Our Year of Maybe

“Nah, you went as a Nirvana fan, circa 1992.”

“It’s the plaid flannel, isn’t it?”

“You wear a lot of it.”

“So do you!” I say, but we’re both laughing. “It’s a daily reminder that neither of us is unique. And that we live in Seattle.”

Chase snorts. “I’m actually glad to see you,” he says, which makes my heart do this thing in my chest I’m not sure it’s ever done before. He drops his voice. “You know, uh, the band I told you about? We snagged a last-minute slot at a Halloween show tonight. We’re only, like, the opener for the opener, but . . . it might be cool.”

It’s clear he’s trying to bite back a smile, like he doesn’t want to let on how excited he is.

“That’s awesome. Good for you guys.”

“We’ll mostly play covers, but yeah. I can’t wait. We learned ‘Monster Mash’ last night, and we’re not terrible at it.” He’s full-on smiling now, a megawatt smile. “Unless you and your fantastic non-costume have other plans tonight . . . you should come.”

I nod, trying not to seem overeager. “I think I can make it.” Appropriately casual.

“And. Uh.” His eyes flick to the linoleum floor, and then up to the piano, but not quite to my face. “I’ve been thinking our band needs a keyboardist. I’m not—I mean, we barely know each other, but . . .”

“You want me to play in your band?” I say it incredulously because I am incredulous. Sure, I’ve toyed with the idea of being part of something like that, but this . . . Music’s always felt like it belonged to Sophie and me.

“Come see us play tonight first. See what you think.”

“Okay. Yeah. I’ll be there.”

The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch.

“I’ll text you the info,” Chase says.

I play a glissando as I hop off the piano bench. “Go ceiling,” I say, raising my fist in the air.

That evening, I borrow some of my dad’s old wide-legged pants—why do dads never throw out their old clothes? I don’t know, but I’m grateful for it now—put a blazer over a T-shirt, and part my hair down the middle. While Mark is taking a dust bath and generally being adorable, I find a pair of round glasses I used as a Halloween costume freshman year. There: John Lennon. Sophie went as Ringo Starr, which turned out not to be a very recognizable costume at all—tragically, a little like Ringo himself.

The only way my parents let me go is by giving me a strict curfew and insisting on driving me there and back. It still feels like a new kind of freedom. Maybe they’re beginning to loosen their white-knuckled grip on me.

“Are we picking up Sophie, too?” my dad asks as we get in the car.

“No,” I say quickly. “She’s not going.”

I considered inviting her. I could imagine the two of us having fun at a Halloween show. But . . . a bigger part of me wanted to see if I could do this on my own. What it would be like to just be Peter Rosenthal-Porter at a show on Halloween that a cute boy invited him to—at least until his parents pick him up.

Still, I can’t ignore the ribbon of guilt that snakes through me. Sophie and I spent past Halloweens coordinating our costumes, watching Beetlejuice, and passing out candy, but we didn’t discuss plans for this year. After the party we each need some time away from the other.

My dad’s quiet for a while as we pull out of our neighborhood. I remain still, hoping Sophie doesn’t spot us. I stop short of sinking into the seat to fully hide my face.

“I hope you don’t feel too uncomfortable after that conversation about the sleepovers.”

“Dad.” My face ignites.

He clears his throat. Turns on the blinker. His key chain has a tooth with a smiley face on it. It’s always looked demonic to me, especially as it swings back and forth. “You know, er, if you ever . . . if you ever feel as though you need to talk about . . .”

“Are you trying to have a sex talk with me?”

“I’m not doing a very good job, am I?”

“We’re both embarrassed, so I’d say it’s right on track.”

“Well. Good?”