Rossum shirt. “That was amazing. It has over a million views now, right?”
I blush. “It was all Grandma—”
Gabe thumps my back. “Give yourself some credit, Big J. Remember, if it’s not on film, it didn’t happen. You two are the reason for all of this.” He gestures broadly around the room. “You know, we’ve had a threefold increase in volunteer turnout since the Fifi video went live?”
Maya’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? Wow—”
“Bustle, Mashable, BuzzFeed, Upworthy.” Gabe counts them off on his fingers. “The AJC piece goes live tomorrow, and we’ve got Hannah’s write-up in the North Fulton Neighbor. Pod Save America wants to interview Grandma. What did I tell you about building a narrative? Now you’ve got Newton, the official candidate of sniveling racists. But if you’d rather have a sweet little Nazi-crushing grandma? Booyah! Welcome to Team Rossum. We’re going viral, baby!”
We all laugh, and Gabe pantomimes a mic dropping—for himself. But I can’t even muster up a proper eye roll. It’s almost like . . . Gabe is actually making sense, for once. I mean, it feels funny to be happy about anything related to Fifi, but I can’t deny the palpable energy in the room today. And for a local election? The tiny satellite office? It’s nothing short of incredible.
Gabe turns to Maya and me. “Let me get the new guys started really quick. You two, don’t go anywhere. Grandma’s on her way, and we’ll start filming as soon as we clear everyone else out. It’s gonna be so hype. Reclaiming Fifi from the dark side!” He fist-bumps each of us.
Maya watches Gabe herd his group of volunteers toward the back room. “Wow. I can’t believe he actually did it. He managed to go viral.”
“Right? It’s pretty wild,” I say. “Plus, the ACLU just did an email blast asking its members to donate and canvass. The campaign has pulled in more donation money in the last twenty-four hours than all of this year, total. And Hannah said the Georgia Democratic Party is planning to fund a whole TV ad campaign!”
“Holy shit. Rossum may actually have a shot.”
“He really might.” I glimpse Alison, balancing a stack of folders almost higher than her head.
As soon as the volunteers file out, Hannah makes her way toward us. “Hey! Glad I caught you guys before your video thing.” She clasps her hands. “So, my mom’s organizing volunteers to be poll observers on election day. Can I sign you two up for a shift? It’s pretty chill, and the training is super simple. You basically just hang around the polling place and make sure nothing shady happens.”
“Oh,” I say. I glance sideways at Maya, who smiles and shrugs.
“Sounds good to me,” Maya says. “Maybe we can get a slot together.”
“Definitely.”
“Awesome!” Hannah says. “Adding you to my list. Election Protection Squad for the win.” She high-fives both of us. “Thank you guys so much, seriously. For everything.”
Maya and I exchange grins, and I’m basically a human hot air balloon. Warm and buoyant and bright. I mean, our video actually changed the course of the campaign. It did that. We did that. And if we changed the course of the campaign, maybe we’ll change the outcome of the election.
Which would change history. Just a little slice of it, but still.
Not to mention the full-circle perfection of spending election day with Maya. It’s honestly hard to believe I ever stepped foot in this office without her. Or that I used to dread coming here. I mean, my stomach would drop every time I pulled into the parking lot. I’d have to brace myself for small talk, even just with Hannah and Alison. And then there was Gabe, forever wanting more. Make more phone calls. Knock on more doors. Be less Jamie.
Everything’s different now.
Yeah, Gabe is still all kinds of annoying, and the campaign’s a haphazard mess. There’s still small talk. I’m still awful at it.
But when Maya’s here, every bit of it feels like home.
Half an hour later, Grandma’s completely taken over. “Gabe, sweetheart, can you push that desk right in front of the backdrop? Good. And a few inches to the left. Thank you, lovey. Oh, I wish we had natural light in here.” She unfolds her tripod, planting it a few feet in front of Hannah’s now-pristine desk. With a sheet of heavy white fabric hanging behind it, it looks a little like the makeshift doll photography studio Sophie made in our basement at age nine. But when Grandma lets me peek at