Our Year of Maybe

“Maybe,” I say. As usual.

“She never goes to parties,” Liz says, tucking a short strand of blond hair behind one ear.

I bite the inside of my cheek. I don’t go to parties because Peter doesn’t go to parties, and when I’m not with Peter, life is different. Duller. I’m duller—Peter must have noticed it today at lunch, when we sat with some of the dance team. A couple of my teammates asked him a few questions because he was new and therefore intriguing, but I kept quiet, and no one asked me anything. Now that he’s in school with me, he’ll know what I really am when he’s not around: a burnt-out light of a person.

But I co

uld take Peter to his first party. Our first party.

“Actually,” I say, switching legs. “I think I’ll go.”

“Great. I’ll text you my address,” Montana says, which is necessary because, even though I’ve spent three afternoons a week over the past few years with her and she sits at the far end of the dance team table at lunch, I have never been to her house.

“I’ll meet you in the locker room, okay?” Liz says.

“I’ll be there soon.” Montana waits until Liz disappears and then asks, “Sophie, did practice go okay for you today?”

“Definitely. I missed it . . . over the summer.”

“Yeah. Wow. I still can’t believe what you did.” Her phone vibrates, and she grabs it, sends a quick text. “Are you still working on some choreography for us?”

It was something I mentioned toward the end of last year. Casually, just to put it out there, to see what would happen. Montana had seemed interested, but she was probably just being nice. Of course the goal is for the team to perform it . . . but I thought it wouldn’t happen for a while.

I grab at my ponytail, pull it out, retie it. It’s like I never know what to do with my hands, and my hair is just there. Maybe I should wear it in a ballet bun like Montana does. “Yeah, but . . . I don’t know if it’s ready.”

“I’d love to see what you have. Do you have the song with you?” Montana asks. She slides her phone back into her bag. A diamond stud in her nose glints when it catches the light. She must have gotten it pierced over the summer. I wonder if it hurt. “I could give you some feedback.”

I suppose I can’t keep it inside forever. . . .

“Feedback. Sure,” I relent, scrambling to my feet and finding the song on my phone, syncing it to Montana’s portable speakers. “Okay, so it starts with this a cappella clapping sequence at the beginning.”

Montana shakes her head. “Show me.”

All my choreography, though no one’s seen much of it yet, has a story, like all good dances should. This one, the jazz remix, sets up a competition between the dancers. Some are trying to prove this more modern style of dancing is better, while others insist the classic steps are timeless. Eventually everyone comes together and performs a mix of old and new. I try my best to show both parts, and by the end of it, I’m out of breath.

“I like it,” Montana says. “It’s really playful. But it might look better if you did a series of pirouettes instead of piqué turns in that second section? More graceful, yeah?” With flawless technique, she demonstrates.

At first her feedback stings, but dance is always a collaboration: among dancers, between dancer and choreographer and audience.

“I like that a lot.” I take a swig of water. “I’ll keep working on it.”

“We could start learning it before basketball season.”

I cap my water bottle. “Really?”

“Why not? The song is super fun and high-energy. You’d have to teach it to us, though. You’re the one who knows it best.”

“I’m . . . not great in front of big groups of people.” It’s the part of being a choreographer I’ll have to overcome eventually. Eventually, as in not this year.

“We could work on it together.” Montana packs up her speakers. “Are you free this weekend?”

This weekend. Peter and I haven’t made plans yet, but I’m sure we’ll come up with something. A Star Wars movie marathon maybe, or if he’s feeling up to it, a Terrible Twosome rehearsal. Besides, a few hours with Montana is a few hours I’m not with Peter. It’s part of why I quit the studio: to spend more time with him.

Montana is a thousand times more elegant and confident than I am. What would we talk about? How would we fill the silences?

“I can’t this weekend,” I say. Come up with an excuse. Anything. “I . . . have to babysit. Rain check?”

Montana looks unsurprised, but not hurt. “Sure,” she says. “Rain check.”