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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 . . .
