Our Year of Maybe

At this point I’ve been to dozens of football games, and while I don’t actually like the sport, I love the anticipation I feel as I wait for us to perform at halftime. If the team isn’t doing well, we cheer people up. If they’re winning, we amp up the crowd’s energy even more.

Peter is somewhere in the stands, but I can’t see him. I took extra painkillers before the game, though the doctors said the pain I experienced last week wasn’t extremely common but still within the realm of normal. They asked if I wanted to talk to a counselor. I had a psych evaluation beforehand, but what am I supposed to say to someone now? I gave my best friend a kidney, and now we’re not magically both in love the way a part of me secretly hoped?

A whistle blows, and the guys hustle off the field, their cleats splashing in puddles of mud. Halftime.

“The North Seattle High Dance Team!” the announcer yells as we rush onto the field, cheering and pumping our fists.

The song’s bassline thumps through my feet. We’re all wearing baggy pants. We snap them off halfway into the dance, revealing silver sequined shorts. Rain soaks my hair and mud climbs up my legs, but the adrenaline keeps me going. Montana is right next to me, and she hits everything perfectly, as always. The dance is sexy; I know it is. I thrust my hips, pout my lips. The crowd whoops louder. I love that sound.

I want to be sexy.

I want Peter to think I’m sexy. That has to be the only thing between friendship and something more, right?

The stands roar when we finish our routine. I strike my ending pose, my heart beating fast. I’m drenched and sweaty, and when I look up at the bleachers, despite the weather and the fact that everyone is basically wearing the same REI jacket . . . I spot him. His hood is up, but I’d know the shape of him anywhere. I wave a hand wildly, pushing my wet hair out of my face.

“Amazing job, you guys!” Montana squeals as we head back to the sidelines. “Gabe, your energy was incredible. And, Kunjal, you finally nailed that turn!” Her gaze meets mine. “Sophie, your timing was perfect.”

I’m still glowing when I sit back down on the bleachers, thinking about the dance and my perfect timing and Peter, Peter, Peter. I’m tired of waiting—I’m going to kiss him after the game. For real this time, not a kiss to seal a pact. Our perfect second kiss. I will throw my arms around his neck and our wet bodies will collide. Maybe the force of it will knock us both to the ground. We’ll get mud in our hair and on our clothes, and I won’t even care.

The game goes into overtime, and we end up winning. I am sure it was very tense for everyone who actually cared about the game.

I’m nearly frozen when everyone rushes the field after the final buzzer. I hang back for a second and wave my phone, searching for a signal.

Then two hands land on my shoulders. “Hey! You guys were great!”

I spin around to find Peter wiping rain out of his eyes. His jacket is soaked, but he’s grinning, a full Peter smile. He looks really, really hot all wet like this.

“Thanks. I’m so glad you came!” I squeal, and push onto tiptoes to hug him.

And then there’s this moment—a moment that could almost be our perfect second kiss. It’s raining, and his dark eyes are locked on mine, his arms around my waist, and it’s almost too cinematic to be a real thing that is happening to me.

But then he pulls away, ending the hug. It would have been too perfect, that kiss. My arms are heavy as I drop them to my sides. I try not to think how whenever we hug, he is always the one to pull away first.

In my head, I play out the rest of the fantasy, where I tackle him onto the football field. But . . . it’s pretty muddy. Dirt isn’t exactly sexy. And there are so many people around. That’s another thing I want my perfect second kiss with Peter to be: private.

“Seriously,” he says. “That one part, with the jumping? I don’t even get how you did that.”

“Yeah.” My voice is soft. I’m suddenly shy, aware of how cold I am. “Um, so the party.” I squeeze water from my ponytail. “Still feeling up to it?”

He eyes me strangely, because of course we’re going to the party. That was the plan. “Absolutely. I’m kind of excited, actually.”

“Right,” I say. Maybe part of me was hoping he’d say he’d rather be alone with me. But if Peter wants to go, we’ll go. Inside my shoes, my socks are wet. “Let’s go home first so I can change, and then we’ll go.”

It takes us a while to get to my car because every few feet someone wants to scream in our faces and we have to scream back.

Peter pumps his fist into the air. “Go Tigers!” he shouts, and around us, everyone growls it back, roaring like our mascot. It’s adorable, the way he’s enchanted by it all, by this perfect high school scene. I’ve experienced this a few times each season, but I have to keep reminding myself that it’s all brand-new to him. He grins at

me. “This is so great,” he says so that only I can hear.

“Yeah,” I say, grinning back. Even in the glow of the stadium lights that make most people look slightly alien, Peter is beautiful. The familiar love-ache in my stomach intensifies, and I make a vow: I’ll tell him at the party how I feel about him, how I’ve felt for years. “It is.”

CHAPTER 12

PETER

MY FIRST HIGH SCHOOL PARTY following my first high school football game isn’t exactly what I expected. First of all, the host’s parents are here, snatching everyone’s car keys at the door.

The smell is overpowering. Beer and sweat and several dozen brands of perfume and cologne and body spray mingling together. An earthy sweetness that, having grown up in Seattle, I instantly recognize as weed. Then there’s the music, something heavy with bass and beeps and meaningless lyrics.