It’s not just the jeans, though. It’s how he looks so ridiculously, wonderfully collegiate with his blue plaid shirt and tan jacket and backpack slung over one shoulder. It’s his hair damp from a morning shower. It’s how clean boy is the best smell in the world, how I hope we can have a hundred more mornings like this.

My outfit is similarly casual, a striped shirt tucked into high-waisted skinny jeans, my Star of David necklace slipping in and out of the neckline of my shirt no matter how many times I tug it into view.

Once I turn on the car, I swipe through the Spotify playlists on my phone. Peter leans over, as though he thinks he has a say in the matter.

“My car,” I say, holding the phone closer so he can’t see the screen. “My music.”

He groans. He doesn’t have his license yet; his parents have been too overprotective to let him even take driver’s ed. I might struggle with reading, but—this isn’t the case for all dyslexic people—my spatial skills and hand-eye coordination are excellent, and I turned out to be a naturally good driver. Sure, I had to take the written test twice, but who doesn’t?

I settle on something he’ll like anyway, a Rufus Wainwright album he introduced me to a few years ago. I tend to prefer more upbeat music, but there’s something soothing about his voice.

If there’s a chance to make Peter happy, even if it’s small, I usually take it. It’s a side effect of having a sick best friend. You tend to give up things you like that you realize don’t matter that much: pizza toppings, what TV series to marathon, what music to listen to. It used to bother me that I didn’t get my way as much as Peter did, but I got used to it. He deserved to get his way. I was convinced of that.

He relaxes into the seat, silently satisfied, a smile nestling into one corner of his mouth. He fiddles with something on his wrist.

“What is that?”

He rolls up his sleeve and shows it to me. “Medical ID bracelet. All transplant recipients are supposed to wear them in case of an emergency. And . . . so are donors.” With that, he unzips his backpack and takes out a similar silver bracelet. “I told your parents I wanted to help pick it out. Do . . . you like it?” He sounds nervous.

Peter bought me jewelry. A medically necessary piece of jewelry, but still. The steel plate at the center is inscribed with the words DONATED LEFT KIDNEY, along with my parents’ phone numbers and my blood type. Peter’s bracelet is simple, but two charms hang off mine: a music note and a ballet slipper.

“I couldn’t find anything that clearly symbolized ‘dance team,’?” he says.

“Peter.” My heart is stuck in my throat. Slowly I slip the bracelet onto my wrist. “Thank you.”

He exhales, as though he’d been waiting for me to indicate I liked it. “Think of it as a super-intense friendship bracelet.” And I have to laugh at that.

“This might be the best gift you’ve given me,” I say as I pull out of our Wallingford neighborhood. “And yes, I’m including the calendar in that.” Four years ago, for Hanukkah, Peter gave me a wall calendar with the most stunning photos of Twyla Tharp’s choreography I’d ever seen. He knows I prefer physical calendars to anything on my phone, so in theory, the gift was extremely sweet. But—

“I didn’t realize it was for the wrong year! I was so excited when I found it.” He grimaces, gives me a guilty look. “That’s . . . probably why it was on sale.”

I turn onto Forty-Fifth, Wallingford’s main drag, which is lined with restaurants and bars and cafés, including my and Peter’s favorite ice-cream shop, which, in true Seattle fashion, uses locally sourced ingredients and serves odd flavors like cardamom and white cheddar blackberry.

“So . . . how are you feeling?” I ask.

“That’s the first time in probably ten years that I haven’t hated that question. I feel all right today. Not amazing, but . . . all right. And my appetite is ridiculous. I haven’t been this hungry in a while.”

“All right is good! Hungry is good!” I chirp. This is strange, driving Peter and me to school. It’s too normal. “God. I can’t believe you’re finally coming back to school.”

“Me either. If there was ever going to be a right time, though . . .” He drums his fingers on the dashboard, tugs on the zipper of his coat. He can’t stay still. “Are you sure I look okay? I haven’t missed some major fashion trend? People aren’t wearing neon onesies or velour jumpsuits or anything now, are they?”

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. His lower lip is between his teeth, that adorable nervous habit I hope he never outgrows. If I answered truthfully, I’d tell him that not only does he look okay, he looks beautiful, and maybe he should use unscented soap because whatever he did use is seriously distracting. “Only on Thursdays,” I say instead.

His nerves are contagious. As much as I’m sure people will be happy to see Peter after all his years of homeschooling, I wonder if anyone is going to be happy to see me after an entire summer. It’s a stupid, jealous thought. But I don’t love the person I am in school. I’m constantly anxious, behind on my homework, unsu

re what to say when a teacher calls on me. At dance team practice, I am closer to myself, but I’m only Sophie with Peter. Over the summer I dutifully liked Instagram posts to remind people I still existed. I wonder if anyone will have missed me. The reality is, probably not.

While we’re stopped at a red light, my hand on the gearshift, Peter reaches out and grazes my knuckles with his fingertips, as though each little knob is a piano key and he could play an entire song on my skin. I hold my breath.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says, like he knows I need the reassurance as much as he does.

As we turn into the parking lot of North Seattle High, Peter’s mouth falls open. He stares at the enormous gray building, the trees lining the walkway, the solar panels on the roof.

“I don’t remember it being so . . . huge,” he says, then adds quietly, “I wonder if anyone will remember me.” The fear and insecurity in his voice nearly break me in half.

“Even if they don’t, they’ll love you soon enough.” How could they not? Peter is someone who survived against all odds. We love a good comeback story, a story about someone fighting the evil inside their body and winning. Peter won, and I made the invisible assist.

“I hope so. I hope I didn’t wear these jeans for nothing.” He starts to unbuckle his seat belt.

Tags: Rachel Lynn Solomon
Source: readsnovelonline.net