Our Year of Maybe

“Wait,” I say. “Before we go in. I wanted to see—” I glance around, make sure no one can see inside the car. Then I lift the hem of my shirt and twist in my seat, showing Peter the scar below my navel. The doctors told me that a year from now I’ll barely be able to see it.

Peter copies me. The slash starts beneath his belly button and runs along the side of his abdomen. The evidence of his first transplant is still there, a ghost of a scar. The physical proof of what we did pins me to my seat.

“We match,” he says softly. Then jingles his bracelet. “In more ways than one.”

I like that a little too much.

CHAPTER 6

PETER

“AT LEAST WE HAVE THE same lunch?” Sophie says as we stand in the front office, peering at our very different schedules. When I imagined returning to school, I assumed I’d sit next to her, share notes, partner on class assignments. Sophie and public school seemed inextricably linked.

My eyes flick over the printout the school secretary gave me. AP Lit, AP US History, trig, chemistry, Latin II, band. I knew Sophie wasn’t taking any APs, but I still hoped we’d have an elective in common. I rub the bracelet on my wrist. My sleeve covers it, but I’ll have to get used to how foreign it feels. I guess if I could get used to dialysis, I can get used to anything.

“Lunch seems so far away,” I say, because I’ll miss you and I don’t want to be alone would have sounded pathetic. A knot of nerves twists tight in my stomach. I pocket the schedule, positive I’ll consult it at least a dozen more times.

I know the transplant wasn’t a magical instant cure. That I will live with this disease for the rest of my life. That there are hurdles ahead, that even my immunosuppressants have side effects associated with them. That I’ll have to go through life as a Very Careful Person, limiting sun exposure, going back to the doctor for follow-ups, monitoring my caloric and sugar intakes.

But it all seems so much more manageable. I feel . . . free.

Sophie pushes her shoulder against mine. “You just had surgery and you’re scared of public school?”

“Yes.”

Despite her teasing, Sophie’s never judged me, though she’s had plenty of opportunities. Back when our parents still let us have sleepovers—as long as we left the door open and one of us slept on the floor—one night when I was eleven and she was twelve, she crawled into bed with me around two a.m. “I can’t sleep,” she whispered, tugging the blanket off me to cover her. When I woke up, I realized I’d wet the bed. That was the most embarrassing part: that I couldn’t control my own bladder.

But if Sophie was pissed (ha) or revolted, she didn’t say anything about it. She just hugged me, told me it was going to be okay, and helped me strip the dirty sheets off the bed.

I’m still not exactly sure how she felt about it. If our bond transcends things like bed-wetting. Maybe it does. Maybe it’s another reason I’m lucky to have her.

“You’ll be fine,” she says, emphasizing the last word. “Most kids aren’t feral.” She mimes swiping a paw at me.

When she hugs me, it lasts a few seconds longer than usual. Her hair smells like citrus, fresh and clean. It makes me even more reluctant to let go. Makes me wonder if my mercurial crush is back again or if I just like the scent of citrus.

After I declared my love for Sophie, we navigated a period of awkwardness that lasted a few months. Her rejection made me terrified of complimenting her, touching her. Slowly we found our way back to who we used to be. These days we’re generous with our displays of affection, especially post-transplant.

“Learn a bunch,” Sophie says, a hand lingering on my shoulder, right above my heartbeat. “If you don’t know it all already.”

“I’ll see if there’s any space left in my brain. Even though it’s not as big as yours.”

The joke usually never fails to cheer her up, but now her smile wavers. A Sophie smile is one of the purest expressions of joy—probably because I only see her do it around me. When she’s with her family, she’s only half smiling, hiding her teeth.

“See you in a few hours,” she says, and we take off for opposite sides of the building.

On my way to first period, I’m stopped exactly three times.

Tim Ochoa, who sat next to me during a fifth-grade science unit on volcanoes, says, “Peter . . . Rosenberg? No fuckin’ way! Good to see you, man!” and then slaps my shoulder. I’m so stunned I don’t correct him on my last name.

Annabeth Nguyen, who shyly asked me to the sixth-grade dance, which I wound up spending in the hospital, says, “Wow. Peter, is that you? You look . . . You look good.” And then turns five shades of red.

Vivek Patel, whom I shared a locker with in seventh grade, stares at me like he’s just seen a ghost and says, “Whoa. I thought you died.” Cue eerie silence during which it becomes apparent that I am not, in fact, dead.

I’m not really on social media except for Tumblr, where I mostly reblog things, so it makes sense, I guess, that they’re surprised to see me. Sophie made sure we were early so I had time to get everything done—locker assignment, brief school tour, devastation upon learning our schedules didn’t overlap. Still, I get to AP Lit seven minutes before the bell.

Slowly students trickle in, exchanging hellos and compliments about hair that’s either grown out or been chopped off over the summer. I sit silently at the end of a middle row, clutching my backpack to my chest before finally letting it drop to the floor.

The bell rings and Mr. Lozano, a youngish guy in a Shakespeare T-shirt, passes out the syllabus. There are only about twenty of us in class, so he asks us to introduce ourselves along with one thing we like that starts with the first letter of our name.