Our Year of Maybe

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  Maybe I never joined in because I already had a best friend, someone I could share inside jokes with and laugh at the top of my lungs with.

  Someone who is, quite possibly, falling for someone else.

  “I’m just tired,” I tell Liz, yawning, and lean my head against the window. “Besides, I’m at a really good part in Queens.”

  “Fine, fine. I won’t disturb you.”

  The team launches into another song, and I adjust my earbuds. The book is good, but my brain is buzzing too much about Peter’s confession to let me enjoy it right now. Peter likes Chase Cabrera. Peter is bisexual. The latter does nothing to change my relationship with him, though I wish he’d told me earlier. But that’s selfish. This was his to tell, his decision.

  The thing is, I have never been able to picture Peter dating anyone who isn’t me.

  I should have told him I’d go with him to temple because now it’s another thing he’s doing without me. But religion isn’t something you can partner up and figure out together. Even for my bat mitzvah, I was so focused on getting through it, surviving it, not what it meant. If I’m ever going to figure out what religion means to me—if it means anything to me—I’m pretty sure I’ll have to do it on my own.

  I hold my phone up to the window and snap a selfie.

  Help, I’m trapped on a bus with 20 people singing “Uptown Funk,” I caption it.

  I’m not expecting a response right away.

  But it still stings that I don’t get one until I’m off the bus.

  Spokane is on the other side of the state, close to the Idaho border, a four-hour drive that felt much longer. It’s a college town mixed with a farm town mixed with a suburb. Dinner is an Italian buffet before we check in to the hotel, where Coach Carson passes out our room assignments. The university’s dorms are full, so most of the dancers are staying at the nearest hotel.

  “No loud noises, no alcohol, and lights out by ten thirty at the latest,” she says, and we murmur our agreement.

  We’re sleeping four to a room, and I’m with Montana, Neeti, and Taylor. Once we unpack, spreading out all our various products along the bathroom counter, Neeti and Taylor go to the hotel gym, leaving me alone with Montana, who’s watching old episodes of Parks and Rec on her tablet.

  “I sent in my workshop application,” I tell Montana after I finish brushing my teeth. She’s in sweatpants, her black hair loose on her shoulders, and after she took out her contacts, she put on glasses. It’s always strange seeing someone undone for the first time, the way they are at home or with people they’re fully comfortable with. My own makeup’s been blotted off, my hair pushed away from my face with a stretchy headband. And I’d never wear this Matzah Ballers T-shirt to dance team practice.

  Montana glances up from Parks and grins. “I’ll keep everything crossed for you! Seriously, you would love it.”

  Truthfully, I’m not sure yet what I want: if I’m hoping I get in or hoping I don’t, so I don’t have to stress about making the wrong decision. Sometimes it’s easier when decisions are made for you. The application involved an essay and a one-minute clip of a dance you choreographed, which I filmed during practice a few weeks ago. I was hoping Peter would edit my essay, but when he said he was overwhelmed with homework, I asked my dad instead.

  “You’re a great captain.” I unclasp my Star of David necklace and lay it on the nightstand before sitting climbing onto Neeti and Taylor’s bed. “The best since I started on the team.” Our captain before Montana, a guy named Lyle, put the least experienced dancers in the back and never explained difficult combinations for long enough for those dancers to actually get better.

  Montana puts down her tablet. “Thanks, Soph.”

  “You danced as a kid, right?”

  “Since I was three. It’s what I’ve always done and what I’ve always wanted to do. My parents, they’ve both had terrible office jobs for as long as I can remember. They come home exhausted and upset, and I can’t imagine doing that. I never want to sit in a cubicle for ten hours a day.”

  That certainty about her path in life—I wish I had that. I love dance and I love choreography, but why doesn’t that translate into the certainty that a summer in San Francisco is the right choice?

  “It must be wild living with your sister and the baby.” Montana moves along the conversation with an effortlessness I’ve never had.

  “Extremely. I spend most of my time with Peter anyway, though.” It slides off my tongue as though it’s still true.

  “You talk about him a lot,” Montana says. It’s more of an observation than an accusation. “Like, you rarely answer a question without including him somehow.”

  “I do?”

  She nods. “That must be what it’s like when you grow up together, though, right? Like, Liz is my best friend, but we only met freshman year. I can’t imagine what it’s like with someone you’ve known forever.”

  When I’m quiet, she must realize I’m not in the mood to talk about it, so she holds up her tablet. “You want to watch some Parks?”

  So I scoot over to her bed, and we watch eternal optimist Leslie Knope save Pawnee over and over until someone knocks on the door.

  “It’s me!” Liz whisper-calls, and Montana hits pause on Parks and scrambles out of bed to let her in.

  Only, it’s not just Liz—it’s Liz and the rest of the team and at least two bottles of liquor. The room immediately feels cramped and too warm, and my chest aches for the closeness I had with Montana fifteen seconds ago.

  “It’s almost ten,” I say around a yawn, a little embarrassed by how old that makes me sound. I assumed we’d raid the vending machine, watch a couple more episodes, and then crash. I was not expecting a party.

  “We’re young. We’ll be fine!” Liz ushers the others into the room like she’s getting people onto life rafts while the Titanic sinks. “Hurry, hurry!”

  Kunjal and Gabe flop onto the bed I was sharing with Montana, and Neeti and Taylor, who’ve returned from the weight room, start handing out plastic cups. Liz uncaps a bottle of whiskey and begins passing it around. I must be watching the scene with horror, because Liz grabs my arm and wiggles it, trying to get me to loosen up.

  “Sophie, Sophie, Sophie,” she says. “You haven’t been to a dance team sleepover.”

  And this is exactly why. At Montana’s party, I was social only with the help of alcohol, and I’m not going to drink the night before the workshop. I’ve only just barely begun to feel comfortable teaching a dance in front of a group. I need a purpose, and I highly doubt we’ve gathered here to dance.

  Montana drapes herself over an armchair near the window, taking dainty sips from her cup. “No one’s having more than one drink,” she says, ever the captain.

  I stand awkwardly in the middle of the room before taking a seat on the edge of one of the beds.

  “Monty,” Liz says, and Montana groans as though she hates the nickname and has told Liz this numerous times. Liz nudges Montana with her hip to make room for her on the chair. “You’re up first! Because that’s how much I love you. And you’re the captain, so you know, you have to set a good example and all that.”

  “Do your worst.”

  “Truth or dare?” Liz says, and I have to muffle a laugh. I am in a hotel room playing Truth or Dare, and it sort of sounds fun.

  “Your dares are evil, so truth, definitely.”

  Liz pouts. “Fine. Have you ever had a sex dream about a teacher?”

  “Ms. Lawler, and I’m not even embarrassed about it because she’s gorgeous,” Montana says breezily, and a chorus of catcalls and whoops erupts from the room.

  “Pick the next victim,” Liz says.

  Montana dares Neeti to dance down the hall wearing only a bra and underwear. Neeti picks Kunjal, who picks Danica, who dares Liz to apply a full face of makeup without looking in a mirror.

  “That wasn’t too bad,” Liz says when she finishes, and oddly enough, it isn’t. Then she turns to me and quirks her mout
h. “Sophie. Truth or dare?”

  “Twenty bucks on truth,” someone whispers. I can’t see who it is, but I hear someone else snicker.

  It makes sense, though: I am not a dare kind of person.

  Maybe it’s because I’m away from home or because I’m still reeling from Peter’s announcement. Maybe it’s that I’m sick of everyone pretending they know exactly who I am. But tonight I decide to be.

  “Dare,” I say, hoping it comes out confident but hearing a tinge of uncertainty in my voice anyway.

  Liz raises an eyebrow. “Hmm, okay, gotta make it a good one, then.” She taps her fingers on her chin, and then her face splits into a wicked smile. “Call room service and order something off each section of the menu.”

  “That’s . . . too easy,” I say carefully.

  “While pretending you’re having an orgasm.”

  The team howls. My face flares with heat.

  “She’s not gonna do it,” Kunjal says to a sophomore named Corrie.

  Before I can think about it too long, I lunge for the landline on the nightstand between the two beds and press the button for room service.

  “Room service,” says the male voice.

  “H-hi,” I start. “My name is Liz Hollenbeck”—I lift my eyebrows at her and she shrugs—“and I—I, mmm, I’m in room f-f-four ten.” I inhale deeply, let it out slowly.

  “What can I do for you this evening, Ms. Hollenbeck?” the poor guy asks.

  “Probably a whole lot,” I say, and in the armchair Montana explodes with laughter in a way I’ve never seen. It’s good to see her letting go a little. Liz jumps up from the chair and shoves the room service menu at me. “But let’s start with the—the—oh my God—the French onion soup.”

  “Is anyone filming this?” Neeti says.

  Taylor gestures to her phone, which is pointed right at me, and flashes her a thumbs-up.

  Instead of getting embarrassed, I let them urge me on.

  “Of course, ma’am,” the room service guy says.

  “And then—oh. Ohhhhhh. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I’ll have the macaroni and cheese. Right there. Yes. Right there.”

  “Right . . . where?”

  “Just, um . . . on the plate,” I say.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “I’m so good,” I say, and heave out a long, contented sigh. “Mmm, so, so good.”

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Hmm . . .” I drag my finger down to desserts. “The crème brûlée.”

  “Excellent choice. Is that going to be it for you, ma’am?”

  “Yes!” I affirm, slapping the nightstand. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  It’s not until I hang up that I burst into giggles myself. Montana is nearly crying; she has to hold on to Liz for support.

  “I’m dying,” Kunjal says. “You are my hero.”

  My head is light, and I can’t stop smiling. I could get high off this feeling. I love this team. I love this night. I love Truth or Dare.

  “I didn’t know you were capable of that,” Corrie says.

  The truth is that neither did I.

  CHAPTER 22

  PETER

  I’VE ONLY WORN A YARMULKE twice: once at Sophie’s bat mitzvah and a year later, at her sister’s. “How does it stay on?” I asked my dad as I bopped my head around, hoping it wouldn’t fall.

  He reached into his pocket. “A very special magic called bobby pins.”

  Sophie couldn’t stop laughing at the reception later, after she read her Torah portion. “Peter . . . in a yarmulke . . . oh my God.”

  “Can you say that in here?” I asked. She laughed harder. I didn’t get what was so funny about it. Was it because I wasn’t fully Jewish, like she was? Or I didn’t have the kind of head made for hats?

  Tonight I take one from the basket inside the synagogue entrance and place it on my head as easily as the other men do, my dad included. Like last time, he passes me a hairpin.

  “Did you know,” he says, “that ‘yarmulke’ is actually Yiddish? It comes from the Polish word for ‘skullcap.’ In Hebrew, it’s called a kippah.”

  “I did not,” I tell him. All around us, people trade hugs and handshakes. My dad and I stand apart, strangers in this sanctuary. I wish it weren’t just the two of us, but my mom insisted she had a cold coming on. And even if Sophie were in town, she made it clear she had no interest in going.

  We take seats near the back. “You don’t want to sit closer to the front?” he asks.

  I shake my head. Somehow it seems like a more sacred space up there, one that should be reserved for the more devout.

  The Shabbat service isn’t as long as Sophie made it seem. We stand up, we sit down, and we stand up again. Every so often, people sort of half bow, and I do my best to follow along, trying to figure out which words and phrases trigger a bow or a change from sitting to standing. Trying to keep up is exhausting in a fascinating kind of way.

  My dad is reading the Hebrew, singing along. As best I can, I follow along with the English transliteration, but I don’t know the tunes of any of the prayers. I like the way they sound, and though all of this is foreign to me, it feels right more than anything. Jewish is what I am; I’m convinced of that now. I’m not half.

  Afterward, challah and hors d’oeuvres are served in the foyer. The sweet bread has never tasted better. The rabbi who led the service, a middle-aged man in a silver yarmulke, makes the rounds of the room. I’m positive he’ll skip right over my dad and me until he stops in front of us and sticks out his hand for my dad to shake.

  “I’m Rabbi Levi Edelstein,” he says. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in our congregation before, so I wanted to introduce myself.”

  “Ben Rosenthal,” my dad says. “And my son, Peter.”

  I become shy, as though meeting a rabbi is the equivalent of meeting a rock star. Still, I shake the rabbi’s hand too.

  “Welcome! New to the area?”

  “Not exactly.” My dad shrugs. “We’re just . . . not the best Jews.”

  Rabbi Edelstein laughs heartily, like he genuinely finds this funny. I decide I like him.

  “My mom isn’t Jewish,” I blurt.

  “No matter,” Rabbi Edelstein says. “You’re more than welcome here. Do you by any chance play kickball? Our recreational team, the Matzah Ballers, is starting back up in a couple months, and we’re pretty good, if I say so!”

  “That might be fun, huh, Peter?” my dad says, and I can only imagine how Sophie would tease me if she knew I’d joined the Matzah Ballers.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “I hope to see you both back here?”

  “You will,” I tell the rabbi.

  It’s nearly eight by the time we leave the temple.

  “So, what’s the verdict?” my dad asks as he starts the car.

  “I really liked it. I wish I could have understood it.”

  He chuckles. “It’s amazing what sticks with you. I haven’t read the Hebrew in a long time, but I guess it’s still in there.”

  “Why didn’t I have a bar mitzvah?”

  He’s quiet for a few moments. The wipers slash across the windshield, a duet with the tickticktick of the blinker.

  “Did Mom not want me to—”

  “No,” he says emphatically. “Peter, no. I know your mother doesn’t understand this. She had some bad experiences with religion growing up, so she’s always been a little opposed to it. But I don’t want you to blame her for any of this. We wanted you to find your own way. She and I were both forced into religion as kids. It wasn’t a choice for us.”

  “You gave me the choice.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m choosing this. This is what I want.”

  “I can see the family resemblance” is the first thing I blurt when Chase introduces me to his middle sister, Carlie, who’s home from college, and his youngest sister, Chloe. His oldest sister, Catelyn, lives in Portland with a toddler and a newborn.

  Carlie gr
oans. She’s wearing a gray WSU sweatshirt and has Chase’s same golden-brown hair. “Oh, we know.”

  Chase’s mom heads over from the kitchen in an apron that says in small letters, AS FAR AS ANYONE KNOWS, WE ARE A NICE, NORMAL FAMILY. “Peter! Welcome. I’m Jess. I’ve got homemade pizza in the oven. You like pizza, right? What kid doesn’t like pizza? If not, I could also make you a sandwich, or some pasta, or—”

  “Peter loves pizza!” Chase says, and I have to stifle a laugh, remembering the first day in English class.

  “Pizza sounds great,” I confirm.

  She grins. “Perfect. Make yourself at home!”

  I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect when Chase invited me over for a game night at his house. When Chase told me his dad passed away, I guess I was expecting a fractured family. A grieving one. But the Cabreras are bright and full of energy.

  “I, um, like your apron?” I say to Chase’s mom.

  “A Mother’s Day gift from this one,” she says, jabbing at Chase with the spatula. “He thinks he’s so funny.”

  “I am. And you love it.” Chase sweeps an arm through the air. “I’ll give you the grand tour. This is the most cynical person to ever have lived.” He pokes his sister.

  Carlie swats his arm. “I’m part of the tour? Then this guy”—she runs a hand through his hair, messing it up—“is the nosiest little brother. He texts me basically every day asking about my classes, how the dorm food is, what music I’m listening to . . .”

  “Sorry for caring,” Chase says, but I love witnessing this interaction between them. It makes me wish again for a sibling, though I’m pretty sure the time for that has passed.

  Chase leads me through the rest of his house, hardwood floors and patterned curtains, family photos and abstract paintings.

  He pauses at the end of the second-floor hallway. “This is my room,” he says quietly before he opens the door, letting me in first.

  I thought my room was a music room, but wow. Album art covers every inch of the walls. There’s zero white space, making the room feel like a music museum. I spot Led Zeppelin and Heart and Simon & Garfunkel, Depeche Mode and Fleetwood Mac and Queen.