The minute Mom hands me the microphone, it hits me.
I’m about to speak. In front of one hundred and fifty people. Including Sophie’s terrifying friends and State Senator Mathews and basically everyone I know.
And Maya. Who meets my eyes quickly, smiles, and taps her wrist.
I tap my own wrist, feeling suddenly calm. Well, not calm. But definitely calmer.
I clear my throat. “Hi.” It comes out booming, and I startle. Everyone laughs warmly. I slide the volume down. “Sorry. Hi. I’m Jamie, Sophie’s big brother, and I’m not really good at public speaking, and challah’s really delicious, so I’m going to keep this short.”
“Go, Jamie!” someone calls from the back of the room.
“Thanks, Andrea.” There’s a burst of giggling from one end of the teen table, but I tap my wrist and keep going. “I really wanted to get up here and mildly embarrass Sophie with a story from childhood. But, uh. Instead I’m going to tell you about the time Sophie invited herself to come knock on doors with me. For the Jordan Rossum campaign. So . . . yeah. I was pretty sure she just invited herself because Mom was being really intense about the decorations—which came out amazing, by the way. Shout-out to Mom.”
A bunch of people cheer, and Mom grins up at me.
“Anyway, I expected her to be kind of whatever about the actual canvassing part, but in true Sophie fashion, she nailed it.” I shake my head. “She didn’t even have to look at the talking points. So, I brought it up later. Like, wow, Soph, your memory is amazing. And she was like, actually, I’ve been researching the candidates for weeks.”
Sophie beams up at me.
“For weeks! She’d just been there quietly studying this stuff. Because she actually cares about it. It really floored me.” I pause. “The truth is, it’s a weird time to be coming of age. The world’s really messy right now. And it’s so hard to be twelve or thirteen or fifteen or seventeen, where you’re old enough to get it, but . . . you can’t vote. Maybe you can’t drive. You can make phone calls and hang posters—which, by the way, you guys should all check the bathrooms. For some, uh . . . reading material. Sorry, Mom.”
Mom’s eyebrows shoot up. But she’s smiling.
“Except nothing feels like enough. The bad stuff feels so big. It’s easy to feel helpless.” I turn back to Sophie, who’s gazing earnestly back. “But Sophie’s strength of purpose gives me hope. Soph, I’m really proud to be your brother.”
Sophie wrinkles her nose, smiling faintly. Even from across the room, I can see her eyes are shining.
“Anyway. Uh. That’s . . . oh, right! Baruch ata, Adonai Eloheinu, melech ha’olam, hamotzi lechem min ha’aretz. Amen. And now we eat!”
“I didn’t know you knew Hebrew.” Maya grins up at me on the dance floor. We’re not really dancing together. I mean, we are. But it’s all of us—the guys, Rachel. Even Gabe has temporarily unglued his eyes from his phone to join us. The DJ’s been wooing my mom’s friends since the first course ended, with “Take on Me,” “Sugar, Sugar,” and “Walking on Sunshine.”
“Just the hamotzi,” I say. “It’s the only thing I remember. And iparon. That means pencil.”
Maya laughs and touches my arm. “Noted.”
I feel so fizzy and light, I swear I’m practically carbonated. How is this moment even real? I can’t believe I’m here with Maya. I can’t believe she wants to kiss me. I can’t believe I survived Sophie’s toast. More than survived it.
I think I actually kind of nailed it.
The DJ switches to a slow song—“Unchained Melody”—and I swear, the whole room can hear my heartbeat. It feels like everyone’s watching me. Random Jewish ladies, family friends, strangers. Definitely Sophie’s friends. That spotlight feeling.
Felipe and Nolan fall into an easy embrace, swaying to the tempo.
Maya smiles. “Want to slowmance?”
I just stare at her, trying to catch my breath. “Of course.”
She steps closer, arms encircling my neck, and my hands fall to her waist. And suddenly, we’re so close, our foreheads are practically touching. I breathe in the floral scent of her hair and try to hold on to every tiny detail of this moment. The way her face tilts toward mine, the paper medallions above us, the long sighing notes of music, the self-conscious lilt in Maya’s voice.
“I feel like people are looking at us,” she says. “Is that crazy?”