Our Year of Maybe

I watch the sadistic tooth swing back and forth. More silence. More traffic. More time for this awkward conversation.

“I’m not sure I need—” I start, right as my dad says, “You know, it’s always best when it’s good for both people.”

Uh, I was definitely not expecting that.

“Whoever you’re with, Peter—whether you’re with a girl or a boy—it’s never just about you,” he continues, eyes planted firmly on the car in front of us. “You want to be safe, of course—that’s number one. But you also want to check in with the other person. Intimacy is a partnership. It should be about mutual satisfaction.”

I could have gone the rest of my life without hearing my dad say the words “mutual satisfaction.”

“OkayIgetit,” I say in one breath. “Partnership. Absolutely. I’ll remember that.”

He asks me about school and I ask him about work and we sit in more traffic, cutting it close to the time Chase’s band goes on. By the time I tell my dad good-bye and he offers to pick me up anytime before my extremely generous curfew of ten thirty and I make it into the venue just as the band is about to play, my face is still hot.

It’s an all-ages community center in Sand Point adorned with pumpkins and spiderwebs for Halloween. Not exactly the coolest place for a show, but considering I’ve never been to one, I probably shouldn’t pass judgment. I wade through various demons and witches and superheroes, but no one’s near the stage. So I linger in the back, unwilling to get too close.

The lights dim and the background music stops, and the band heads onstage, Chase in his ceiling fan costume with a mint-green guitar slung over his chest.

“Happy Halloween,” the drummer says into the mic. She’s dressed as a Game of Thrones character I can’t remember the name of. “Thanks for coming out tonight. I know you’re all here to see Laserdog, but hopefully you’ll put up with us for a few songs.”

A few people in the crowd whoop. I don’t recognize anyone from school. In fact, I don’t recognize anyone in the band, either. I guess I assumed they’d be other kids from North Seattle High moonlighting as wannabe rock stars.

“So, uh, we’re Diamonds Are for Never,” the lead singer says. “And you might know this one.”

Diamonds Are for Never launches into a cover of a Clash song. The audience continues to hang back—judging instead of dancing.

It’s immediately apparent that Chase was one-hundred-percent right: They’re not good at all. Somehow that makes them more interesting to watch. They’re battling with their instruments, each person trying to be the loudest. It makes me wonder if a piano is exactly what they need to tie them together.

Most of the time, I watch Chase. He’s unsure of himself onstage. He glances between his bandmates, waiting for a cue from the drummer or vocalist. It’s significantly less confidence than he has in his daily life, and I like that a lot. His uncertainty. His humility. His apologetic shrug when they don’t finish the song at the same time.

I like him.

“This is Peter,” Chase says in the community center lobby after their set. The entire band is sweaty but smiling. The walls are covered with posters for upcoming events: a craft fair, a knit-a-thon, a senior swing dancing night. “Peter, this is Aziza, Dylan, and Kat.”

Dylan, the bassist, wears white glasses and has platinum-blond hair and appears to be dressed as some kind of mad scientist

. Aziza, the drummer, has wild spiral curls and, in her warrior costume, the most impressive biceps I’ve ever seen. Kat is a four-foot-ten girl—approximately Sophie’s size—who sings lead.

“This is the piano guy?” Dylan says as he buckles his bass guitar into its case.

“You told them?” I ask Chase, who gives a sheepish shrug. “Yeah. I’m the piano guy.”

Dylan grins, exposing a train track of braces. “What’d you think?”

“Don’t put him on the spot,” Aziza says. But she blinks at me with large dark eyes and then contorts her face as though bracing for bad news. “Buuuut I do kinda really wanna know.”

At this all of them lean forward. I lean back against the wall. “You guys had great energy,” I say, which I hope sounds like a compliment.

They let out sighs of relief. “We were so fucking nervous,” Kat says.

“What exactly are you, by the way?”

“I’m Picasso’s blue period,” she says, gesturing to the blue-painted tampons glued to her shirt. “And you’re John Lennon? Nice.”

“How did you all meet?” I ask.

“We were in this queer youth group a few summers ago.” Chase nestles his guitar in its case. “Kat is a freshman at Seattle U, and Dylan and Aziza go to the same high school.”

“Queer youth group?”