Our Year of Maybe

“Not a book,” he says. “But music, absolutely. There are some songs I’m positive just had to be written about what I was going through.”

I nod vigorously. “I get that. I feel that way about most of Regina Spektor’s songs . . . except the really weird ones.”

“There are a lot of those.”

“You know Regina Spektor?”

“A couple of her more recent albums, yeah.”

“You have to listen to Soviet Kitsch. And 11:11—that’s her self-released one. What she can do with the piano, it’s incredible.” I’m rambling. “I, uh, I play piano, so most of what I listen to is pretty piano-centric.”

“That’s cool,” he says, then scrunches his face. “Just don’t tell me you’re a Coldplay superfan. We’d have to end this friendship right now.”

“Definitely not. I mean, Chris Martin’s a good pianist, but they’ve got to be the most overplayed band of the 2000s.”

“Agreed. Thank God.”

“What are you into?”

He lets out a breath, as though about to begin a very long story. “Some classic rock, some punk, a lot of newer stuff.” He lists names of bands, a few I’ve heard of, many I haven’t. “I’ve been really into this one lately.” He opens a music player and quietly, quietly, so the librarians won’t hear us, clicks on a song by a band called Shovels & Rope. He glances at me expectantly, waiting for my judgment. Like he’s worried I’ll hate it and think he has shit taste in music.

“This is good,” I say, and I swear he sighs in relief. “Sort of has a Neko Case vibe, but less depressing.” When Chase looks blank, I feign shock. “Neko Case? Really?” I lean over and find one of my favorite songs of hers, “This Tornado Loves You.”

“I like this,” he says, and when the song’s over, he types something else into the search bar.

We go back and forth like this for a while, trading songs, Dante nearly forgotten. When Sophie and I do this, we’re both judgmental, convinced our taste is better, frustrated when the other doesn’t get the brilliance of a particularly brilliant song.

“You like good music,” he says, and at that word, “good,” a spark of pride runs up my spine. There’s nothing like being complimented on your music taste. It feels better than being told you’re smart or attractive or funny. “I’m, uh . . .” He blushes. “We only just started, so we’re not telling that many people yet, but I’m in a band. Somehow even my mom’s on board with it. Thinks it’ll look good on my college apps.”

I picture Chase onstage, hair slicked back, singing into a microphone. “What do you play?”

“Guitar, but my voice is shit so they won’t even let me sing backup. We mostly play covers right now. We’re kinda awful, but I love it.” There’s that smile again, the one at odds with the angle of his glasses.

“You’re really selling it.” I check my phone. Kickoff is in an hour, and it’s an away game. “I didn’t realize it was so late. Do you know where the nearest bus stop is?”

Chase raises his eyebrows. “Are you serious? I’ll drive you. We’re going to the same place.”

“That would be great. Thank you.”

He waves his hand like it’s no big deal. “Thank you,” he says, and it sounds genuine. He taps the book. “If I can ever repay you . . .”

My stomach twists. Favors are dangerous, and I’m too indebted already. Especially since I still don’t know how—if—I can ever repay Sophie.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, gathering my books and laptop. “You don’t owe me anything.”

CHAPTER 11

SOPHIE

GLITTER AND SPANDEX AND FALSE eyelashes—that’s what game nights are made of. I’m not naturally a rah-rah, school-spirit kind of person, but performing—performing, I love, whether it’s in Peter’s living room or in a studio or on a football field in the pouring rain.

We’re up 14–7. The dance team and I are shivering in the first row of the bleachers in our warm-up jackets, and the Seattle drizzle that’s plagued the entire first half is threatening to become a downpour. One of my lashes is coming unglued. When I try to reattach it, it sticks to my finger, until finally I let the rain wash it away.

“A few more minutes,” Montana says. She has a green ribbon wrapped around her ballet bun, which is slicked back so tight it must hurt. She paces in front of us, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “You all ready?” A chorus of yeses. “That’s what I like to hear!” Her gaze lands on mine. “Sophie? You ready? You look a little scared.”

I clench my jaw. My teeth are chattering.

“I’m ready,” I say. “Just cold.”