Our Year of Maybe

“We’ll discuss it later,” my dad says.

“We could get you a new keyboard instead,” my mom says. “You’ve had that Yamaha for a while.”

I set my jaw. “I like the Yamaha.”

“Peter?” calls the nurse, putting an end to our waiting but not to my frustration.

Inside the exam room, Dr. Paulson goes over my blood work and tells me exactly how well I’m doing. For one of the first times in my life, though, my parents aren’t as easily impressed.

Sophie: Help me paaaaaaaaaack

Sophie: I don’t know what to briiiiiiiing

Peter: Okaaaaaaaaay

Sophie: Are you making fun of me?

Peter: Neverrrrrrrrrr

Sophie frowns at her open duffel bag. Articles of clothing are strewn across her room, and down the hall, Luna’s crying, Tabby attempting to soothe her.

“Aren’t you just going to be wearing what you usually wear for dance the whole time?” I ask, sliding into her desk chair and stretching my legs beneath me.

“Most of it, but . . .” She reaches for a pair of sweatpants, drops them into her bag. “I’ve never been on a trip by myself. I’m worried I’ll forget something.”

As subtly as she can, she kicks a blue bra out of my line of vision. I’m suddenly fascinated by the ceiling.

Between band practice and dance team, we’ve barely seen each other in the couple weeks since Halloween, with the exception of rides to school. I’ve missed two football games now because of band practice, but I’ve promised her I’ll make the next one. It’s hard to pass up spending time with Diamonds, whether we’re playing or hanging out. The only time I’ve felt like myself lately was with the band. The terrible truth: Sophie is both a reminder of everything I went through and everything I can do now.

It’s strange spending evenings and weekends apart, having things to tell her that she doesn’t already know. Strangest, though, is that I haven’t yet told her how I feel about Chase. Now that I’ve spent more time with people who are so open about the way they identify, I want to tell her I’m bi. I want to feel close to her again—no secrets. “I’m so nervous,” she says.

“About the workshop?”

She waves her hand. “Not so much that . . . the rest of it. Being in a hotel with people I don’t really know, mainly. It’s a lot of people. What if I throw up on the bus or snore or make a fool of myself in any number of other ways?”

“You do know them, though,” I say, trying to sound encouraging. I spin the desk chair in quarter circles, back and forth and back and forth.

“Only sort of.” She balls up a faded pajama T-shirt I recognize from when the synagogue her family goes to twice a year participated in a city-wide kickball league a few summers ago. They called themselves the Matzah Ballers. Her dad played—and turned out to be shockingly good—and we all made fun of the T-shirt, which features yarmulke-wearing matzah pieces chasing after a ball.

I point at the shirt. “That reminds me. I was thinking about going to Friday-night services sometime.”

“At Temple De Hirsch Sinai?”

“Considering it’s the sole Reform synagogue within a fifteen-mile radius, yeah. Do you . . . want to go with me?” I’m not entirely sure why I ask. Maybe because in a perfect world, Sophie and I could explore our identities together, learn more about this thing that connects us in a way we’ve never really talked about.

Sophie snorts. “To services? Voluntarily?”

“I thought it would be, I don’t know . . . fun? Interesting? Enlightening?”

“Or boring. I don’t understand why you’re suddenly so into the Jewish thing. You’ve never been like that.” At least she doesn’t say: But you’re only half. “Something’s weird about you today.”

“I’m not weird. This is just how I am.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “No. You’re definitely weird.”

I let out a long breath and dig my feet into the carpet to stop the chair from spinning. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you. For a while, actually.”

“Okay . . .” She shoves a few shirts out of the way so she can sit on the bed next to her duffel. “You’re scaring me.”