullshop so fast they won’t know what flunking hit them.”
At this, I start giggling.
And then we’re both laughing.
And somehow, my heart isn’t hurting quite as much anymore.
Chapter Eleven
Jamie
I wake up Thursday morning to a string of texts from Maya.
Ugh I can’t sleep!!! Too nervous
I can’t believe we actually have to talk to this woman, I saw she was on Hannity??
Am trying to decide what to wear. Like I need something that says I’m a professional but also fuck you
*fuzz you
SO TIRED
What does a legislative director even do?? Like did she make up the policy or is she the mouthpiece of the policy
BOTH ARE HORRIBLE, SHE IS A KOOPA TROOPA NO MATTER WHAT but I want to know
Why can’t I sleep??? Ugh it’s light out already WHYYYY
Well I guess I’ll see you soon
By the time I pull into Maya’s driveway, she’s waiting on her front stoop in a button-down dress and cardigan. She slides into Alfie’s passenger seat, her smile cut short by a yawn. “You made it! Jamie, meet Mom’s house.” She gestures sleepily toward the stucco facade.
“You weren’t kidding when you said it’s close to your dad’s.”
“It literally takes longer waiting for the car than the actual rides back and forth.”
“I bet those fares add up, huh,” I say, slowly backing toward the street. “You should think about asking your parents for a car.”
Maya looks at me with an expression I can’t decipher.
“Er. Anyway,” I say, feeling suddenly tongue-tied. “I got you something.” I tap one of the twin iced coffees resting side by side in the cup holders. “Since you were up all night. It’s probably going to be a little strong. I skipped the milk and everything obviously, but don’t worry. I got the same for myself. Ramadan solidarity, right?”
“Jamie, I can’t have this.”
“Wait, really?” I glance sideways.
She looks exasperated.
“I thought . . . Google said—”
“Did you read past the first entry?”
“But . . . it’s black coffee!”
“I don’t do coffee on Ramadan.” She crosses her arms. “I don’t even do water. I eat suhoor way before the sun is up and then I eat after the sun sets. That’s it.”
There’s this quicksand feeling in my stomach. As always, I’m a disaster. As always, I’ve managed to screw up everything I touch. I guess I thought things were sort of good with Maya. Not in a romantic agenda kind of way. I don’t know. I’m just happy we’re friends. Or we were, until my bull-in-a-china-shop self ruined everything.
“Sorry,” I say.
She presses her lips together and turns to look out the window.
State Representative Holden’s district office is in this nondescript brick building, really close to my house. It’s nothing like the state capitol. This place looks more like a strip mall where you’d stop for an emergency pee break on your way up Roswell Road.
I park, reaching into the backseat to root around for my messenger bag—a little excessive to transport a single stack of index cards, maybe, but it’s the most briefcase-y thing I could find.
“Hey,” Maya says when I resurface. “I’m sorry.”
I look at her. “What?”
“I know you meant well. It’s just . . .” She rubs her forehead. “Sometimes, people who aren’t Muslim try