Our Year of Maybe
“We could,” I say in a small voice.
Our parents used to encourage us to enter talent shows, but Peter and I were used to living in our own world. The Terrible Twosome was for us, not anyone else.
“Sophie.”
Our food arrives, and while Peter digs in, I stab at my taco with a fork.
“You joined a band. Okay. That’s awesome. That’s really cool.” I force a smile. I am a robot learning how to express human emotions. “Do you . . . have any shows anytime soon? Can I hear you?”
“I mean, we’re still rehearsing,” he says between bites. “As soon as we book a gig, you’ll be the first to know.”
Gig. Peter is not someone who plays gigs.
Is he?
“Great.”
While Peter eats, I stare at my plate, fist clenched tight around my fork. I try to take a deep breath, but my lungs are tight.
“We’re okay, right?” he says after wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I mean, after—”
That strikes a nerve—no, it doesn’t strike it. It fucking smashes a nerve with a hammer.
I drop my fork on the table with a clatter. “I’m not silently pining for you or anything!” I say quickly, my voice jumping up to an even higher pitch again. I can’t control it. “God, Peter. I’m fine. I’m not still thinking about it. I just want things to be normal, okay?”
I’ve said this too loudly. Everyone’s staring at us. I’m shaking, even. It’s true: I want normal back, since it’s clear what I really want has to become a secret again.
But . . . I also want him to feel a little guilty that once again he’s gotten exactly what he wanted.
“We could play when we get home,” he says softly. An olive branch. He’s approaching me like I’m a lion he doesn’t want to pounce, quietly backing away from this strange conflict. “Or you could show me the piece from dance today.”
As calmly as I can, I pick up my taco, then finally meet his gaze. “It really looks better with more people.”
CHAPTER 18
PETER
WHEN CHASE TOLD ME HE wanted to hang out “just the two of us,” I wasn’t expecting it would happen so soon. The following Saturday night, though, he picks me up and drives us to the Laser Dome downtown. It’s connected to the science center, which I’ve been to only once, on an elementary school field trip. We played with bubbles and touched sea anemones underwater. For a solid three months afterward, I wanted to be a marine biologist.
“Laser Beatles,” Chase explains when I ask him what we’re doing at the science center. “Tonight they’re playing Revolver all the way through, and they project lasers on the ceiling in time with the music. . . . Trust me, it’s cool.”
“I love Revolver.”
“It’s criminally underrated. ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’ is a masterpiece.”
We get our tickets and head inside. It’s much warmer, and Chase’s glasses fog up. He wipes at them with his sleeve as he hums. There are a few rows of seats inside the auditorium, but Chase shakes his head and points to a stack of pillows. We each grab one and stretch out on the floor so we can stare up at the ceiling.
“I’ve never been here before,” I say as we’re waiting for the show to start. “I’ve been trying to decide what I want to do now that I have a more . . . freeing life than I used to, and clearly this should have been on the list.”
Chase rolls his body to the side, propping up his head with one hand. “What else is on the list?”
I turn to face him. Even in the almost-dark, his eyes are bright. “Nothing like skydiving or cliff-jumping. It’s not nearly that thrilling. It’s more like . . . Don’t judge me, okay?”
“I swear I won’t.”
I let out a sigh. “I’m sort of . . . exploring more of who I am? Like, I’m Jewish. Well, half, I guess. But I never had a bar mitzvah, and I don’t know very much about the religion. I . . . I think I might want to.”
“What does it mean, exactly, to be half Jewish?”