chatterbox mode, talking nonstop all the way to Target. And it’s even worse when we get there.
“You should have seen his face,” Sophie says as we make our way through the home decor. “He was trying so hard to pick them up, but they kept dropping. It was raining tangelos. Hold on, I think I have the Boomerang saved.”
“Can we not—”
“Oh, hey! Here’s the Snapchat filter that makes Jamie look like Rachel Maddow.”
“Sophie!”
“I thought you loved Rachel Maddow!” She shoots me a guilty sidelong glance. “Maya, he loves Rachel Maddow. He and Mom used to watch her show every single night, and like, take notes, and discuss it, and—”
“I’m going to go shrivel up and die now,” I say.
Maya laughs. “I think it’s cute!” She hugs me quickly, before veering off to look at a stuffed unicorn wall mount. “What is this supposed to be—a hunting trophy?”
Sophie gasps. “Who would hunt unicorns? I love unicorns!”
“She does,” I tell Maya. “A lot.”
“At least I know they’re not real.” Sophie pats my arm.
“Excuse me, Siberian unicorns were real,” I say. “They’re just extinct.”
Maya grins up at me. “Interesting.”
Sophie lets Maya drift a few feet ahead, and then leans toward me, beaming. “She’s totally flirting with you.”
“Shh!”
She pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry, I got this. Gonna go probe for info.” I watch as Sophie sidles up to Maya near the table lamps, gesturing slyly to a Ryan Gosling look-alike in a crisp button-down. “Ooh,” Sophie says, just loud enough for me to overhear. “He’s cute. Maya, what’s your type?”
Then Sophie—I could murder her—turns and winks at me over her shoulder.
Thank God Maya doesn’t notice. “No way,” she murmurs. “Too fancy. And why isn’t he wearing socks? Who wears shoes like that with no socks?”
Sophie laughs. “Right?”
Well well well. Looks like Ryan Gosling’s little brother should have thought harder about his footwear. You know who always wears socks? Jamie Goldberg. I’m just saying.
Sophie’s going in deeper now, probing for what kind of guys Maya does like, if she likes guys. I can’t tell if Maya’s flustered or amused. I guess it’s nice that Sophie’s trying, but if she really wanted to help, she could just . . . not be a third wheel.
Sophie’s like that, though. She’s always calling me out for being too innocent, or insisting that I should have a girlfriend. But I don’t think she actually cares about me having a girlfriend. She just wants to find me a girlfriend. She wants to captain the ship. And God forbid she miss a single moment of that doomed voyage.
By the time we swing by the campaign office, my brain’s entirely elsewhere. And during canvassing, I can barely remember my own name, much less Rossum’s platform and credentials. But Maya’s as sharp as ever, and even Sophie seems to have a surprisingly detailed grasp on the issues. Not going to lie. My sister amazes me sometimes.
But I still have to find a way to ditch her before Intermezzo. I mean, I don’t even want to mention Intermezzo out loud, because I know Maya will invite Sophie to join us. Either that, or Sophie will straight-up invite herself. And it’s Sophie—if I ask her to go home, she’ll be even more dead set on sticking around. So I can’t just give her a reason to leave. She has to think it’s her own idea.
I wait until Maya’s a few yards away, tucking a walk piece behind someone’s doorknob.
“Hey, Soph? I had a thought.”
“Is it about you having a crush on M—”
“Shh!” I glare at Sophie, cheeks burning. Maya’s coming up the driveway behind her. “It’s about the teen room,” I add quickly. “I thought of another angle you could try with Mom.”
Sophie eyes me. “I’m listening.”
“What if you agreed to have a chaperone?”
“That’s literally the opposite of the point.”
“Yeah, but what if you got to pick the chaperone,” I say quickly. “Someone really chill. How old is Andrea’s sister? Talia, right? Isn’t she a sophomore?”
Sophie nods slowly. “Talia never looks up from her phone. Ever.”
“You should see if Mom will pay her to come. Extra hands on deck, right?”
“Jamie, you’re . . . kind of a genius?”
“Why is Jamie a genius?” Maya asks. “I mean, no question, he is one.”
She pokes my arm—and my brain dissolves on the spot.
Genius. I mean, I can barely blink and breathe at the same time, but sure. “I’m not—”
“I need to talk to Mom,” Sophie interrupts. “Jamie, drive me home. And don’t take Roswell Road, it’s almost six.