I narrow my eyes. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”
“Sweetheart, we’re impressed,” says Grandma.
“Really impressed.” Mom tilts her head. “How did it go?”
Suddenly, it feels like I’m under a spotlight—but not in a bad way. Which is wild. I honestly didn’t know under-a-spotlight could ever feel good, or even okay. At least for me. Maybe this is what it’s like to be a congressman. Or Sophie. I can’t imagine ever basking in attention the way she does, but I have to admit, the way everyone’s looking at me right now doesn’t exactly suck. Just like it didn’t suck when Maya called me amazing.
But you. Jamie, wow.
I sit up straighter. “It wasn’t great.” And just like that, the whole story tumbles out. Kristin’s disarming kindness in the waiting room. The way Dickers almost chuckled when I asked to quote Imam Jackson. Her sugary-sweet accent, and the way she twisted everything we said to sound almost—almost—reasonable. Safety. Transparency. It was the weirdest split-brain sort of feeling. In one moment, the racism seemed so viscerally obvious. But a moment later, I’d feel like I was going crazy for even thinking that.
“Yeah. They always do that,” Mom says, frowning.
“It was so frustrating.” I exhale. “I don’t get why she even took our meeting. Why do they bother taking meetings at all?”
“Because that’s how democracy works,” Mom says. “They’re elected to represent us, and they have a responsibility to listen to our feedback.”
I laugh humorlessly. “Dickers definitely wasn’t listening.”
“Maybe not. Sometimes they don’t, which is so frustrating, I know.” Mom reaches out to ruffle my hair. “But the fact that you tried. You showed up—Jamie, that’s incredible.”
My cheeks flush. “Thanks. It just feels pointless.”
“I promise it’s not pointless. Maybe you planted a seed. Who knows? And even if not, it’s the fight that’s important. I’m so proud of you and Maya.” Mom smiles. “Try not to be too discouraged.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug. “Kind of hard not to be discouraged when we walked out of the meeting and found my car had been Fifi’d.”
Gabe sits up straighter.
“Fifi’d?” Mom purses her lips.
“The poodle meme.”
“Sounds kind of familiar . . .”
“It’s on the internet,” says Grandma. “Those alt-right Nazi dingbats use it to intimidate Jewish journalists on Twitter. But someone’s been stickering cars around here too. I’m sure you’ve seen it. I’ll pull up a Google image.”
I sigh. “Or just look at Alfie’s bumper. It won’t come off. We tried to cover it in Sharpie, but you can still see it. Hopefully the Goo Gone will help.”
Mom stares at me, wide-eyed. “Someone targeted you? A Nazi?”
Grandma squeezes my hand. “It’s been happening quite a bit.”
“Oh yeah,” Gabe says brightly. “It’s all over the district. They’re going after Rossum supporters, anyone with a magnet or bumper sticker. Big J, we gotta get a photo of you with that sticker.”
“With me?” I look at him. “Why?”
“Because we’re not going to take this sitting down.” Gabe’s cheeks flush. “Gram, get this down. Local Nazis Vandalize Car of Rossum Assistant Campaign Manager’s Seventeen-Year-Old Cousin.” He punches the air. “We’re gonna go viral with this.”
My stomach sinks. “You want me to go viral?”
“Hell yes!” Gabe says. “This is exactly the narrative we need to wake up all those Dems who were planning to sit this election out.”
I stare down at Boomer’s head. “Okay . . . you don’t need to interview me or anything, right?”
“Absolutely not,” Mom says loudly. “Gabe, you can’t attach Jamie’s name to this.”
“How about something anonymous,” Grandma suggests, “like Local Nazi Vandalizes Teenager’s Car.”
“No!” Gabe says. “No, you’re missing the point. The fact that he’s my cousin—that’s the game changer. That’s what makes it personal. Like the Rossum campaign is under attack. What? Oh no! How do we stop the bad guys? Guess we should donate! Guess we should VOTE!”
Mom stands abruptly. “So you’re just going to put your Jewish cousin out there as a target for these Nazi monsters? Jamie Goldberg? You think the name Goldberg isn’t going to attract their attention?”
“You don’t get it. The local guy is just going after Rossum supporters.” Gabe shakes his head. “It’s not a Jew thing.”
“Your grandmother just said Fifi is used to target Jewish journalists—”
“On Twitter!” Gabe says. “Jamie doesn’t even have a Twitter.”
“Well, now we know there’s a Nazi prowling around Sandy Springs. At least one, who knows how many! I don’t want Jamie’s name out there.”