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.
Chapter Thirteen
Jamie
“Hi, sweetie,” Mom says when I walk through the door. She and Grandma are sitting side by side at the kitchen table, staring at their laptops, while Gabe hovers behind them, iced coffee in hand. I guess that means we’re working on campaign stuff, not bat mitzvah stuff. Everything’s so chaotic, I swear I can’t even tell these days.
Boomer runs up to greet me, teeth clenched proudly around his favorite stuffed mallard duck, Mr. Droolsworth.
“Hey.” I pat his head, swallowing. “So, something—”
But Gabe cuts me off, pointing fiercely at Grandma’s screen. “Okay, that. That’s what pisses me off. I don’t know what it will take to get through to these people. Oh, it’s just a special election! It’s just the state senate! I can sit this one out! Well, you know who’s not sitting this one out?” He throws his palms up. “Republicans. Those mofos show up every goddamn time.”
Grandma frowns at the screen. “This doesn’t help. Did you read the memo from the secretary of state’s office? Van Kamp’s removing four polling places in DeKalb County, and he’s canceling early in-person voting.”
I blink. “He can do that?”
“Apparently,” says Grandma. “Which means—”
Gabe slams his hand down on the table so hard, Boomer drops his mallard with a start. “Which means Dems need to step it up! The problem is, no one’s excited about this race. It’s not glamorous, it’s not sexy.”
“Well, the supermajority issue is complicated,” says Grandma.
“Exactly!” Gabe exclaims. “How many people understand supermajorities? Where are the soundbites from that? Do we do a local celebrity video? I don’t know! Dallas Austin, Ludacris—no one’s replying to my DMs. How do we convince people there’s something at stake?”
“H.B. 28 is at stake!” It comes out louder than I mean it to. I blush, lowering my voice. “Is the campaign going to talk about that?”
“Sure,” Gabe says, “but that doesn’t affect most people. I don’t even think people are necessarily following the story. It’s just not a crisp narrative, so it’s tricky to use that.”
“Use it?” My jaw drops. I picture Alina at the campaign iftar in her patterned hijab and dark jeans. I know Gabe doesn’t mean to sound so flippant. He’s just talking about how to get voters invested. But it feels like Gabe sees Maya’s mom as someone he could potentially hold up for sympathy. Or worse, like he’s glancing at her, shrugging, and saying, Meh. Not important enough.
“Jamie, my man. It’s all about the narrative. You know that.”
Mom looks up, suddenly, from her laptop. “Jamie, did you get the sticky notes?”
“Yup. And the washi tape.” I hand her the bag, settling into the chair beside her. Boomer reclaims Mr. Droolsworth and zips under the table to sink his head in my lap—I scratch his ears, glancing back up at Mom. “So. Um. Something happened today—”
“Oh!” Gabe sets his coffee down. “Big J, we need to talk about yard signs.”
I shake my head. “Okay, but—”
“No buts, Big J. We gotta pull together here, okay?” He pats my shoulder. “All hands on deck.”
Grandma smiles up at me. “You look nice, bubalah. Was it a special occasion?”
I peer down at Boomer, who sets his mallard gently onto my lap. “Um—”
“Boom, don’t you dare put Mr. Droolsworth on Jamie’s date pants,” scolds Grandma.
I freeze. “Date pants?”
Mom looks up from her laptop for real this time, clasping her hands. “You had a date? Oh, wow! With Maya?”
“No!” My head feels like it’s spinning. “No, I had . . . a meeting.”
“A meeting?” says Grandma.
I nod slowly, eyes glued to my hands. “Uh. Maya and I met with Congressman Holden’s legislative director. About H.B. 28.”
Everyone falls silent—and when I look up, they’re all staring at me. Mom, Grandma, Gabe, even Boomer.