Talking about dating also made me feel less sick. It helped to imagine a future in which I could go on a date and not have to worry about my next exchange.
My mom actually smiled. “Peter. We know what bisexual means. Your aunt Kerri is bi.”
Hearing my mom abbreviate it was both oddly embarrassing and a tremendous relief.
“Oh—she is?”
My dad nodded. “Whoever you date, Peter, all that matters to us is that they’re good to you.”
Somehow, though, I couldn’t tell Sophie. Maybe because she’d been one of the many people I’d crushed on. Mostly, though, I think it was this: that when it came to Sophie, not talking about dating and relationships was safer.
“A couple final checks and you should be good to go,” Dr. Paulson says now.
I clench my teeth, waiting for him to find something wrong as he peers at my charts. But there’s nothing wrong. Sophie’s kidney is functioning like a champ, and I really am good to go. No more exchanges. No more dialysis.
My parents and I wait for the elevator, both of them too giddy to stop smiling. My stomach twinges as we get inside. It drops us down, down, down, closer to the start of my new life. I wonder if it’ll be a good summer, a warm summer. I wonder how much closer my mom is to finishing her book. I wonder what classes I’ll take in the fall.
Sophie already went home, but I saw her nearly every day she was in the hospital. Our conversations were mostly silly and superficial, our medications making us loopy. Every night she was on the other side of the wall from me, which somehow felt farther away than across the street.
Sometimes I wanted to sneak into her room and talk without a dozen people in scrubs nearby. But I worried what I’d say to her when we were alone. If “thank you” could ever be enough.
If this means things between us are different now.
OTHER TIMES
I WAS IN LOVE WITH her once. Five years ago, sixth grade for me and seventh for her, my last year of public school.
I would express my love through song, I decided. I wrote about her hair and her freckles and the way she kept me company on my worst days. It was called “Dancing through My Heart,” and honestly, I should have stopped right there.
We both took music appreciation as an elective that year, though we obnoxiously joked to each other that we were already pretty good at appreciating it. Making it. When I was confident the song was ready, I told her to meet me in the music room at lunch. I got there early, claiming my spot at the upright piano and flexing my fingers. In my head, I rehearsed the lyrics.
When she pushed the door open, she looked, somehow, cuter than she usually did, her red hair tumbling from a barrette, bangs swept to one side.
“Did you want to play something?” she asked. We’d been playing as the Terrible Twosome for about a year at that point. The way Sophie devoted herself to dance, pushed herself daily—it was impossible not to admire.
It was also impossible not to admire the shapes her body made when she was doing it.
“Yeah,” I said. “But just, uh, listen first, okay?”
She clutched her binder to her chest. Sophie was always so much shyer in real life than onstage, or even on the mock stages we set up in our living rooms. It was like she let her arms and legs express through dance what they couldn’t the rest of the time.
I struck the first chord, a G major. And then I opened my mouth.
They were the first lyrics I’d ever written, and I realized pretty quickly that they should probably be the last. Puberty mangled my voice. I grimaced as I heard it, hoping she could hear how heartfelt it was even though I couldn’t do it justice.
When it was over, she stared for a few solid moments. The silence felt like it lasted longer than the longest song, longer than “Bohemian Rhapsody” and “American Pie” and “Stairway to Heaven” all put together.
Finally she laughed. “You’re so weird,” she said, moving closer so she could palm my shoulder.
“Oh,” I said, not understanding. “I am?”
She sat down next to me, pushing me over with her hip, a gesture that was both annoying and distracting. “This was a joke, right? You’re always saying you could never play in a real band because you can’t write lyrics and you can’t sing. So . . . you proved it to me.”
It was true; I’d often joked about that. All the pianists I could name who played modern music sang, too.
“It’s not a joke,” I mumbled.
“What?”
I chewed on my lower lip. It would have been so easy, then, to take it back. Instead, I cleared my throat. “It . . . wasn’t a joke, Soph. I . . . think I like you? As . . . more than a friend.”
A silence gaped between us.
“I love you,” I elaborated. As though my previous statement had been unclear.
“I. Um. Wow,” Sophie said. Her cheeks turned pink, and I would have found it adorable if I weren’t so embarrassed myself. Say something else, I willed her. Something other than “wow.” “Wow,” she said again, and I wished I could vanish. I wished someone else would come inside, save us from each other and this new awkwardness that had never existed between us before.
Had my hormones ruined nearly a decade of friendship?
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
“Don’t be sorry!” She wouldn’t make eye contact. “I—I’ve only ever thought of you as a friend. I’m sorry.”
My face was hot. We were eleven and twelve. What did I think would happen? That we’d shyly hold hands at the movies but ignore each other in the halls, the way other “couples” our age did? Yes, I’d been imagining doing exactly that for months. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And what was I supposed to do now? Suddenly stop liking her, as though it were a song I could simply switch off?
She tried to smile. “I’m really flattered, Peter,” she continued.
Somehow that made it worse. “I’m going to disappear now.” I held my hands over my face.
“Nooooo!” She peeled my hands away. “Don’t be embarrassed. We’re okay. I promise I won’t be weird about it.”
“Sure. Okay.”
“Do you want to get pizza?”
I didn’t want to get pizza.
“Yeah. Let’s get pizza.”
Maybe I didn’t know what love meant back then, but it felt real to me. In the years since, that love, or whatever it was, stretched and thinned. Sophie poked holes in it, and then she sewed them back up. Sometimes I was convinced I’d gotten over the crush. But other times I wondered how I could stand to be in the same room with her without touching her.
Those other times were the hardest.
PART II
CHAPTER 5
SOPHIE
BEFORE MY SISTER BECAME A mother, our morning routines were a tug-of-war. I’d use up the hot water; she’d eat the last bagel. She’d insist on leaving way too early; I’d make her late. When we finally got into the car, she’d belt show tunes and I’d beg her to stop.
“Happy first day of senior year!” Tabby sings as she gets Luna settled with some yogurt and Cheerios. “Excited?”
We’ve had a year to rehearse this new routine, the one where my sister the mom is front and center, but I haven’t memorized the steps yet.
“Actually, yes.” I slot my empty cereal bowl into the dishwasher. Our parents go to work early so one or both of them can watch Luna when Tabby waitresses in the evenings, so I try to be good and clean up after myself.
My last first day of high school doesn’t feel momentous in the traditional sense. I’ve always planned to go to community college, where I’ll wait for Peter to graduate, then transfer wherever he picks. Since I have no idea what I want to study, it makes sense to stay at home for another year and save money. But right now all I can focus on is Peter heading back to school with me. And that feels pretty spectacular.
In the months since the surgery, I slept and popped pain pills and went to checkups and watched all of Gilmore Girls and played board games
and rested, something I’ve never been very good at. Peter recovered more slowly, even had to be on dialysis for a few weeks right after the transplant. I was slow to start exercising again, but my doctor cleared me to start dance team practice, and I’m itching for it. I even miss my weekly jazz technique class.
“Does it feel weird?” Tabby asks, brushing bangs off her forehead. Her hair used to hit her waist, but she chopped it when Luna started sticking strands in her mouth. She pours herself a glass of orange juice and leans against the counter next to me. We’re the same height, just shy of five feet. We both grew up scrawny, though dance gave me muscles and pregnancy filled out Tabby’s curves. Even standing side by side, she looks more adult than I do. I can’t believe she’s only seventeen.
“It doesn’t feel like something’s missing, or anything like that. But . . . it hurts sometimes, if I move a certain way. I’ll have to take it easy at practice.”
“Are you sure it’s smart to go back to dance so soon?”
“The doctor said it was okay as long as I don’t overdo it.” And I won’t. I know my body.
But my body is different now.
Maybe Tabby and I were born out of order. I used to beg her to order for me in restaurants. Before I knew I was dyslexic, I worried I’d mispronounce what was on the menu. It got to the point where my parents asked Tabby not to, told me if I wanted to eat, I had to order for myself. They thought it was run-of-the-mill shyness, so they felt pretty bad after my diagnosis.
“Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.
Putting my back to her, I open a box of organic granola bars and slip a couple in my bag for later. “I’ve already missed a whole summer of workouts. It’s a miracle they’re even keeping me on the team. And last time I checked, you were Luna’s mom, not mine.”
“Let’s forget it,” she says, shrugging it off. “Do you know what fall show they’re doing this year yet?”
“As soon as I know, I’ll tell you.”
Her shoulders sag, and an odd emotion, one I’m not sure I can name, crosses my sister’s face. But before she can say anything else, Luna lets out a wail from her high chair.
“Ladybug, what’s wrong?” Tabby coos at her, and her face twists into something I definitely recognize. “Diaper change.”
As she scoops up Luna and races down the hall, I pocket my keys and wonder if she misses our old morning rituals: fighting about nothing instead of fussing over a baby.
Honestly, sometimes I do.
I make a big show of opening my car’s passenger door for Peter as he heads down the front walk. Tabby and I share this sensible sedan; since she works nights, our general agreement is that I get the car during the day unless she needs it to take Luna somewhere. Weekends are always a negotiation.
“You see these?” he says, gesturing to his jeans. “These are for you.”
I clasp my hands together. “You’re too good to me.”
It’s not just the jeans, though. It’s how he looks so ridiculously, wonderfully collegiate with his blue plaid shirt and tan jacket and backpack slung over one shoulder. It’s his hair damp from a morning shower. It’s how clean boy is the best smell in the world, how I hope we can have a hundred more mornings like this.
My outfit is similarly casual, a striped shirt tucked into high-waisted skinny jeans, my Star of David necklace slipping in and out of the neckline of my shirt no matter how many times I tug it into view.
Once I turn on the car, I swipe through the Spotify playlists on my phone. Peter leans over, as though he thinks he has a say in the matter.
“My car,” I say, holding the phone closer so he can’t see the screen. “My music.”
He groans. He doesn’t have his license yet; his parents have been too overprotective to let him even take driver’s ed. I might struggle with reading, but—this isn’t the case for all dyslexic people—my spatial skills and hand-eye coordination are excellent, and I turned out to be a naturally good driver. Sure, I had to take the written test twice, but who doesn’t?
I settle on something he’ll like anyway, a Rufus Wainwright album he introduced me to a few years ago. I tend to prefer more upbeat music, but there’s something soothing about his voice.
If there’s a chance to make Peter happy, even if it’s small, I usually take it. It’s a side effect of having a sick best friend. You tend to give up things you like that you realize don’t matter that much: pizza toppings, what TV series to marathon, what music to listen to. It used to bother me that I didn’t get my way as much as Peter did, but I got used to it. He deserved to get his way. I was convinced of that.
He relaxes into the seat, silently satisfied, a smile nestling into one corner of his mouth. He fiddles with something on his wrist.
“What is that?”
He rolls up his sleeve and shows it to me. “Medical ID bracelet. All transplant recipients are supposed to wear them in case of an emergency. And . . . so are donors.” With that, he unzips his backpack and takes out a similar silver bracelet. “I told your parents I wanted to help pick it out. Do . . . you like it?” He sounds nervous.
Peter bought me jewelry. A medically necessary piece of jewelry, but still. The steel plate at the center is inscribed with the words DONATED LEFT KIDNEY, along with my parents’ phone numbers and my blood type. Peter’s bracelet is simple, but two charms hang off mine: a music note and a ballet slipper.
“I couldn’t find anything that clearly symbolized ‘dance team,’ ” he says.
“Peter.” My heart is stuck in my throat. Slowly I slip the bracelet onto my wrist. “Thank you.”
He exhales, as though he’d been waiting for me to indicate I liked it. “Think of it as a super-intense friendship bracelet.” And I have to laugh at that.
“This might be the best gift you’ve given me,” I say as I pull out of our Wallingford neighborhood. “And yes, I’m including the calendar in that.” Four years ago, for Hanukkah, Peter gave me a wall calendar with the most stunning photos of Twyla Tharp’s choreography I’d ever seen. He knows I prefer physical calendars to anything on my phone, so in theory, the gift was extremely sweet. But—
“I didn’t realize it was for the wrong year! I was so excited when I found it.” He grimaces, gives me a guilty look. “That’s . . . probably why it was on sale.”
I turn onto Forty-Fifth, Wallingford’s main drag, which is lined with restaurants and bars and cafés, including my and Peter’s favorite ice-cream shop, which, in true Seattle fashion, uses locally sourced ingredients and serves odd flavors like cardamom and white cheddar blackberry.
“So . . . how are you feeling?” I ask.
“That’s the first time in probably ten years that I haven’t hated that question. I feel all right today. Not amazing, but . . . all right. And my appetite is ridiculous. I haven’t been this hungry in a while.”
“All right is good! Hungry is good!” I chirp. This is strange, driving Peter and me to school. It’s too normal. “God. I can’t believe you’re finally coming back to school.”
“Me either. If there was ever going to be a right time, though . . .” He drums his fingers on the dashboard, tugs on the zipper of his coat. He can’t stay still. “Are you sure I look okay? I haven’t missed some major fashion trend? People aren’t wearing neon onesies or velour jumpsuits or anything now, are they?”
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. His lower lip is between his teeth, that adorable nervous habit I hope he never outgrows. If I answered truthfully, I’d tell him that not only does he look okay, he looks beautiful, and maybe he should use unscented soap because whatever he did use is seriously distracting. “Only on Thursdays,” I say instead.
His nerves are contagious. As much as I’m sure people will be happy to see Peter after all his years of homeschooling, I wonder if anyone is going to be happy to see me after an entire summer. It’s a stupid, jealous thought. But I don’t love the person I am in school. I’m constantly anxious, behind on my homework, unsu
re what to say when a teacher calls on me. At dance team practice, I am closer to myself, but I’m only Sophie with Peter. Over the summer I dutifully liked Instagram posts to remind people I still existed. I wonder if anyone will have missed me. The reality is, probably not.
While we’re stopped at a red light, my hand on the gearshift, Peter reaches out and grazes my knuckles with his fingertips, as though each little knob is a piano key and he could play an entire song on my skin. I hold my breath.
“It’s going to be okay,” he says, like he knows I need the reassurance as much as he does.
As we turn into the parking lot of North Seattle High, Peter’s mouth falls open. He stares at the enormous gray building, the trees lining the walkway, the solar panels on the roof.
“I don’t remember it being so . . . huge,” he says, then adds quietly, “I wonder if anyone will remember me.” The fear and insecurity in his voice nearly break me in half.
“Even if they don’t, they’ll love you soon enough.” How could they not? Peter is someone who survived against all odds. We love a good comeback story, a story about someone fighting the evil inside their body and winning. Peter won, and I made the invisible assist.
“I hope so. I hope I didn’t wear these jeans for nothing.” He starts to unbuckle his seat belt.
“Wait,” I say. “Before we go in. I wanted to see—” I glance around, make sure no one can see inside the car. Then I lift the hem of my shirt and twist in my seat, showing Peter the scar below my navel. The doctors told me that a year from now I’ll barely be able to see it.
Peter copies me. The slash starts beneath his belly button and runs along the side of his abdomen. The evidence of his first transplant is still there, a ghost of a scar. The physical proof of what we did pins me to my seat.
Our Year of Maybe Page 4