Our Year of Maybe

“I could help you. With the book.” This is how my first non-Sophie friendship starts: with Dante Alighieri. “As nerd club president, it might even be my duty.”

One half of his mouth pulls up into a smile. His glasses sit on his nose tilted slightly to the right, and his smile goes slightly to the left. I like the opposite symmetry of it. I like that no one else in our year wears the kind of glasses he does.

“Thank you. Thank you. If you can get one one-hundredth of your knowledge into my head, maybe I won’t be totally screwed.” He swivels his chair over to my alcove. “You’re . . . on the Wikipedia page for football?”

“Oh.” My face heats up, and I chew on my bottom lip before explaining: “I’ve never been to a game. Figured I should probably know how it’s played before tonight.”

“You’ve never been to a football game?”

“I . . . haven’t done a lot of things.” I didn’t want to get into this, but he’s clearly waiting for an explanation now, one eyebrow raised. If Chase and I are going to be friends, he might as well know why I’ve been a hermit. “So, when you asked if I was new . . . I’ve actually lived here my whole life. But I’ve been homeschooled for the past few years. I have chronic kidney disease, and my parents are really overprotective. I’d been on the transplant list for years. Until a couple months ago. My friend Sophie donated a kidney.” I push back my sleeve, showing him the medical ID bracelet.

Chase’s dark eyes widen. Clearly, this is not what he was expecting to hear. When he speaks, his voice is softer than usual. “That’s . . . wow. How are you feeling? Is that okay to ask? My mom has a friend with chronic pain who told us to stop asking because she was never going to have a happy answer. So—please ignore me if I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“I’m kind of the same way, actually. Or—I used to be. But I’m a lot better now. I don’t have to—” I break off, realizing I was about to talk about the exchanges I no longer have to do. Peter. No. “Anyway. Inferno.”

“Only if you’re sure I’m not keeping you from your very serious Wikipedia research.”

“I’m sure.”

Chase rolls up his sleeves, as though we’re about to embark on something more strenuous than discussing medieval literature.

“First question, then: Why couldn’t a book about hell be more interesting?”

I flip through Chase’s copy of the book. “It’s an epic poem, an allegory about man’s spiritual journey. Dante dies, and in the underworld, each person’s sin is punished in a really poetic way. Like, fortune-tellers have to walk with their heads on backward so they can’t see what’s ahead.”

“That’s clever. I like that.”

“He’s guided by this Roman poet, Virgil, through the nine circles of hell, and as they get deeper, the sins people have committed grow worse.” I point at the diagram in his book.

Chase examines it. “Where do you think you’d be?”

I consider it. “Anger.”

“Fifth circle? You’re bad.”

Before therapy, I used to be angry all the time—about my first donor kidney failing all those years ago, about my life as a shut-in. I banged out songs on the baby grand that made my parents invest in quality earplugs.

“I’m not nearly as angry as I used to be. Maybe I’d be stuck in limbo. What about you?”

“Hmm. Heresy? I’ve never been very religious.”

For a moment I ponder that. I still have no idea how religious I actually am. Clearing my throat, I decide to trudge onward. “So, Dante descends further and further, ultimately winding up in the ninth circle, where Lucifer is condemned for having committed the ultimate sin against God, treachery. He has three faces, three mouths. They’re each chewing on a traitor: Brutus and Cassius, who killed Julius Caesar, and Judas, who betrayed Jesus.”

Chase pulls his computer onto his lap and types a few notes. “Aside from the fact that we get to read something about Satan eating people, why do you like it so much?”

“I guess it, like, spoke to me or something.” I emphasize the word “spoke” like I know what I’m saying must sound ridiculous.

But Chase doesn’t seem to think it’s stupid. He’s watching me intently, waiting for me to say more.

“Part of it is that I like how poetic the punishments are. Gruesome, sure, but it’s the ultimate karma. I also like the idea that when you die, things aren’t over. Even if you’re damned to an eternity of suffering. I’m Jewish, but on some days I’m convinced I’m an atheist, and on others I’m more agnostic, so most of the time I don’t really believe in any kind of afterlife. So I guess I wondered, because I was sick . . .” I trail off, because anything else is too deep, too dark for this nascent friendship. Chase probably hasn’t had to confr

ont his mortality like I have.

Also: I realize I said “Jewish” as opposed to “half Jewish.” It might be the first time. Well, half Jewish, I nearly feel compelled to add. But I don’t.

He’s quiet. I’m worried I’ve said too much and consider brushing it off when he says, voice serious, “I can understand that. Like I mentioned before, I’m not very religious either, so I have no idea what it feels like, but it . . . it makes sense.”

“Have you ever read a book like that?” I ask. “I mean, not about death, necessarily, but something that spoke to you?”