Our Year of Maybe

“It’s nothing bad!” I say quickly, but this does nothing to erase her concern. My heart picks up speed. “You know Chase? Cabrera? From the band?” I’m not sure why I add all these descriptors. Of course she knows who he is. She lifts her eyebrows as if to say exactly this. “Well. Uh. I sort of . . . like him.” Exhale. There it is. God, saying it feels good. Immediately, my shoulders release a tension I didn’t know they were carrying.

“I don’t know why you’d be in a band with him if you didn’t—oh.” The moment it dawns on her is clear. Her mouth forms an O, and her eyes go wider than I’ve ever seen them. “Are you . . . ?” She leaves it up to me to fill in the blank.

“I’m bisexual.” I’m happy with the way it comes out: no stammering. Clear. Solid.

After a few quiet moments, she asks in a small voice, “How . . . long have you known?”

“A long time. Years.”

“Do your parents know?”

“Yes.”

More silence—she’s processing. Her brows furrow and then unfurrow. “You like girls and guys. Is it . . . ? Is it equal? Is that a dumb question?”

“No. Not dumb. I doubt it’s an exact percentage.”

At this, she nods, then becomes very interested in the floral pattern of her comforter, as though she’s seeing the roses and sunflowers for the first time. “You could have told me,” she says softly. “If you’d wanted to. It wouldn’t have changed anything between us. It doesn’t change anything between us.”

“I know. I appreciate that.” I wasn’t ready to tell her, though—not because I worried about how she’d react, but because it felt like one thing in the world that was entirely mine. Now it feels just as much a fact about me as my dark hair or my love for Rufus Wainwright. Part of who I am, but not the only thing I am.

“Does—does Chase like you too?” She twists her mouth to one side of her face. “Sorry, I have so many questions.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” I can tell this conversation’s weird for her. Not necessarily because I like a guy, but because we don’t talk about this kind of thing. We only talk about it when it involves us. And those conversations never went past this point. I let myself say out loud what I’ve been hoping for weeks now: “I think so.”

“Oh. Wow. Wow.” She smiles, but it looks forced. “That’s exciting, right? So what happens next?”

“Honestly? I have no clue.” Though my imagination has plenty of ideas, most of which involve an empty house or the back seat of a car.

“Me either. I’ve never been in a relationship . . . obviously.” The

way she says this—it makes me feel a twinge of something that isn’t wholly pleasant. “Thank you. For telling me.”

I nod, and an unusual silence cloaks us again. Once the newness of my declaration wears off, she’ll get used to the idea of Chase and me. I just wish she could know how I feel when I’m around him. But it’s something so electric, so alive, I’m not sure I could put it into words. It would be like trying to play the piano with a dripping paintbrush.

“The three of us should hang out sometime,” she blurts.

“Yeah?” I grin. “I’d love that.”

“You guys are friends, and maybe more than friends, and he has to be cool, right? Cool enough to hang out with me?”

“He is.” I tap out a cheerful melody on her desk behind me. “And—Soph. I’ll be at your next game. I promise.” I tell her this to express my gratitude: for understanding, for being so eager to spend time with Chase.

Her brows crease again. “Only if you want to.”

“Of course I want to.”

“I’ll look for you in the bleachers, then.” She pats her duffel. “I should finish packing.”

“You want more help? Or more matzah puns?”

A laugh. It’s a relief to hear it. We’ll be back to normal soon—we have to be. “I think I can manage,” she says. “I’ll see you seder.”

“Okay. Challah if you need anything.”

CHAPTER 21

SOPHIE