“You could still audition for shows,” I say. “When Luna’s older?”
“Oh, I will. I’m not done with theater, but it’s hard to see everyone else doing the same regular things and me . . . not. And don’t give me some BS about how this is what I chose and I should—”
“I wouldn’t,” I say quickly, because I’ve never thought that. “I would never say that. You’re allowed to be sad about it and still be a good mom.”
“Thanks,” she says, and I can tell she means it.
When Josh gets home later, he and Tabby do their nighttime routine with Luna. It’s strange how suddenly lonely I feel after having my sister to myself the whole night. But it’s there, once the bubbly warmth of our evening together wears off.
My parents don’t get back until after midnight.
“Out this late on a school night?” I ask them incredulously when they walk in the door.
“We had such a great time,” my mom slurs. “Sophie, sweetheart, would you believe how delicious rum is?”
“Oh my God, did Peter’s parents get you drunk?”
“They all got drunk,” Dad says on his way to the kitchen. “I was the designated driver. We went to a jazz club, and the drinks were much stronger than any of us thought.” He pours Mom a glass of water. “Drink this.”
“I haven’t been drunk like this since . . .” She giggles at my dad. “Our honeymoon. Remember that night in Hawaii?”
“File this under information your daughter did not need to know,” I say with a groan. But I’m glad they can still have fun like this.
I imagine that three very drunk people was a bit much for my dad to manage tonight, though, so I wait in the living room while he helps my mom get in bed.
“Out like a light,” he says after shutting the door to their bedroom.
“You’re not tired after a night of debauchery with Ben and Holly?”
“A little, but I was planning to wind down with a podcast.”
“What is it?”
At this his entire face lights up. “One of those true crime podcasts. This one’s about a body that disappeared on a cruise ship.”
“Creepy.”
“You want to listen with me? I can pull up episode one.”
I shrug. “Sure. Why not?”
He retrieves a headphone splitter and another pair of noise-canceling headphones. There’s no shortage of audio equipment in our house. As we listen, my dad watches my reactions and as a result totally gives away what’s about to happen next.
“You never wanted to do anything like this?” I ask when the episode ends with ominous music. I’m totally hooked now. Curse you, true crime podcasts, you got me. “Make your own podcast?”
He shakes his head. “I’m much better suited to work behind the scenes. You, on the other hand . . . You’ve always been onstage.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not scared to death every time I’m about to go on.” People think performers are all alike. That anyone who goes onstage must be a naturally outgoing, extroverted person. But that’s not true. When we perform, it takes all my brainpower to focus. It took me the longest time to be able to forget about the audience, to focus solely on the art.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.” I tell him about the choreography workshop in San Francisco, the one with the rapidly approaching application deadline. “Do you think I should apply?”
What I really want to ask is something along the lines of this: What will Peter do without me here? Will he grow even closer to his bandmates?
Will he be glad to see me when I come back?
“When I went to Israel,” Dad starts, which is not at all where I thought this conversation was going, “I was terrified. I hated flying, hated not having control over plans. I threw up on the plane and was convinced it would be a horrible trip.”
“But then you met Mom, and it turned out to be the best decision of your life?”
“Actually, that wasn’t what I was going to say. I mean yes, of course, I met your mother, and that was, as you know, quite life-changing. But before that, what I loved was the independence. It was the first time I’d been away from my family, from my home, for any extended period of time. I had close friends, and I didn’t know how I’d live without them. But . . . I did it. And by the end I was proud of myself.” He laughs. “Until your mom and I got lost. But that clearly turned out all right too.”
“So what you’re saying is that I should try it.”
He steeples his fingertips. “Eight weeks is a long time.”
“Two months.”
“You’re worried about Peter.”
Slowly I nod.
“Peter’s going to be okay without you,” my dad says.
What I don’t tell him is that sometimes I’m not sure I want him to be.
CHAPTER 20
PETER
EVERY TIME I’VE BEEN IN a waiting room, it felt like we were only waiting for bad news. Bracing ourselves for it with white-knuckled grips on uncomfortable chairs.
These days my parents are considerably more relaxed. My mom taps at her phone with glossy lavender talons, and my dad squints at a crossword puzzle in the back of an ancient parenting magazine.
I brought a book, a memoir by Patti Smith, but I leave it closed on my lap. I take this opportunity—my parents at ease—to mention something I’m not sure they’re going to love.
“I’ve been doing some research about Israel,” I say, which makes them glance up.
“Israel?” my mom repeats, like I’ve told her I was doing some research about cooking meth. “What kind of research?”
“Um.” I fiddle with my bracelet. “I was looking into Birthright, actually. The trip Sophie’s parents met on?”
“With what money?” my mom asks. My medical expenses have not been cheap. We’re lucky to have good insurance, lucky my parents have good jobs.
“Birthright is free,” my dad says.
“Is it . . . safe?”
Of course that’s what she’d ask. Of course she’d assume that, simply because Israel’s in the Middle East, it’s unsafe, despite the thousands of Americans who travel there each year.
It makes me wish, not for the first time, that my mom were Jewish too.
“Very safe.” My dad shuts the magazine. “They have a security guard travel with the group, don’t they?”
I nod. “And members of the IDF, too.”
My mom’s eyebrows climb up her forehead.
“Israel Defense Forces,” I supply. “That’s the military there. Everyone has to do mandatory—”
“I know that,” my mom snaps. Snaps. It’s unlike her.
“You can’t go until you’re eighteen, but I could apply this summer.” It’s not even that I want to go that soon necessarily. For the past couple months, this combative itch has been building beneath my skin, a desire to push my parents.
To see how much they’ll fight back.
“Why the rush?” My mom crosses her arms. “You’re just starting to feel better, Peter. Why risk it?”
Why not take full advantage of everything my body can do now? I want to ask.
“What if you missed a dose of your immunosuppressants?” my dad says. “Or something happens with the donor kidney?”
“How will you be able to keep up with your medications if you’re traveling on your own?”
They’re so focused on the “what if.” They always have been.
“I wouldn’t be on my own. I’d be with a whole group of people. And I’ll be in college in a year and a half. How will you trust me to keep up with them then?”
“College!” She says it so loudly that an older couple across the waiting room looks over at us. I hope they’re not waiting for bad news. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. We haven’t even gotten there yet. Let’s focus on what’s in front of us now. One day at a time.”
It’s fire in my veins now, this urge to bite back at them. Before, I never had the energy. Being sheltered was great
if it meant another first edition on my bookshelf, another gift to buy my complacency.
“But—what am I supposed to do?” I’m surprised when the words aren’t filled with the anger I intended. Instead, they sound almost . . . hurt. “Stay here forever? I thought I’d finally be able to be more independent—”
“Peter.” My mom clutches my arm. I try to wrest my jacket sleeve from her grasp. “I wish you could have a normal life, but it’s always going to be different for you. You must understand that.”
“You’re the ones making it different for me!” I say. “Making it harder! There are so many things I should have been able to do, but you wouldn’t let me. Do you know how much I didn’t get to experience because of you?”
“Enough, Peter,” my dad says.
But I haven’t had enough. I’m tired. I’m tired of how repetitive my life has become, an infinite DC al fine that sounds the same every fucking time. Is it really so awful of me to want more?
“Could I—could I at least take driver’s ed?” My voice is small now. I’m ten years old, asking my parents why I can’t go to the Oregon Coast with Sophie’s family. Why I can’t go on a field trip on Seattle’s Underground Tour. Why I can’t take PE.
“We’ll discuss it later,” my dad says.
“We could get you a new keyboard instead,” my mom says. “You’ve had that Yamaha for a while.”
I set my jaw. “I like the Yamaha.”
“Peter?” calls the nurse, putting an end to our waiting but not to my frustration.
Inside the exam room, Dr. Paulson goes over my blood work and tells me exactly how well I’m doing. For one of the first times in my life, though, my parents aren’t as easily impressed.
Sophie: Help me paaaaaaaaaack
Sophie: I don’t know what to briiiiiiiing
Peter: Okaaaaaaaaay
Sophie: Are you making fun of me?
Peter: Neverrrrrrrrrr
Sophie frowns at her open duffel bag. Articles of clothing are strewn across her room, and down the hall, Luna’s crying, Tabby attempting to soothe her.
“Aren’t you just going to be wearing what you usually wear for dance the whole time?” I ask, sliding into her desk chair and stretching my legs beneath me.
“Most of it, but . . .” She reaches for a pair of sweatpants, drops them into her bag. “I’ve never been on a trip by myself. I’m worried I’ll forget something.”
As subtly as she can, she kicks a blue bra out of my line of vision. I’m suddenly fascinated by the ceiling.
Between band practice and dance team, we’ve barely seen each other in the couple weeks since Halloween, with the exception of rides to school. I’ve missed two football games now because of band practice, but I’ve promised her I’ll make the next one. It’s hard to pass up spending time with Diamonds, whether we’re playing or hanging out. The only time I’ve felt like myself lately was with the band. The terrible truth: Sophie is both a reminder of everything I went through and everything I can do now.
It’s strange spending evenings and weekends apart, having things to tell her that she doesn’t already know. Strangest, though, is that I haven’t yet told her how I feel about Chase. Now that I’ve spent more time with people who are so open about the way they identify, I want to tell her I’m bi. I want to feel close to her again—no secrets. “I’m so nervous,” she says.
“About the workshop?”
She waves her hand. “Not so much that . . . the rest of it. Being in a hotel with people I don’t really know, mainly. It’s a lot of people. What if I throw up on the bus or snore or make a fool of myself in any number of other ways?”
“You do know them, though,” I say, trying to sound encouraging. I spin the desk chair in quarter circles, back and forth and back and forth.
“Only sort of.” She balls up a faded pajama T-shirt I recognize from when the synagogue her family goes to twice a year participated in a city-wide kickball league a few summers ago. They called themselves the Matzah Ballers. Her dad played—and turned out to be shockingly good—and we all made fun of the T-shirt, which features yarmulke-wearing matzah pieces chasing after a ball.
I point at the shirt. “That reminds me. I was thinking about going to Friday-night services sometime.”
“At Temple De Hirsch Sinai?”
“Considering it’s the sole Reform synagogue within a fifteen-mile radius, yeah. Do you . . . want to go with me?” I’m not entirely sure why I ask. Maybe because in a perfect world, Sophie and I could explore our identities together, learn more about this thing that connects us in a way we’ve never really talked about.
Sophie snorts. “To services? Voluntarily?”
“I thought it would be, I don’t know . . . fun? Interesting? Enlightening?”
“Or boring. I don’t understand why you’re suddenly so into the Jewish thing. You’ve never been like that.” At least she doesn’t say: But you’re only half. “Something’s weird about you today.”
“I’m not weird. This is just how I am.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “No. You’re definitely weird.”
I let out a long breath and dig my feet into the carpet to stop the chair from spinning. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you. For a while, actually.”
“Okay . . .” She shoves a few shirts out of the way so she can sit on the bed next to her duffel. “You’re scaring me.”
“It’s nothing bad!” I say quickly, but this does nothing to erase her concern. My heart picks up speed. “You know Chase? Cabrera? From the band?” I’m not sure why I add all these descriptors. Of course she knows who he is. She lifts her eyebrows as if to say exactly this. “Well. Uh. I sort of . . . like him.” Exhale. There it is. God, saying it feels good. Immediately, my shoulders release a tension I didn’t know they were carrying.
“I don’t know why you’d be in a band with him if you didn’t—oh.” The moment it dawns on her is clear. Her mouth forms an O, and her eyes go wider than I’ve ever seen them. “Are you . . . ?” She leaves it up to me to fill in the blank.
“I’m bisexual.” I’m happy with the way it comes out: no stammering. Clear. Solid.
After a few quiet moments, she asks in a small voice, “How . . . long have you known?”
“A long time. Years.”
“Do your parents know?”
“Yes.”
More silence—she’s processing. Her brows furrow and then unfurrow. “You like girls and guys. Is it . . . ? Is it equal? Is that a dumb question?”
“No. Not dumb. I doubt it’s an exact percentage.”
At this, she nods, then becomes very interested in the floral pattern of her comforter, as though she’s seeing the roses and sunflowers for the first time. “You could have told me,” she says softly. “If you’d wanted to. It wouldn’t have changed anything between us. It doesn’t change anything between us.”
“I know. I appreciate that.” I wasn’t ready to tell her, though—not because I worried about how she’d react, but because it felt like one thing in the world that was entirely mine. Now it feels just as much a fact about me as my dark hair or my love for Rufus Wainwright. Part of who I am, but not the only thing I am.
“Does—does Chase like you too?” She twists her mouth to one side of her face. “Sorry, I have so many questions.”
“No, no, it’s okay.” I can tell this conversation’s weird for her. Not necessarily because I like a guy, but because we don’t talk about this kind of thing. We only talk about it when it involves us. And those conversations never went past this point. I let myself say out loud what I’ve been hoping for weeks now: “I think so.”
“Oh. Wow. Wow.” She smiles, but it looks forced. “That’s exciting, right? So what happens next?”
“Honestly? I have no clue.” Though my imagination has plenty of ideas, most of which involve an empty house or the back seat of a car.
“Me either. I’ve never been in a relationship . . . obviously.” The
way she says this—it makes me feel a twinge of something that isn’t wholly pleasant. “Thank you. For telling me.”
I nod, and an unusual silence cloaks us again. Once the newness of my declaration wears off, she’ll get used to the idea of Chase and me. I just wish she could know how I feel when I’m around him. But it’s something so electric, so alive, I’m not sure I could put it into words. It would be like trying to play the piano with a dripping paintbrush.
“The three of us should hang out sometime,” she blurts.
“Yeah?” I grin. “I’d love that.”
“You guys are friends, and maybe more than friends, and he has to be cool, right? Cool enough to hang out with me?”
“He is.” I tap out a cheerful melody on her desk behind me. “And—Soph. I’ll be at your next game. I promise.” I tell her this to express my gratitude: for understanding, for being so eager to spend time with Chase.
Her brows crease again. “Only if you want to.”
“Of course I want to.”
“I’ll look for you in the bleachers, then.” She pats her duffel. “I should finish packing.”
“You want more help? Or more matzah puns?”
A laugh. It’s a relief to hear it. We’ll be back to normal soon—we have to be. “I think I can manage,” she says. “I’ll see you seder.”
“Okay. Challah if you need anything.”
CHAPTER 21
SOPHIE
EVERYONE ON THE BUS IS singing. MONTANA’s in front with Coach Carson, their heads bent together over the workshop schedule. Next to me, Liz pokes my arm.
“You have to know this one,” she says as the group belts out the chorus of an old Bruno Mars song.
I do know it. In fact, I’ve sung it in the shower and danced to it in my room. But there’s something about big groups like this that makes me feel even more alone. I’ve always been like that. I’d see people singing in public and I’d get intense secondhand embarrassment, even though I wasn’t singing. I’ve been on teams and in groups my whole life, but I’ve never fully felt like an integral part of them. They always seem to be parading around their closeness. Look how comfortable we are with each other We don’t even care how embarrassing this is.
Our Year of Maybe Page 15