Our Year of Maybe

“Not exactly, but . . .” I want him to be, I could say. And I thought we were finally making some progress. But now I’m even more confused. Montana and Liz started out as friends, and they must have thought dating was worth risking that friendship. The words dissolve on my tongue. If I were talking to Peter—and not about Peter—I’d have no shortage of things to say.

“It’s complicated?” Liz says. At practice, she wears her blond bob in a stubby ponytail, but this morning it’s pushed back with a yellow headband. Her face is free of its usual winged eyeliner, the kind I’ve practiced myself but never have been able to get right. It’s odd seeing them outside of school like this, even odder than at the party last night. They seem about 150 percent less intimidating than usual.

I let out a breath. “Very.”

They must assume I don’t want to talk about it, because Montana says, “Do you want to work on your choreography?”

“What?”

“Do you want to come in. Work on your choreography.” It’s not a question this time. She keys in a code on the side of her garage that opens the door, and she beckons me to come inside with them.

“Oh . . .” I search for an excuse and can’t find one. “I don’t want to interrupt if you two are hanging out. . . .”

“Just come inside,” Montana says with a roll of her eyes. She tosses the garbage into a bin and leads me down into the basement we did shots in last night.

“I can’t believe your parents let you throw parties like that. My parents aren’t super strict or anything, but I still can’t imagine them giving us free rein with alcohol. And Peter’s parents are really overprotective. It would never happen.”

“They think if we drink in a ‘controlled environment’ that we’ll be smart about it. And hey, I guess it’s true. You left your car here last night.”

Montana pushes the sofa against the wall. Liz hooks her phone up to the speakers and finds a warm-up song, something by Imogen Heap. The three of us start stretching.

“I’m glad you decided to come,” Montana continues. “To the party, and right now.” The genuine way she says it makes me wish I hadn’t resisted hanging out with them before, although I can’t imagine having traded any of my Peter time.

I need some time, he said this morning. And I need to put that out of my mind so

it doesn’t torture me until that extremely vague length of time has passed.

“You’re so good with the team,” I tell Montana. “I mean. You’re a good captain.”

“The best,” Liz says.

“Suck-up.” Montana smiles, still in her lunge. To me, she says: “Thanks. I try to bring out the best in each dancer. I went to this choreography workshop in San Francisco last summer. It was the best eight weeks of my life.” She switches legs. “You should apply.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve never been away from home for that long.”

“It was incredible. And you have a technical background, so you’d be great. I stayed in a dorm, too. It was basically like college.” She rolls her neck. “I can’t wait for college. I applied to a bunch of schools in New York for dance. And Liz wants to work in publishing.”

“Fingers crossed, we’ll end up in NYC together,” Liz says.

I feel a flash of something unfamiliar—awe, maybe? I can imagine them there. We’re in the same grade, but they seem so much older, more experienced. I’ve barely thought about what happens after this year. I’ll be in community college and Peter will be here, and the year after that, we’ll be together again. Somewhere.

I tuck my necklace inside my shirt like I usually do before dancing. “I’ll think about it. I’m not sure what Peter’s summer plans are yet.”

Eight weeks in San Francisco. Eight weeks without Peter—if I even got in. I’ve only been away from Peter for a week at a time on family vacations. I always worried something awful would happen while I was gone.

“Where are you applying?” Liz asks, and for a second I think she’s talking about the workshop too.

“Oh—I’m not. I’m going to go to Seattle Central for a year. I have no idea what I want to study, so I might as well save a few grand.” I don’t mention waiting for Peter to graduate, though saving money has always felt secondary.

“Smart.” Montana gestures to the space in front of her. “Show us what you have.”

“It’s not much more than last time. . . .”

“Excuses! Come on, Sophie. If you want to be a real choreographer, you need to be more confident about your work. What’s the point if no one’s going to see it?”

I consider this. That’s what dance is—a performing art. It’s not something you do alone, and it’s not meant to be a secret.

I clear my throat. “Start the music.”