Our Year of Maybe Page 14

  “How many sisters do you have?”

  “Three. Two older, and one younger. So it’s my super-white mom, her three half-Argentinian daughters, and me. That was the worst part. Of—of losing my dad.” He rubs a hand over his face. “There’s this whole side I don’t know at all. I want to go to Córdoba one day—that’s where he was born. I feel like if I could get there, I’d have this sudden epiphany. . . . That probably sounds stupid.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  A sad smile. “You don’t have siblings, do you?”

  “I used to want one,” I say, shaking my head. “My parents got me a chinchilla instead.”

  Chase laughs. He’s unselfconscious about his laughs, surrendering completely to them. “Right. You mentioned that at the diner last week. I hope this isn’t too personal of a question,” he continues, “and tell me if it is. But—are you basically cured now? Now that you’ve had the transplant? ‘Cured’ is the wrong word, I know. I’ve been doing some research, but I’m still not sure I understand.”

  He did research.

  To learn more about me, my condition, my history.

  For a few moments I’m so overwhelmed I can’t speak. “I can’t believe you did research,” I finally manage to say.

  He shrugs it off. “I was curious, and I would have felt like a jerk asking a hundred questions.”

  “It’s not a cure, no. I still have kidney disease. I have to take immunosuppressants—anti-rejection meds—for as long as I have this kidney. They trick my body into believing the new organ isn’t foreign so it doesn’t attack Sophie’s kidney.”

  “It’s yours now, though. Not Sophie’s.”

  “Right,” I say, though I haven’t been able to think of it that way yet. “Right. And a donor kidney . . . Sometimes it only functions for ten or fifteen years. Twenty if I’m lucky.”

  “That’s what I was reading,” he says softly. “Shit.”

  I nod. “I’ve already lived so much of my life convinced I was going to die young. So I can’t think about that now. My . . . mortality or anything. I can’t think about being back on the transplant list one day, being back on dialysis. I can only think about now.”

  He scoots closer to me on the floor, so close that his shoe settles against mine. Our shoes have gotten very well acquainted lately. “I still can’t believe what you went through. I’m not even fully sure what a kidney does. I’m picturing this bean-shaped . . . thing. That does . . . something.”

  “Well, as nerd club president, I can tell you exactly what they do. They’re basically like trash collectors. That’s how my doctors explained it to me when I was younger and was having trouble understanding what was going on. They process blood and sort out waste products and water . . . which become urine.” I wince. I’ve become so desensitized that I forget sometimes that pee is not a normal conversation topic.

  But Chase doesn’t flinch. “I was such a little nightmare whenever I had a cold. I’d throw tantrums about not wanting to go to school.”

  “If I had so much as a 98.7-degree temperature, we were probably already on our way to the hospital.”

  “I’m glad you’re better now,” he says, his eyes heavy on mine.

  The words linger between us as the lights go dark, and I shift my attention to the ceiling, my heart hammering in my chest. My mind turns over his words, trying to figure out if they mean something beyond the fact that he’s happy I’m not dead. There are a lot of reasons you can be happy someone isn’t dead, like that you’re a decent human being.

  Or those words, his gaze, his shoe against mine mean something else entirely.

  The brightly colored lasers dance along the ceiling. I can hear Chase humming the guitar licks along with the album and softly singing some of the lyrics off-key. The music is alternately experimental and peaceful, and sometimes quiet and full of longing. It’s so easy to lose myself in it. At some point during the evening, one or maybe both of us shift so our legs, not just our shoes, are touching, which ignites a very pleasant fire in my belly.

  I loved the Beatles before, but now I love the Beatles.

  It’s nearly midnight when Chase drives me home. We’re in the middle of this game where we play a song and then hard-core judge the other person if they don’t know the band. He gets me on Pink Floyd.

  “You’re a musician and you don’t know Pink Floyd?” he asks, incredulous, spiking the volume of his car speakers. “This is unacceptable.”

  “I know of them,” I insist. “I just . . . wouldn’t be able to name any of their songs.”

  He scoffs. “Doesn’t count. Listen. They’re so inventive. No one was doing this kind of stuff back then.”

  We drive for a while, over bridges and beneath trees, Pink Floyd serenading us.

  “I’d never done anything like this before tonight,” I tell him when the song changes. “I think I missed out on a lot. And not just because I was sick—or maybe I used that as a crutch, because I was sick and my parents were overprotective. Until a few weeks ago, I’d never been to a party. I’ve never gone to a high school dance, and I’ve never gone on a date.”

  “Poor, stunted Peter,” he says, shaking his head. His golden-brown hair falls in his face, and he shoves it away. “Wait. You and Sophie haven’t ever dated?”

  “We’re best friends,” I say, which doesn’t answer his question. “Friends” barely seems to encompass what we are. There has to be a word deeper than “friend” and more personal than “donor” to describe someone who has given you a kidney. “But, uh, no. We haven’t dated.”

  “I guess I don’t really know her. We had a class together last year, and I think I heard her talk once.”

  “She . . . she takes a while to open up. But I’ve known her forever, and she’s—she’s amazing.”

  The way I feel about Chase isn’t at all how I felt about Sophie. My attraction to Chase is stronger—because I’m older now, because I understand what that attraction can lead to. Chase is newness, excitement. A band with a catalog of albums I haven’t listened to yet. Sophie, when I liked her, was all comfort. Warm blankets and a TV show you’ve seen a hundred times. In a way, though, Sophie’s the reason I’m even in the car with Chase right now.

  “Okay, so you’ve never been on a date. Have you ever . . . kissed anyone?” He doesn’t say it cruelly. It’s almost like he wants to make sure I haven’t missed out on the greatness that is kissing someone who wants to kiss you back.

  The question brings heat to my cheeks. “Only Sophie,” I say, and he turns in his seat to lift his brows at me, like maybe I was lying about not having dated her. “A few years ago. We weren’t dating, though. It just sort of happened.” I don’t tell him about the kiss at the party—those feelings are still too raw, especially after Sophie’s outburst at dinner earlier this week. A brief silence follows, so I punt the question back. “Have you?”

  “I had a boyfriend last year. I met Jeff at a show last summer. He lived in Olympia, but he’d come up to see this band he was into. We flirted all night, and then when he said he went to high school in Olympia, we sort of tried to date long-distance. But . . . it didn’t work. And we only really hooked up once.”

  My throat goes dry. Hooked up. It can mean a hundred different things. It can mean just kissing, or it can mean everything.

  “Hooked up?” I repeat, before I can rein myself in. I’m too hot in my coat. I fiddle with the zipper, dragging it down halfway so I don’t feel like I’m suffocating.

  “Made out, fooled around a little. No clothes came off or anything. Is this making you uncomfortable?”

  Oh no. Something’s giving me away. Is it all the sweating? I shake my head. Too fast.

  “No, no, I’m just . . .” Curious. I don’t bother to finish the sentence. Chase doesn’t seem to mind.

  “He was the first guy I did anything with. The only guy, actually.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, still playing with my stupid zipper. Now it’s stuck. Excellent.

  Made out. Fool
ed around a little.

  I try to stop myself from picturing Chase and this mystery boy. On top of this mystery boy. Underneath him. Chase pinning Mystery Boy up against a wall, his mouth on Mystery Boy’s neck.

  Yeah, I can’t really stop.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, but Chase shrugs, slowing down as he turns into my neighborhood.

  “It’s okay. Your first boyfriend—or girlfriend—is supposed to break your heart. That’s what my mom said. But mine’s completely repaired now. No sympathy needed.”

  Chase parks in front of my house.

  “This was fun,” I say, unclicking my seat belt. I’m both eager to get out of the stuffy car and into the cold and wishing the night weren’t over yet. “Thanks.”

  Before I get out, he leans over the console. My entire body tenses as he says low into my ear, “You know, now that you’re sure you’re gonna be alive for a while, you should try kissing more people.”

  Then, as quickly as he leaned over, he’s back in the driver’s seat.

  I can still feel his breath on my ear. My neck.

  I’m too stunned to reply. I open the door, and I think—God, I hope—I say good-bye. I hope I wave. Dazed, I walk up to my house, fumbling with my keys. It takes a few tries to actually fit them in the lock.

  I’m surprised to find my mom not on the couch with her laptop, but in the kitchen with Sophie’s mom, a bottle of wine between them.

  “Peter!” my mom calls out, and then bursts into giggles. “We were just talking about you!”

  Giggles. I can’t remember the last time I heard my mother giggle.

  My mom is drunk with Sophie’s mom. Oh my God.

  “Did you have a good time?” Becki asks, and then it’s her turn to start laughing. Her cheeks are tomato red.

  “Clearly not as good a time as you two. What’s so funny?”

  My mom waves a hand. I notice Becki’s nails match hers, wonder if they got them done together. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”

  “Great. I’ll be upstairs.”

  Becki flings an arm out as though to grab for me. “No, Peter. Stay with us! We’re fun!”

  They break down laughing again, and while it’s mortifying, I’m also happy to see my mom enjoying herself like this. Has the transplant given my parents permission to have fun again? Have they deprived themselves for all these years because of me?

  I race to my room, where I shut and lock the door. Then I wipe the mothers from my mind.

  Hooked up. Made out. Fooled around a little. Those words, in Chase’s voice, are on an infinite loop inside my mind. You should try kissing more people Alive. Alive. Alive.

  Lying next to Chase in the dark earlier, it felt like all my cells were on high alert. I wanted to tug him close to me. Line my body up against his, or on top of his, or under his. I’m not picky.

  I turn on some music. Pink Floyd. My coat zipper might be stuck, but my jeans zipper goes down easily.

  It’s not that I never got turned on when I was sick, but whenever I tried to jerk off, I could rarely finish. I couldn’t do this most basic thing my body desperately wanted me to do. I was too embarrassed to talk about it with my parents, so I googled it and learned kidney failure could cause “sexual dysfunction” in addition to the 4,268,314 other things it affected.

  Things seem to be functioning pretty well right now.

  Later, when I drift off to sleep, I dream about the Beatles and Pink Floyd and lights on the ceiling. Chase’s eyes. Chase’s hands. Chase’s mouth.

  CHAPTER 19

  SOPHIE

  ANOTHER FRIDAY NIGHT, ANOTHER RAINY football game. I squint up at the stands, but everyone’s REI parkas blur together in one big swatch of bluish gray, and I can’t find Peter.

  We’re not supposed to bring our phones onto the field—Montana thinks it looks bad for people in the bleachers to see us staring at our screens—but I tucked mine into the waistband of my skirt, and I steal peeks at it when the rest of the team is distracted by the game.

  Mostly, I’m staring at the message Peter sent two hours ago and trying to figure out how to respond.

  Can’t make the game tonight. Band practice

  I must have sat through at least a dozen of his piano recitals. So far this year, he’s seen me dance at one game. He missed my dance recitals all the time when he wasn’t feeling up to it. Sure, I danced when we Terrible Twosomed, but that was different. The rest of the time his health came first. It had to.

  “Everything okay?” Liz asks, nudging my shoulder.

  I wrap my phone in my sleeve, trying to hide it. “Fine.”

  Next week? I finally text back, staring at the screen for a reply, as though if I blink, I’ll miss something.

  For the past couple weeks, I’ve been wrestling with an ugly thought. I thought the transplant would make us better than best friends, that I’d somehow graduate to a new level of importance in his life. It’s not why I did it, but at the same time, I couldn’t fathom a future in which the transplant didn’t connect us even more deeply. But our present is not that future. I don’t understand why he’s so adamant about our relationship staying the same when he’s the one changing it.

  He has a small part of me, and I’m the one with a gaping hole that can’t be fixed.

  By the following week, the team nearly has my piece memorized, and I’m feeling pretty fantastic about it. When I get home after practice Thursday, I’m humming the song under my breath, still bouncing with energy. I’m not ready for homework, but I’m too tired to go back out. I drop my backpack in the hall and wander into the kitchen. Tabby’s standing at the counter, dipping a spoon into a jar of Nutella.

  She waves at me with the spoon before she licks it. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” The house is eerily quiet. “Where’s Luna? Actually, where’s our whole family?”

  “Josh has her. They’re visiting his grandparents at their retirement home tonight. And Mom and Dad are out with Peter’s parents.”

  I open the drawer and find a spoon of my own to dip into the jar. “It’s so weird. They’re BFFs all of a sudden.”

  “I know!” Tabby exclaims, holding out the jar for me. “I guess that’s how it used to be, but I barely remember it.”

  “Right, because you were so young back then.”

  Tabby rolls her eyes. “Wait, you’re older than me? I had no idea.”

  “What are you doing tonight? Besides this,” I say as I take another spoonful.

  She lets out a long sigh. “I switched shifts at the diner so I could go to the movies with Mia and Steph, but they had late rehearsals for Sweeney Todd. I mean, it’s fine. I don’t even like Sweeney Todd that much anyway. Well, the movie was awful, but some of the songs are okay. . . .”

  What she doesn’t say: If Luna hadn’t happened, she’d be rehearsing for Sweeney Todd too.

  “You would have been an awesome Mrs. Lovett,” I tell her.

  “I totally would have,” she says with a sniff. “So. Now I have a thrilling night of homework ahead of me.”

  She’s trying to snark about this to make it better, but it can’t have been easy for her to give up theater.

  “Do you, um . . . want to do something instead?”

  She taps her fingers on the table. “Depends. Make me an offer. Bonus points if I don’t have to change out of sweatpants.”

  I snort. Then it comes to me. “Let’s have a sleepover.”

  “What?” She laughs, this high-pitched sound that’s nothing like my own laugh. When I used to watch my sister onstage, I was amazed by how she could morph into a completely different person. Sometimes it made me wonder if I knew her at all.

  “Let’s have a sleepover here. We could play with makeup and watch TV and eat terrible, wonderful food.”

  “That actually sounds really fun. I haven’t done anything like that in forever.”

  And I guess I haven’t either. Or, well, ever. Sleepovers with Peter—which are now Forbidden—were usually spent playing board games or w
atching movies. I didn’t even care that one time Peter wet the bed. There was nothing Peter could do that would disgust me. His body was working against him. I couldn’t judge something he couldn’t control.

  So we order pizza, find a recipe for homemade face masks, and line up our entire nail polish collection on the bathroom counter. Then we sit on the floor with our face masks on, show tunes playing from Tabby’s phone. I don’t complain, though there are about a million other songs I’d rather listen to, even Peter’s mopey piano music.

  “I’ve missed things like this,” Tabby says wistfully, and though this isn’t something the two of us have ever really done, I’m sure she’s missed doing it with her friends. It makes me think about everything else she’s probably missed since having Luna, which, admittedly, isn’t something I think about very often.

  “I could watch Luna for you,” I say, thinking back to what Josh said on Halloween. “If that would help.”

  “Really? You’d do that?”

  “Why are you so surprised?”

  She shrugs. “You’ve never expressed any interest.”

  “She’s my niece. I want to get to know her.”

  “She’s a cool little person.”

  “That’s arrogant, considering she came from you.”

  She elbows me, and a timer goes off, indicating it’s time to rinse off the masks.

  Afterward, we make our way into the living room with the intention of watching some bad TV, but my sister’s in a talkative mood.

  “Tell me things about your life,” she urges as we flop onto the couch. “Please?”

  Before Luna, on Friday nights Tabby would be getting ready for dates with Josh or going to a theater-kid party. I’d be listening to Peter play the piano, hoping he’d look at me differently from how he’d looked at me for the past few years.

  If I was ever jealous of Tabby’s friends or her relationship, I haven’t felt that way in a while. I tell her about dance team and Montana and Liz and Queens of Night. “Oh! I read the first one,” she says.

  And I tell her about Peter and the complete lack of anything happening there, our continued attempts at normal. Though she doesn’t have any sage advice, she just listens, and it feels like enough.