Our Year of Maybe

“Yeah. Let’s get pizza.”

Maybe I didn’t know what love meant back then, but it felt real to me. In the years since, that love, or whatever it was, stretched and thinned. Sophie poked holes in it, and then she sewed them back up. Sometimes I was convinced I’d gotten over the crush. But other times I wondered how I could stand to be in the same room with her without touching her.

Those other times were the hardest.

PART II

CHAPTER 5

SOPHIE

BEFORE MY SISTER BECAME A mother, our morning routines were a tug-of-war. I’d use up the hot water; she’d eat the last bagel. She’d insist on leaving way too early; I’d make her late. When we finally got into the car, she’d belt show tunes and I’d beg her to stop.

“Happy first day of senior year!” Tabby sings as she gets Luna settled with some yogurt and Cheerios. “Excited?”

We’ve had a year to rehearse this new routine, the one where my sister the mom is front and center, but I haven’t memorized the steps yet.

“Actually, yes.” I slot my empty cereal bowl into the dishwasher. Our parents go to work early so one or both of them can watch Luna when Tabby waitresses in the evenings, so I try to be good and clean up after myself.

My last first day of high school doesn’t feel momentous in the traditional sense. I’ve always planned to go to community college, where I’ll wait for Peter to graduate, then transfer wherever he picks. Since I have no idea what I want to study, it makes sense to stay at home for another year and save money. But right now all I can focus on is Peter heading back to school with me. And that feels pretty spectacular.

In the months since the surgery, I slept and popped pain pills and went to checkups and watched all of Gilmore Girls and played board games

and rested, something I’ve never been very good at. Peter recovered more slowly, even had to be on dialysis for a few weeks right after the transplant. I was slow to start exercising again, but my doctor cleared me to start dance team practice, and I’m itching for it. I even miss my weekly jazz technique class.

“Does it feel weird?” Tabby asks, brushing bangs off her forehead. Her hair used to hit her waist, but she chopped it when Luna started sticking strands in her mouth. She pours herself a glass of orange juice and leans against the counter next to me. We’re the same height, just shy of five feet. We both grew up scrawny, though dance gave me muscles and pregnancy filled out Tabby’s curves. Even standing side by side, she looks more adult than I do. I can’t believe she’s only seventeen.

“It doesn’t feel like something’s missing, or anything like that. But . . . it hurts sometimes, if I move a certain way. I’ll have to take it easy at practice.”

“Are you sure it’s smart to go back to dance so soon?”

“The doctor said it was okay as long as I don’t overdo it.” And I won’t. I know my body.

But my body is different now.

Maybe Tabby and I were born out of order. I used to beg her to order for me in restaurants. Before I knew I was dyslexic, I worried I’d mispronounce what was on the menu. It got to the point where my parents asked Tabby not to, told me if I wanted to eat, I had to order for myself. They thought it was run-of-the-mill shyness, so they felt pretty bad after my diagnosis.

“Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

Putting my back to her, I open a box of organic granola bars and slip a couple in my bag for later. “I’ve already missed a whole summer of workouts. It’s a miracle they’re even keeping me on the team. And last time I checked, you were Luna’s mom, not mine.”

“Let’s forget it,” she says, shrugging it off. “Do you know what fall show they’re doing this year yet?”

“As soon as I know, I’ll tell you.”

Her shoulders sag, and an odd emotion, one I’m not sure I can name, crosses my sister’s face. But before she can say anything else, Luna lets out a wail from her high chair.

“Ladybug, what’s wrong?” Tabby coos at her, and her face twists into something I definitely recognize. “Diaper change.”

As she scoops up Luna and races down the hall, I pocket my keys and wonder if she misses our old morning rituals: fighting about nothing instead of fussing over a baby.

Honestly, sometimes I do.

I make a big show of opening my car’s passenger door for Peter as he heads down the front walk. Tabby and I share this sensible sedan; since she works nights, our general agreement is that I get the car during the day unless she needs it to take Luna somewhere. Weekends are always a negotiation.

“You see these?” he says, gesturing to his jeans. “These are for you.”

I clasp my hands together. “You’re too good to me.”