Our Year of Maybe

So I attempt some homework of my own before getting bored and texting Montana and Liz to see if they’re free before remembering the party last night, and that they’re probably still recovering. Sure enough, it’s ten a.m. when Liz replies that she’s still wiped, and a few minutes later Montana replies with the same thing.

Tabby’s working the Sunday shift, so I drive down to the diner to see if I can get some free food.

“I’m swamped,” Tabby says after I grab a stool at the counter, the only available seat. She’s balancing several plates of waffles on her arms. “You had to pick Sunday brunch to visit me?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, but she’s already somehow across the restaurant, dropping off the plates.

I had sex last night, I want to tell my sister. I’m like you now. A non-virgin. I’m in the club. Are there jackets? But despite whatever closeness we gained a couple weeks ago, I’m not about to announce this in a public setting. It’ll have to wait for the right time.

Instead, I scarf down my free omelet and hash browns as quickly as I can. After I leave the diner, I stop at the outdoor mall, fight for a parking spot, and then spend thirty minutes in Sephora trying on forty-dollar lipsticks before deciding to buy none of them.

Home again. Restless, I meander into our backyard. My dad’s wrapped up in a home-improvement project, cleaning out the old shed that’s become a place to chuck things we can’t bear to throw away but don’t exactly want, either.

“You want to help me clean the shed?” he asks incredulously, and with a shrug, hands me a black trash bag.

I lean against the side of the shed. With a gasp, I pull my hand away, staring down at the splinter in my palm. My dad shakes his head. It’s possible I’m not the home-improvement type.

After I fish out the splinter, I flop down on the couch in the living room and check my phone. Somehow it’s only two p.m., and I have no idea how that’s possible, unless I stepped into a time warp in Sephora earlier.

“Bored?” my mom asks, coming into the living room with Luna.

“No . . .” I toss my phone down on the couch and groan. “Fine, a little.”

“Is your homework done?”

I groan louder.

“I was going to set Luna up with a coloring book. You’re welcome to join us.”

Because I haven’t colored in forever, I shrug and follow the two of them into the kitchen, where my mom unloads all the art supplies Tabby and I accumulated over the years. Hand-me-down crayons.

It’s calming, actually, to scribble across a magical forest. When I glance over at my mom’s sheet, I drop my own crayon.

“Mom. Are you serious? That’s, like, good.”

She examines it, clearly proud. “I minored in art in college. I’ve always loved it.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say, continuing to marvel at her creation.

Tabby comes home and Josh comes over, and they’re as affectionate as they always are. We all have dinner together as a family, and it’s unremarkable and uneventful and yet still really, really nice.

And later that evening I fall asleep easily this time, and with a smile on my face.

We have three big assemblies each year. There’s the homecoming assembly in the fall, the winter spirit assembly, and the end-of-the-year assembly. This second one is mainly an excuse for shortened classes, to remind people they love their school and their sports teams, I guess.

They feel different from performing on the field at football games. In the gym, the lights are bright and everyone is there because it’s mandatory, except for the kids who sneak joints behind the school.

I had to get to school early to go over our routine, so I missed giving Peter a ride. His mom said he was still asleep, which is unusual for him. Unusual for this version of him, at least. The post-transplant version. All morning, though, I’ve been thinking about Peter, Peter, Peter. Peter Rosenthal-Porter, the boy I gave my virginity to because I always knew, deep down, that I would.

The team’s talking about the sleepover I missed on Saturday, but that’s okay. I’ll go to the next one, and Peter and I will go to the next house party together, too. As a couple. Peter and I are a couple, and I cannot stop smiling.

“Sophie, are you okay?” Montana says during a break.

“I’m happy,” I call back.

She and Liz exchange a glance. “Did something happen with Peter?”

My face splits open, sunshine bursting through the clouds on a gloomy day. “Everything happened with Peter.” Thirty-six hours was too long to keep this secret. Suddenly I want to tell everyone.