Our Year of Maybe

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  “I like it,” Montana says. “It’s really playful. But it might look better if you did a series of pirouettes instead of piqué turns in that second section? More graceful, yeah?” With flawless technique, she demonstrates.

  At first her feedback stings, but dance is always a collaboration: among dancers, between dancer and choreographer and audience.

  “I like that a lot.” I take a swig of water. “I’ll keep working on it.”

  “We could start learning it before basketball season.”

  I cap my water bottle. “Really?”

  “Why not? The song is super fun and high-energy. You’d have to teach it to us, though. You’re the one who knows it best.”

  “I’m . . . not great in front of big groups of people.” It’s the part of being a choreographer I’ll have to overcome eventually. Eventually, as in not this year.

  “We could work on it together.” Montana packs up her speakers. “Are you free this weekend?”

  This weekend. Peter and I haven’t made plans yet, but I’m sure we’ll come up with something. A Star Wars movie marathon maybe, or if he’s feeling up to it, a Terrible Twosome rehearsal. Besides, a few hours with Montana is a few hours I’m not with Peter. It’s part of why I quit the studio: to spend more time with him.

  Montana is a thousand times more elegant and confident than I am. What would we talk about? How would we fill the silences?

  “I can’t this weekend,” I say. Come up with an excuse. Anything. “I . . . have to babysit. Rain check?”

  Montana looks unsurprised, but not hurt. “Sure,” she says. “Rain check.”

  Immediately I feel bad. It was sweet of her to offer to help. And it could have been fun, but weekends are for Peter and me. That’s how it’s always been.

  “I’ll definitely be at that party, though,” I call as she slings her bag over her shoulder and heads out of the gym. A consolation. She waves good-bye and smiles, like she doesn’t fully believe me.

  CHAPTER 8

  PETER

  OUR FAMILIES USED TO HAVE dinner together at least once a month. We’d rotate houses and cuisines, our dads would swap terrible jokes, and Sophie and I would roll our eyes. But I loved that our families were close. My own family feels microscopic sometimes. My mom’s sister, Kerri, lives in Maryland with her wife, but my dad’s an only child. The three of us have stared at each other through so many lonely holidays.

  Tonight Sophie’s entire family is packed into my dining room, and my dad had to hunt down a leaf for the table we hadn’t used in years.

  I’ve missed them.

  “Another dumpling?” my mom asks Sophie’s mom.

  “Yes, please, Holly,” Becki replies. “This is absolutely decadent.”

  What I can’t help wondering, though, is whether my parents offered to host and to cook as some way to balance out what Sophie did for me. As though it’s a debt that can be repaid in dumplings and chocolate lava cake, which my mother made for dessert. They went all out: nice plates, cloth napkins, candles. Soft jazz music plays from the speakers. I’ve never been able to tolerate music that’s so unsure of itself, but I don’t say anything.

  “It’s a shame we don’t do this more often,” Sophie’s dad, Phil, says.

  Sophie rolls her eyes at me. They say this every time they do manage to get together. If they really wanted to see each other, they’d find a way to make it happen.

  “Life gets in the way,” Sophie says.

  My dad points at her like bingo. “Exactly. It’s a real shame, though. A real shame . . .”

  At one end of the table, Tabby and Josh are trying to get Luna, installed in a high chair they brought over, to eat some rice.

  “How are you feeling, Peter?” Sophie’s mom asks.

  “Really good today,” I answer truthfully. My doctor warned about side effects from the immunosuppressants, but my body seems to have fully adjusted at this point.

  Overall, I’ve managed to get into a new rhythm. School, homework, checkups, piano, though I haven’t started lessons back up and am not yet sure I will. Classes are mostly interesting, though in band I’m just the substitute pianist. I sit behind Eleanor Kang, who is never absent. The major post-transplant difference is my energy level. I’m still on a diet, one that is low salt and low fat and low carb and devoid of a handful of odd foods like grapefruit and alfalfa sprouts and raw eggs. And, of course, I’ll be taking the anti-rejection meds as long as I have Sophie’s kidney.

  “How’s your book going?” Josh asks my mom.

  Her eyebrows pinch together, and she groans. “Agonizingly slow, but it’s going.”

  Sophie’s mom shakes her head. “If it brings you so much agony, Holly, why don’t you put it aside for a while? Work on something else?”

  “I have to finish it first. Besides, it’s more agony not to be working on it.”

  “Have you read any of it?” Sophie’s dad asks mine.

  “Not a word,” he says.

  My mom asks Josh about his classes, and he brightens. “I’m taking a film analysis class, which should be fun.”

  “His homework is watching movies,” Tabby says as she spoons rice into Luna’s mouth.

  “And I’m very good at it.”

  “What about you, Tabby?” my dad asks her. “Classes and work going well?”

  “Busy, but good! Can’t really complain about free diner fries.”

  “Good,” my dad says.

  “Good,” my mom agrees.

  “Good!” Sophie says emphatically, but I’m the only one who laughs at this. If we got together more than once a year, maybe our families would be able to do more than small-talk.

  By the time my mom serves the chocolate lava cake, the conversation has turned to the favorite topic of three-fourths of our parents: being Jewish.

  “Do you have plans for Rosh Hashanah?” my dad asks Sophie’s parents.

  “We’ll go to Temple De Hirsch Sinai for services,” Becki says. “Probably a small get-together at our house afterward.” After a brief hesitation, she adds: “You’re welcome to come, of course!”

  Sophie groans, mashing a palm into her forehead. “With Rabbi Edelstein? Mom, he mumbles! There’s almost no point in even going.”

  “Soph, it’s the one time a year we actually go to temple. I think you can handle it. We’re High Holidays Jews,” her mom explains to mine, who’s nodding like she understands, which she would if my family ever discussed religion. “We only come out for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, but we’re terrible the rest of the year.”

  My mom pokes her cake with a fork. “Right.”

  We celebrate both Hanukkah and Christmas, but neither has much religious significance for me, and I didn’t have a bar mitzvah. My mom hasn’t attended church in my lifetime, and my dad wanted me to “find my own way,” which I . . . haven’t. Yet. Sometimes I wonder if I’m drawn more to Judaism because of Sophie. I’ve always liked my Jewish side because it made me feel more unique in somewhat homogeneous Seattle, which is strange because it’s not like I had any control over it. But there it is.

  Part of the truth is this: I thought I’d die before I ever got a new kidney, so I didn’t want to waste what I thought was precious time discovering religion. I’ve never told that to anyone except the therapist I used to see—that shorter, shittier life was simply the hand I’d been dealt, and I’d accepted that. Everyone else acted like if they dared lapse into pessimism, it might kill me. But in therapy, I yelled, and I cursed, and I cried. I worried aloud about all the things I thought I’d never do, and having a bar mitzvah didn’t make the list.

  Tonight, as our families talk about Judaism, I’m struck with curiosity.

  “You met in Israel, right?” I say to Sophie’s parents.

  They exchange grins. “We did. On Birthright.” Sophie’s dad dabs at his mouth with a napkin. “Has Sophie never told you the story?”

  I shake my head, and Sophie and Tabby roll their eyes.

  “Believe it or not,
Peter and I don’t usually discuss your love life,” Sophie says.

  Sophie’s mom gently swats her arm from across the table. “He went with a group of friends from his synagogue, and I went with a group from Hillel. He was so shy!”

  “And you were scarily outgoing,” Phil puts in, and then lets Becki continue the story.

  “We sort of flirted on and off the entire trip—as much as I could get from him, at least—but it wasn’t until the last night, when we got separated from the group and spent hours wandering through Tel Aviv together, that we really connected. We stayed out all night.”

  “Oy vey,” Tabby jokes. “Scandalous.”

  It’s Becki’s turn to roll her eyes . . . but she also doesn’t deny Tabby’s insinuation, which makes Sophie gasp and cover her ears. “That trip . . . It was incredible,” Becki says. “Aside from meeting Sophie’s dad, it made me proud to be Jewish.”

  That tugs at something inside me. Sophie doesn’t seem to care, and Tabby and Josh are preoccupied with Luna. But I wonder what it’s like to feel that. That sense of pride.

  “Anyone want more cake?” my mom asks. A little too loudly.

  “Yes, please,” Tabby says.

  “You didn’t have to do all this,” Phil says.

  My mom waves a hand. Glittery gold nails. “It was no trouble at all. It had been so long, and we wanted to do something special for your family.”

  Suddenly Becki claps her hands. “Oh! You know what else we haven’t had in a while?”

  “What’s that?” my mom asks.

  “A concert from the Terrible Twosome.”

  Sophie and I lock eyes. “I don’t know,” she says. “We haven’t played together all summer.”

  “We won’t judge,” Becki insists. “We love seeing the two of you doing your creative thing.”

  “We should do it,” I say to Sophie.

  She twists her mouth to one side of her face, then appears to give in. “We could do that piece you wrote last year. ‘Starlight’?”

  “Yeah, I love that one.”

  We move into the living room. Our families take seats on the couch and chairs, and Sophie removes her shoes and socks so she can dance barefoot on our hardwood floor. She’s wearing black leggings and an oversize gray sweatshirt, which she also takes off, revealing a blue tank top and freckled shoulders.

  I slide onto the piano bench and play a few C scales to warm up.

  “Play ‘Free Bird’!” Josh calls from the couch. I pivot to see Tabby elbowing him.

  “Ready?” Sophie asks.

  I give her a brief nod. This song starts at the low end of the piano and slowly works its way up. I wanted it to sound like nighttime, stars gradually appearing and making the dark seem less hopeless. I sink into the first ominous chords, and Sophie takes her place on the floor in a child’s pose. Slowly her body comes to life, though I only see her out of the corner of my eye: arms, legs, a flash of red hair.

  It probably sounds cliché to say that the rest of the world falls away when I’m playing piano, but I swear that’s how it feels. I started piano lessons when I was eight; my parents heard me humming to myself constantly and figured I might be a musical person. My hands know these keys. When I’m at the piano, I have eighty-eight keys and three pedals to create an infinite number of sounds. It’s a special kind of power.

  And yet—even when I’m inside the song like this, it’s hard not to be aware of her presence, her movements, her breaths.

  I may not understand dance, but I do understand music, and I’ve always loved watching Sophie. Not in a gross way like I’m leering at her body or anything. It’s deeper: two artists connecting. It’s impossible to watch someone do what they love and not feel something, and what I feel for Sophie in this moment is pure and true. A familiar longing.

  We finish “Starlight,” and then I grin at Sophie and start banging out a louder, more animated song. We haven’t played this one in a couple years at least, but I’ve always liked it. Once we hit high school, our art became moodier. Less naive. She laugh-groans, but then, as though remembering the choreography she made up so long ago, busts out hip-hop moves that make her sister double over, cracking up.

  After another couple songs leave us sweaty and breathless and smiling from ear to ear, I beckon Sophie over to me and link my hand with hers. Together, we take a bow as our parents give us a standing ovation.

  “We really do need to do this more often,” Sophie’s mom says again. Sophie’s eyes meet mine, still blazing with the rush of our performance, her cheeks pink, and I think, Yes, we do.

  CHAPTER 9

  SOPHIE

  I’M OPENING THE DOOR TO our house after dinner with Peter’s family when a sudden pain bites through my scar. It’s so strong and unexpected that I gasp out loud, bracing myself against the door to keep from falling.

  “Soph?” Tabby says, passing Luna to Josh as she jogs over to me. Our parents are still crossing the street. “Soph, are you okay?”

  My sister’s voice is filled with a worry I’m not used to hearing. I’ve activated Mom Mode.

  “Yeah. Just—a second.” I breathe deeply, clutching my abdomen.

  Tabby moves my hair out of the way to rub the back of my neck. If I weren’t in pain, I’d push her away. It’s strange for my younger sister to be fussing over me like this.

  “Should we go to the hospital?”

  “No! No. It—it’s not that serious.” It can’t be that serious. We talked through all the risks with the doctors, like how some donors experience new sensitivity to extreme temperatures. I knew occasional pain at the incision site was possible, though rare. What I was doing for Peter felt more important. A few weeks of discomfort and then I’d be fine. That’s what I said to convince myself.

  My parents have reached us now. “Soph, what’s going on?” my dad asks. He and my mom wear twin worried expressions I grew up seeing etched onto Peter’s parents’ faces.

  Tabby motions to Josh to take Luna inside. “She’s in pain,” Tabby says, continuing to rub my upper back in a way that’s oddly comforting. She doesn’t have to add but does anyway: “The transplant.”

  My parents help me inside and park me on the couch with a heating pad, a glass of water, and a bottle of ibuprofen. Tabby sits in the armchair next to me, rocking Luna to sleep. Watching me.

  “We should have spent more time discussing it before she went through with it,” my mom says to my dad in the kitchen, loud enough for me to hear.

  “I’m eighteen,” I mumble. “My body . . .” But I trail off, realizing they probably can’t hear me. Instead I close my eyes and burrow deeper into the couch.

  “Should we take her to the doctor or wait until tomorrow?” my mom continues. “See if she feels better in the morning?”

  “Let’s see how she feels in the morning,” my dad says.

  A deep sigh. “This is exactly what I was afraid of. She was much too young to make this kind of decision.”

  I spring to a sitting position, ignoring the flash of pain that for a split second agrees with my mom. “Are you serious?”

  My parents rush into the living room. “Sophie?” my dad says.

  I shake my head. “How can you talk about being too young to make this decision after what happened with Tabby? Where was all this concern when she got pregnant?”

  At this, my mama-bear sister turns ferocious. Josh, who’s been tidying up the hallway, pokes his head into the living room. Sometimes I forget he doesn’t live here. Which is something I feel like I shouldn’t forget.

  “You think they weren’t concerned?” Tabby says. “Maybe you were too wrapped up in Peter to realize it was a big deal—”

  “Really? Because it seems like it isn’t a big deal at all. It seems like you still have a completely normal life.”

  Tabby spits out a laugh. I haven’t seen her like this . . . well, ever. “What Josh and I are doing is extremely hard.”

  He puts a hand on her shoulder. “Tabitha . . .”

&nb
sp; “I’m sorry having a baby at sixteen wasn’t the stroll through the park you hoped for.”

  I know it’s terrible as soon as I say it. No one ever asked what I wanted. If I wanted to share my space with a newborn who would make studying and sleeping impossible. If I wanted Josh, as much as I like him, to be here all the freaking time. It’s incredible how one tiny human can change so much.

  My parents act like we’re this big wacky family. I’m the one who did a selfless thing, and all they have for me is judgment and, tonight, pity. But as sisters tend to do when they’re acting like brats, I said something I thought would shift the attention to Tabby. I needed my parents to stop saying the transplant was a mistake—so the microscopic part of me that wondered if they were right would be quiet.

  Tabby’s face is red, her eyebrows slanted. Luna lets out a piercing wail. “Shh, shh, ladybug, I’m so sorry,” Tabby coos, patting Luna’s back the way she patted mine.

  “Girls,” my dad says softly, barely able to be heard over Luna. “Sophie, Tabby has nothing to do with this.”

  “Right. Because Tabby can do no wrong.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “I do not regret what I did for Peter.” I get to my feet. Luna’s crying has reached ear-shattering decibels. “God, Tabby, can’t you get her to stop?”

  “Does it not look like I’m trying?”

  “Girls!” Mom says this time, her voice louder than Dad’s was. “Please. We’re all on edge right now, so if everyone could calm down—”

  “I’ll calm down in my room,” I say, yanking the heating pad from the wall outlet.

  Upstairs, I turn on my laptop. According to WebMD, I’m either dying or totally fine. The kidney transplant sites tell me this kind of pain is rare but not entirely unheard of after a transplant, which I know already. Still, it helps me relax a little.