“Excuses! Come on, Sophie. If you want to be a real choreographer, you need to be more confident about your work. What’s the point if no one’s going to see it?”
I consider this. That’s what dance is—a performing art. It’s not something you do alone, and it’s not meant to be a secret.
I clear my throat. “Start the music.”
We work on my dance all afternoon and evening, until it’s dark outside. I’m exhausted when I get home. My mom’s sitting on the couch, Luna asleep in her lap.
“Where’s Tabby?” I whisper.
“Working late. I’d take her upstairs, but she looks too precious to disturb. Doesn’t she?”
Luna’s wispy toddler hair is rumpled, and her delicate lashes rest on her cheeks. “She does.”
“How are you feeling?” my mom asks.
I shift a hand toward my abdomen, as though needing to confirm I feel okay right now. “Good. Fine.”
“And you and Peter, everything’s okay there, right?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
Mom puts on her corporate problem-solver hat. “After what happened this morning—”
“Mom. I get it. No more sleepovers.”
“Not just that,” she says. “Your dad and I did a lot of research about kidney transplants beforehand, of course. It’s not uncommon for the donor or recipient to feel guilty, frustrated, depressed . . .”
“It’s not like that with us,” I say, and she raises her hands in surrender.
“Okay. But if you need to talk about it, Soph, you can. Even though we disagreed about it, it happened, and we’re here for you. Or if you’d prefer to talk to a counselor, or another doctor, we could arrange that, too.”
“I get it. Thanks, Mom.” I plop next to her on the couch, run my finger along Luna’s tiny hands. “God. I can’t believe how small they are.”
“Incredible, right? That we all start out that tiny.”
“Some of us even stay that tiny.”
“You’ll hit your growth spurt someday.”
I groan. “You’ve been saying that for years. It’s time we faced the facts. It’s not happening.”
“I can’t imagine what this must feel like for Peter,” Mom says after a few moments of silence. “Can you imagine suddenly having all these opportunities, not being limited by dialysis or constantly worrying about landing back in the hospital? He’s always been so bright. Now he has a chance to do something with that.”
What about me? I wonder, but she doesn’t say anything until I prompt her by repeating the question out loud.
“What do you mean, what about you? You’ve always had those opportunities.”
I burrow deeper into the couch, trying to understand. I’ve always had those opportunities, but I’ve never taken them? That I stayed close to home because that’s where Peter was? Is that what she’s trying to say?
Eight weeks in San Francisco—maybe that’s the kind of opportunity she’s talking about.
CHAPTER 14
PETER
THE PIANO IN THE MUSIC room at school is an upright Baldwin, a deep caramel color. It’s probably decades old and decorated with scratches and stains, and the highest C no longer makes an audible sound.
Each piano has its own personality. The baby grand we have at home has always seemed a little arrogant, a little uptight to me. That’s how grand pianos are, and they’ve earned the right to sort of be assholes because they’re fucking beautiful. The Yamaha in my room is cool and sleek. Portable. Modern. And this Baldwin: It’s a favorite sweater, a mug of hot cocoa. It’s home. Over the years it’s had so many hands dance along its ivories, and it manages to create the right sound for each of them.
I’ll admit it: I’m hiding out here during lunch. It’s Halloween and I didn’t dress up, and the halls are a literal nightmare. But I’m also hiding from Sophie.
On the ride to school this morning, I attempted normal. “Let’s listen to your dance playlist!” I said, and she raised an eyebrow because I’ve complained on too many occasions that her dance playlists are too peppy for me.
My mouth filled with all the half sentences I couldn’t say to her. I like you, but . . . and I love you more than anything, but . . . and It wasn’t that I didn’t like kissing you, but . . .
Her silver bracelet glinted in the light, and a terrible thought gripped me: What if we broke up and she regretted ever having gone through with the transplant?
I couldn’t let that happen. Friends can’t hurt each other the way more-than-friends can, and being friends with Sophie is so much safer than being “more.”
That terrible thought hasn’t left me all day, and it’s why I couldn’t bear to sit with her at lunch. I have to figure out a way to tell her without hurting her. My mess of feelings for Sophie has been invaded by something else: gratitude. And I’m no longer sure if what I feel is true attraction or love or if I’m just thankful beyond words.
She deserves certainty from me. If anything were to happen between us, I’d want to be all in. I’d want to know it wasn’t just my emotions about the transplant warping my feelings.
“More than friends” is such an odd phrase. It seems to suggest there’s something beyond friendship that’s even better, a bliss that can be achieved only by linking hands and locking lips. It’s as though friendship isn’t enough—not when there’s the potential for “more.”
We’ve never needed “more.”
Sophie is driven and talented and soft and understanding. She’s confident when she dances, this sureness she doesn’t have in any other part of her life. She always smells good, sometimes like citrus and sometimes like lavender and sometimes like vanilla. She’s beautiful; I’ve always thought that. But above all that, she has this reliability to her that’s meant so much to me over the years.
I can’t lose that, and I want to believe she wouldn’t want to either.
The piano keys are worn. They’re not the perfect weight of the baby grand in my living room, but they’re also not the manufactured weight of the keyboard in my room. It’s a good piano. I wish I had a chance to play it more in class. Playing alone is fine, sure. But I’ve always believed the piano was meant to be more than a solo instrument. It’s why I like the Terrible Twosome. I’ve spent so much of my life alone that I don’t want to be alone with the instrument, too.
I warm up with some scales and then start Rufus Wainwright’s “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk,” one of my all-time favorite songs, humming the lyrics, stumbling over a tricky part at the bridge until I finally get the fingering right.
Someone sneezes.
I whip my head toward the door, where Chase Cabrera has a hand over his mouth, an expression of pure horror on his face.
“Sorry!” he says. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
My face heats up. “It’s fine. I was just messing around.”
He takes a few steps into the music room. My hands wander around the keys, and I squint as I remember the notes for a song I learned long ago.
Chase starts laughing a few bars in. “You are not playing ‘Clocks’ right now.”
I stop playing the infamous Coldplay song. “It’s, like, the first song you learn on piano when you realize you don’t have to only play Beethoven. That or ‘A Thousand Miles.’ ”
I slide into that song’s agonizingly catchy opening, and Chase groans.
“Seriously, though,” he says, “you said you played piano, but I didn’t realize you played piano. You’re really good.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying to sound solid, like I deserve the compliment.
“What were you playing when I was, uh . . . spying on you?”
“Rufus Wainwright.”
“I’ve heard of him, but I haven’t heard him.”
“Start with Poses. That’s my favorite album. The bonus track is this incredible cover of ‘Across the Universe.’ It miiiight be better than the original Beatles version.”
Chase slides into a chair next to the piano,
the place I usually sit when Eleanor Kang, who has a shockingly strong immune system, is in my spot.
It’s only then that I notice what he’s wearing. At first I’m not sure he’s wearing a costume at all. He has on a white T-shirt with the words GO CEILING! inked in blue.
“And you are . . . ?” I ask.
He grins. “A ceiling fan.”
I mash a hand into my forehead. “That’s so bad. But also so good.” I gesture to my lack of costume. “Forgot it was Halloween.”
“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?”
I watch the sadistic tooth swing back and forth. More silence. More traffic. More time for this awkward conversation.
“I’m not sure I need—” I start, right as my dad says, “You know, it’s always best when it’s good for both people.”
Uh, I was definitely not expecting that.
“Whoever you’re with, Peter—whether you’re with a girl or a boy—it’s never just about you,” he continues, eyes planted firmly on the car in front of us. “You want to be safe, of course—that’s number one. But you also want to check in with the other person. Intimacy is a partnership. It should be about mutual satisfaction.”
I could have gone the rest of my life without hearing my dad say the words “mutual satisfaction.”
“OkayIgetit,” I say in one breath. “Partnership. Absolutely. I’ll remember that.”
He asks me about school and I ask him about work and we sit in more traffic, cutting it close to the time Chase’s band goes on. By the time I tell my dad good-bye and he offers to pick me up anytime before my extremely generous curfew of ten thirty and I make it into the venue just as the band is about to play, my face is still hot.
It’s an all-ages community center in Sand Point adorned with pumpkins and spiderwebs for Halloween. Not exactly the coolest place for a show, but considering I’ve never been to one, I probably shouldn’t pass judgment. I wade through various demons and witches and superheroes, but no one’s near the stage. So I linger in the back, unwilling to get too close.
The lights dim and the background music stops, and the band heads onstage, Chase in his ceiling fan costume with a mint-green guitar slung over his chest.
“Happy Halloween,” the drummer says into the mic. She’s dressed as a Game of Thrones character I can’t remember the name of. “Thanks for coming out tonight. I know you’re all here to see Laserdog, but hopefully you’ll put up with us for a few songs.”
A few people in the crowd whoop. I don’t recognize anyone from school. In fact, I don’t recognize anyone in the band, either. I guess I assumed they’d be other kids from North Seattle High moonlighting as wannabe rock stars.
“So, uh, we’re Diamonds Are for Never,” the lead singer says. “And you might know this one.”
Diamonds Are for Never launches into a cover of a Clash song. The audience continues to hang back—judging instead of dancing.
It’s immediately apparent that Chase was one-hundred-percent right: They’re not good at all. Somehow that makes them more interesting to watch. They’re battling with their instruments, each person trying to be the loudest. It makes me wonder if a piano is exactly what they need to tie them together.
Most of the time, I watch Chase. He’s unsure of himself onstage. He glances between his bandmates, waiting for a cue from the drummer or vocalist. It’s significantly less confidence than he has in his daily life, and I like that a lot. His uncertainty. His humility. His apologetic shrug when they don’t finish the song at the same time.
I like him.
“This is Peter,” Chase says in the community center lobby after their set. The entire band is sweaty but smiling. The walls are covered with posters for upcoming events: a craft fair, a knit-a-thon, a senior swing dancing night. “Peter, this is Aziza, Dylan, and Kat.”
Dylan, the bassist, wears white glasses and has platinum-blond hair and appears to be dressed as some kind of mad scientist
. Aziza, the drummer, has wild spiral curls and, in her warrior costume, the most impressive biceps I’ve ever seen. Kat is a four-foot-ten girl—approximately Sophie’s size—who sings lead.
“This is the piano guy?” Dylan says as he buckles his bass guitar into its case.
“You told them?” I ask Chase, who gives a sheepish shrug. “Yeah. I’m the piano guy.”
Dylan grins, exposing a train track of braces. “What’d you think?”
“Don’t put him on the spot,” Aziza says. But she blinks at me with large dark eyes and then contorts her face as though bracing for bad news. “Buuuut I do kinda really wanna know.”
At this all of them lean forward. I lean back against the wall. “You guys had great energy,” I say, which I hope sounds like a compliment.
They let out sighs of relief. “We were so fucking nervous,” Kat says.
“What exactly are you, by the way?”
“I’m Picasso’s blue period,” she says, gesturing to the blue-painted tampons glued to her shirt. “And you’re John Lennon? Nice.”
“How did you all meet?” I ask.
“We were in this queer youth group a few summers ago.” Chase nestles his guitar in its case. “Kat is a freshman at Seattle U, and Dylan and Aziza go to the same high school.”
“Queer youth group?”
Chase nods. “Sort of half support group, half activities. I came out as gay to my parents when I was fourteen.”
Chase is gay. Up until this point, I was unsure whether we were just friends or if there was potential for something more. Now more seems like an exciting and realistic possibility, one that makes me stumble over my next words.
“I’m, uh—me too,” I say, because I’m still figuring out how to verbalize it. “I mean—I came out to my parents a few years ago too. I’m—I’m bi.”
As soon as I say it, I sense my shoulders relaxing—not necessarily in relief, but more like I didn’t realize I’d been clenched up about this for so long. This is the first time I’ve been around other queer kids. The first time I feel, automatically, that I have some common ground with other people.
My religion connects me to Sophie, sure—but that feels so much larger, less individual, at least to me. My sexuality is mine.
Our Year of Maybe Page 10