Page 61 of Our Year of Maybe

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.

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