Текст книги "P.S. I Still Love You "

Автор книги: Jenny Han

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

47

FOLLOWING GENEVIEVE AROUND IS A strangely familiar feeling. Nothing little observations come flooding back. It’s a heady combination of the things I used to know about her and the things I don’t. She goes through the drive-thru at Wendy’s, and without even looking, I know what’s in the bag. Small Frosty, small fries to dip, six-piece chicken nuggets, also to dip.

John and I follow Genevieve around town for a bit, but we lose her at a stoplight so we just head over to Belleview. There’s a USO party planning meeting I have to get to. With the party so close, we’re all doubling our efforts to have everything ready in time. Belleview has become my solace, my safe place throughout all this. In part because Genevieve doesn’t know about it, so she can’t tag me out, but also because it’s the one place I won’t run into her and Peter, free to do whatever they want together now that he’s single again.

It starts snowing at the beginning of our meeting. Everyone crowds around the windows to look, shaking their heads and saying, “Snow in April! Can you believe it?” and then we go back to work on USO decorations. John helps with the banner.

By the time we’re done, there are a few inches of snow on the ground, and the snow has turned to ice. “Johnny, you can’t drive in this weather. I absolutely forbid it,” Stormy says.

“Grandma, it’ll be fine,” John says. “I’m a good driver.”

Stormy delivers a stinging smack on his arm. “I told you never to call me Grandma! Just Stormy. The answer is no. I’m putting my foot down. The both of you will stay at Belleview tonight. It’s far too dangerous.” She sends me a stern look. “Lara Jean, you call your father right now and tell him I won’t allow you out in this weather.”

“He can come get us,” I suggest.

“And have that poor widower get into a car accident on the way here? No. I won’t have it. Give me your phone. I’ll call him myself.”

“But—there’s school tomorrow,” I say.

“Cancelled,” Stormy says with a smile. “They just announced it on the TV.”

I protest, “I don’t have any of my things! No toothbrush, or pajamas, or anything!”

She puts her arm around me. “Lie back and let Stormy take care of everything. Don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

So that is how it came to be that John Ambrose McClaren and I are spending the night together at a retirement home.

A snowstorm in April is a magical thing. Even if it is because of climate change. A few pink flowers have already sprouted in the gardens outside Stormy’s living room window, and snow is shaking down on it hard, the way Kitty shakes powdered sugar on pancakes—fast and a lot. Soon you can’t even see the pink of the flowers; it’s all just covered in white.

We’re playing checkers in Stormy’s living room, the big kind of checkers you can buy at Cracker Barrel. John has beaten me twice and he keeps asking me if I’m hustling him. I’m coy about it, but the answer is no, he’s just better than me at checkers. Stormy serves us piña coladas that she mixes in her blender with “just a splash of rum to warm us up,” and she microwaves frozen spanakopita that neither of us touches. Bing Crosby is playing on her stereo. By nine thirty Stormy is yawning and saying she’ll need her beauty sleep soon. John and I exchange a look—it’s still so early, and I don’t know the last time I went to bed before midnight.

Stormy insists I stay with her and John stay with Mr. Morales in his spare bedroom. I can tell John isn’t crazy about this idea, because he asks, “Can’t I just sleep on your floor?”

I’m surprised when Stormy shakes her head. “I hardly think Lara Jean’s father would appreciate that!”

“I really don’t think my dad would mind, Stormy,” I say. “I could call him if you want.”

But the answer is a firm and resounding no: John must bunk with Mr. Morales. For a lady who’s always telling me to be wild and have adventures and bring the condom, she’s far more old-fashioned than I thought.

Stormy hands John a face towel and a pair of foam earplugs. “Mr. Morales snores,” she tells him as she kisses him good night.

John raises an eyebrow at her. “How do you know?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” She shimmies off into the kitchen like the grand dame she truly is.

In a low voice John says to me, “You know what? I really, really wouldn’t.”

I bite the cushiony part of my cheek to keep from laughing.

“Keep your phone on vibrate,” John says before he goes out the door. “I’ll text you.”

I hear the sound of Stormy snoring and the whispery sound of icy snowflakes hitting the windowsill. I keep getting twisted up in Stormy’s sleeping bag, twisted and hot and wishing Stormy didn’t have the heat turned up so high. Old people are always complaining about how cold it is at Belleview, how the heat is “piss-poor,” as Danny in the Azalea building says. Feels plenty hot to me. Stormy’s peach high-neck satin nightgown she insisted I wear isn’t helping matters. I’m lying on my side, playing Candy Crush on my phone, wondering when John will hurry up and text me.

Wanna play in the snow?

I text back right away:

YES! It’s really hot in here.

Meet me in the hallway in two min?

K.

I stand up so fast in my sleeping bag I nearly trip. I use my phone to find my coat, my boots. Stormy is snoring away. I can’t find my scarf, but I don’t want to keep John waiting, so I run out without it.

He’s already in the hallway waiting for me. His hair is sticking up in the back, and on that basis alone I think I could fall in love with him if I let myself. When he sees me, he holds his arms out and sings, “Do you want to build a snowman?” and I burst out laughing so hard John says, “Shh, you’re going to wake up the residents!” which only makes me laugh harder. “It’s only ten thirty!”

We run down the long carpeted hallway, both of us laughing as quietly as we can. But the more you try to laugh quietly, the harder it is to stop. “I can’t stop laughing,” I gasp as we run through the sliding doors and to the courtyard.

We’re both out of breath; we both stop short.

The ground is blanketed in thick white snow, thick as sheep’s wool. It’s so beautiful and hushed, my heart almost hurts with the pleasure of it. I’m so happy in this moment, and I realize it’s because I haven’t thought of Peter once. I turn to look at John, and he’s already looking at me with a half smile on his face. It gives me a nervous flutter in my chest.

I spin around in a circle and sing, “Do you want to build a snowman?” And then we’re both giggling again.

“You’re going to get us kicked out of here,” he warns.

I grab his hands and make him spin around with me as fast as I can. “Quit acting like you really belong in a nursing home, old man!” I yell.

He drops my hands and we both stumble. Then he grabs a fistful of snow off the ground and starts to pack it into a ball. “Old man, huh? I’ll show you an old man!”

I dart away from him, slipping and sliding in the snow. “Don’t you dare, John Ambrose McClaren!”

He chases after me, laughing and breathing hard. He manages to grab me around the waist and raises his arm like he’s going to put the snowball down my back, but at the last second he releases me. His eyes go wide. “Oh my God. Are you wearing my grandma’s nightgown under your coat?”

Giggling, I say, “Wanna see? It’s really racy.” I start to unzip my coat. “Wait, turn around first.”

Shaking his head, John says, “This is weird,” but he obeys. As soon as his back is turned, I snatch a handful of snow, form it into a ball, and put it in my coat pocket.

“Okay, turn around.”

John turns, and I lob the snowball directly at his head. It hits him in the eye. “Ouch!” he yelps, wiping it with his coat sleeve.

I gasp and move toward him. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Are you okay—”

John’s already scooping up more snow and lunging toward me. And so begins our snowball fight. We chase each other around, and I get in another great hit square in his back. We call a truce when I nearly slip and fall on my butt. Luckily, John catches me just in time. He doesn’t let go right away. We stare at each other for a second, his arm around my waist. There’s a snowflake on his eyelashes. He says, “If I didn’t know you were still hung up on Kavinsky, I would kiss you right now.”

I shiver. Up until Peter, the most romantic thing that ever happened to me was with John Ambrose McClaren, in the rain, with the soccer balls. Now this. How strange that I’ve never even dated John, and he’s in two of my most romantic moments.

John releases me. “You’re freezing. Let’s go back inside.”

We go to the parlor on Stormy’s floor to sit and thaw out. There’s only one reading light on, so it’s dim and quiet. All the residents are in their apartments for the night, it seems. It feels strange to be here without Stormy and everyone, like being at school at night. We sit on the fancy French-style couch, and I take off my boots so my feet can get warm. I wriggle my toes to get the feeling back.

“Too bad we can’t start a fire,” John says, stretching his arms and looking at the fireplace.

“Yeah, it’s fake,” I say. “There must be some sort of nursing-home law about fireplaces, I bet. . . .” My voice trails off as I see Stormy, in her silky kimono, tiptoeing out of her apartment and down the hall. To Mr. Morales’s apartment. Oh my God.

“What?” John asks, and I slap my hand over his mouth. I duck down low in my seat and slide all the way off the couch to the floor. I pull him down next to me. We stay down until I hear the door click closed. He whispers, “What is it? What did you see?”

Sitting up, I whisper back, “I don’t know if you want to know.”

“Dear God. What? Just tell me.”

“I saw Stormy in her red kimono, sneaking into Mr. Morales’s apartment.”

John chokes. “Oh my God. That’s . . .”

I give him sympathetic eyes. “I know. Sorry.”

Shaking his head, he leans back against the couch, his legs stretched out long in front of him. “Wow. This is rich. My great-grandmother has a way more active sex life than I do.”

I can’t resist asking, “So then . . . I guess, have you not had sex with that many girls?” Hastily I say, “Sorry, I’m a very inquisitive person.” I scratch my cheek. “Some might say nosy. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“No, I’ll answer. I’ve never had sex with anybody.”

“What!” I can’t believe it. How can that be?

“Why are you so shocked?”

“I don’t know, I guess I thought all guys were doing it.”

“Well, I’ve only had one girlfriend, and she was religious, so we never did it, which was fine. Anyway, trust me, not all guys are having sex. I’d say the majority aren’t.” John pauses. “What about you?”

“I’ve never done it either,” I say.

He frowns, confused. “Wait, I thought you and Kavinsky . . .”

“No. Why would you think that?” Oh. The video. I swallow. I thought maybe he was the one person who hadn’t seen it. “So you’ve seen the hot tub video, huh.”

John hesitates and then, says, “Yeah. I didn’t know it was you at first, not until after the time capsule party when I figured out you guys were together. Some guy showed it to me in homeroom, but I didn’t look at it that closely.”

“We were just kissing,” I say, ducking my head. “I wish you hadn’t seen it.”

“Why? Honestly, it doesn’t matter to me at all.”

“I guess I liked the thought of you looking at me a certain kind of way. I feel like people see me differently now, but you still thought of me as the old Lara Jean. Do you know what I mean?”

“That is how I see you,” John says. “You’re still the same to me. I’ll always see you that way, Lara Jean.”

His words, the way he is looking at me—it makes me feel warm inside, golden, all the way to my frozen toes. I want him to kiss me. I want to see if it’s different from Peter, if it will make the hurt recede. Make me forget him, just for a while. But maybe he senses it—that Peter is somehow here with us, in my thoughts, that it wouldn’t just be about him and me—because John doesn’t make a move.

Instead he asks a question. “Why do you always call me by my full name?”

“I don’t know. I guess that’s how I think of you in my head.”

“Oh, so you’re saying you think about me a lot?”

I laugh. “No, I’m saying that when I think about you, which isn’t very often, that’s how I think of you. On the first day of school, I always have to explain to teachers that Lara Jean is my first name and not just Lara. And then, do you remember how Mr. Chudney started calling you John Ambrose because of that? ‘Mr. John Ambrose.’”

In a fake hoity-toity English accent, John says, “Mr. John Ambrose McClaren the Third, madam.”

I giggle. I’ve never met a third before. “Are you really?”

“Yeah. It’s annoying. My dad’s a junior, so he’s JJ, but my extended family still calls me Little John.” He grimaces. “I’d much rather be John Ambrose than Little John. Sounds like a rapper or that guy from Robin Hood.”

“Your family’s so fancy.” I only ever saw John’s mom when she was picking him up. She looked younger than the other mothers, she had John’s same milky skin, and her hair was longer than the other moms’, straw-colored.

“No. My family isn’t fancy at all. My mom made Jell-O salad last night for dessert. And, like, my dad only has steak cooked well-done. We only ever take vacations we can drive to.”

“I thought your family was kind of . . . well, rich.” I feel immediate shame for saying “rich.” It’s tacky to talk about other people’s money.

“My dad’s really cheap. His construction company is pretty successful, but he prides himself on being a self-made man. He didn’t go to college; neither did my grandparents. My sisters were the first in our family.”

“I didn’t know that about you,” I say. All these new things I’m learning about John Ambrose McClaren!

“Now it’s your turn to tell me something I don’t know about you,” John says.

I laugh. “You already know more than most people. My love letter made sure of that.”

The next morning, I sneeze as I’m putting on my coat, and Stormy raises one pencil-drawn eyebrow at me. “Catch a cold playing in the snow last night with Johnny?”

I squirm. I’d hoped she wouldn’t bring it up. The last thing I want to do is discuss her midnight rendezvous with Mr. Morales! We watched Stormy go back to her apartment and then waited half an hour before John went back to Mr. Morales’s. Weakly, I say, “Sorry we snuck out. It was so early, and we couldn’t fall asleep, so we thought we’d play in the snow.”

Stormy waves a hand. “It’s exactly what I hoped would happen.” She winks at me. “That’s why I made Johnny stay with Mr. Morales, of course. What’s the fun in anything if there aren’t a few roadblocks to spice things up?”

In awe, I say, “You’re so crafty!”

“Thank you, darling.” She’s quite pleased with herself. “You know, he’d make a great first husband, my Johnny. So, did you French him, at least?”

My face burns. “No!”

“You can tell me, honey.”

“Stormy, we didn’t kiss, and even if we had, I wouldn’t discuss it with you.”

Stormy’s nose goes thin and haughty. “Well, isn’t that so very selfish of you!”

“I have to go, Stormy. My dad’s waiting for me out front. See you!”

As I hurry out the door, she calls out, “Don’t you worry, I’ll get it out of Johnny! See you both at the party, Lara Jean!”

When I step outside, the sun is shining bright and much of the snow has already melted away. It’s almost like last night was a dream.

48

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE USO party, I call Chris on speakerphone as I’m rolling a log of shortbread dough in sage sugar. “Chris, can I borrow your Rosie the Riveter poster?”

“You can have it but what do you want it for?”

“For the 1940s USO party I’m throwing at Belleview tomorrow—”

“Stop, I’m bored. God, all you ever talk about is Belleview!”

“It’s my job!”

“Ooh, should I get a job?”

I roll my eyes. Every conversation we have turns back to Chris and the concerns of Chris. “Hey, speaking of fun jobs for you, what do you think about being a cigar girl for the party? You could wear a cute outfit with a little hat.”

“Real cigars?”

“No, chocolate ones. Cigars are bad for old people.”

“Will there be booze?”

I’m about to say yes, but only for the residents, but I think better of it. “I don’t think so. It could be a dangerous combination with their medications and their walkers.”

“When is it again?”

“Tomorrow!”

“Oh, sorry. I can’t give up a Friday night for this. Something better will definitely come up on a Friday. A Tuesday, maybe. Can you change it to next Tuesday?”

“No! Can you just please bring the poster to school tomorrow?”

“Yeah, but you have to text me with a reminder.”

“’Kay.” I blow my hair out of my face and start slicing the cookie roll. I still have to chop carrots and celery for the crudités and also pipe my meringues. I’m doing red-white-and-blue-striped meringue kisses, and I’m nervous about the colors blending together. Oh well. If they do, then people will just have to live with purple meringue kisses. There are worse things. Speaking of worse things . . . “Have you heard anything from Gen? I’ve been so careful, but it seems like she’s barely playing.” There’s silence on the other end.

“She’s probably too busy doing sex voodoo on Peter,” I say, half-hoping Chris will chime in. She’s always the first in line to rip on Gen.

But she doesn’t. All she says is “I’ve gotta go—my mom’s bitching at me to take out the dog.”

“Don’t forget the poster!”

49

AFTER SCHOOL KITTY AND I set up camp in the kitchen, where there’s the best light. I bring down my speakers and play the Andrews Sisters to get us in the right spirit. Kitty puts down a towel and lays out all my makeup, bobby pins, hair spray.

I hold up a packet of individual false eyelashes. “Where’d you get these from?”

“Brielle stole them from her sister and she gave me a pack.”

“Kitty!”

“She won’t notice. She has tons!”

“You can’t just take people’s stuff.”

“I didn’t take it—Brielle did. Anyway, I can’t give it back now. Do you want me to put them on you or not?”

I hesitate. “Do you even know how?”

“Yeah, I’ve watched her sister put them on plenty of times.” Kitty takes the eyelashes out of my hand. “If you don’t want me to use them on you, fine. I’ll save them for myself.”

“Well . . . all right then. But no more stealing.” I frown. “Hey, do you guys ever take my stuff?” Come to think of it, I haven’t seen my cat-ears knit beanie in months.

“Shh, no more talking,” she says.

The hair is what takes the longest. Kitty and I have watched countless hair tutorials to figure out the logistics of the victory rolls. There’s a lot of teasing and hair spray and hair rollers involved. And bobby pins. Lots of bobby pins.

I stare at myself in the mirror. “Don’t you think my hair looks a little . . . severe?”

“What do you mean, ‘severe’?”

“It kind of looks like I have a cinnamon bun on top of my head.”

Kitty thrusts the iPad in my face. “Yeah, so does this girl’s. That’s the look. It’s got to be authentic. If we water down the look, it won’t be true to the theme, and nobody will know what you’re supposed to be.” I’m nodding slowly; she has a point. “Besides, I’m going over to Ms. Rothschild’s for a Jamie training session. I don’t have time to start all over again.”

For my lipstick, we achieve the perfect shade of cherry red by blending two different reds—one brick and one fire engine—with a hot pink powder to set it. I look like I kissed a cherry pie.

I’m blotting my lips when Kitty asks, “Is that pretty boy John Amber McAndrews picking you up, or are you meeting him at the nursing home?”

I wave my tissue in her face warningly. “He’s picking me up, and you’d better be nice. Also he’s not a pretty boy.”

“He’s a pretty boy compared to Peter,” Kitty says.

“Let’s be honest. They’re both pretty. It’s not like Peter has a tattoo or huge muscles. In fact he’s very vain.” We never passed a window or a glass door Peter didn’t check himself out in.

“Well, is John vain?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Hmph.”

“Kitty, stop making this a competition of John versus Peter. It doesn’t matter who’s prettier.”

Kitty keeps going like she didn’t hear me. “Peter has a much nicer car. What does Johnny boy drive, a boring SUV? Who cares about an SUV? All they do is guzzle gas.”

“To be fair, I think it’s a hybrid.”

“You sure like to defend him.”

“He’s my friend!”

“Well, Peter’s mine,” she says.

Getting dressed is an intricate process, and I enjoy each step. It’s all about anticipation, hope for the night. Slowly I put on the seamed stockings so I don’t get a run in them. It takes me forever to get the seams straight down the backs of my legs. Then the dress—navy with white sprigs and little holly berries and floaty cap sleeves. Last the shoes. Clunky red heels with a bow at the toe and an ankle strap.

Put all together, it goes great, and I have to admit that Kitty was right about the victory roll on top of my head. Anything less wouldn’t be enough.

On my way out Daddy makes a big fuss over how great I look, and he takes about a million photos, which he promptly texts Margot. She immediately video-chats us so she can see for herself. “Make sure you get a picture of you and Stormy together,” Margot says. “I want to see what sexy getup she’s wearing.”

“It’s actually not that sexy,” I say. “She sewed it herself, off a 1940s dress pattern.”

“I’m sure she’ll find a way to bring the sexy,” Margot says. “What’s John McClaren wearing?”

“I have no idea. He says it’s a surprise.”

“Hmm,” she says. It’s a very suggestive hmm, which I ignore.

Daddy’s taking one last shot of me on the front porch when Ms. Rothschild comes over. “You look amazing, Lara Jean,” she says.

“She does, doesn’t she?” Daddy says fondly.

“God, I love the forties,” she says.

“Have you seen the Ken Burns documentary The War?” Daddy asks her. “If you have any interest in World War Two, it’s a must-see.”

“You should watch it together,” Kitty pipes up, and Ms. Rothschild shoots her a warning look.

“Do you have it on DVD?” she asks Daddy. Kitty is aglow with excitement.

“Sure, you can borrow it anytime,” Daddy says, oblivious as ever, and Kitty scowls, and then her mouth falls open.

I turn to see what she’s looking at, and it’s a red convertible Mustang driving down our street, top down—with John McClaren at the wheel.

My jaw drops at the sight of him. He is in full uniform: tan dress shirt with tan tie, tan slacks, tan belt and hat. His hair is parted to the side. He looks dashing, like a real soldier. He grins at me and waves. “Whoa,” I breathe.

“Whoa is right,” Ms. Rothschild says, googly-eyed beside me. Daddy and his Ken Burns DVD are forgotten; we are all staring at John in this uniform, in this car. It’s like I dreamed him up. He parks the car in front of the house, and all of us rush up to it.

“Whose car is this?” Kitty demands.

“It’s my dad’s,” John says. “I borrowed it. I had to promise to park really far away from any other car, though, so I hope your shoes are comfortable, Lara Jean—” He breaks off and looks me up and down. “Wow. You look amazing.” He gestures at my cinnamon bun. “I mean, your hair looks so . . . real.”

“It is real!” I touch it gingerly, I’m suddenly feeling self-conscious about my cinnamon-bun head and red lipstick.

“I know—I mean, it looks authentic.”

“So do you,” I say.

“Can I sit in it?” Kitty butts in, her hand on the passenger-side door.

“Sure,” John says. He climbs out of the car. “But don’t you want to get in the driver’s seat?”

Kitty nods quickly. Ms. Rothschild gets in too, and Daddy takes a picture of them together. Kitty poses with one arm casually draped over the steering wheel.

John and I stand off to the side, and I ask him, “Where did you ever get that uniform?”

“I ordered it off of eBay.” He frowns. “Am I wearing the hat right? Do you think it’s too small for my head?”

“No way. I think it looks exactly the way it’s supposed to look.” I’m touched that he went to the trouble of ordering a uniform for this. I can’t think of many boys who would do that. “Stormy is going to flip out when she sees you.”

He studies my face. “What about you? Do you like it?”

I flush. “I do. I think you look . . . super.”

It turns out that Margot is, as ever, right. Stormy has shortened the hem on the dress; it’s well above the knee. “I’ve still got the gams,” she gloats, twirling. “My best feature, from all the horseback riding I did as a girl.” She’s showing a little cleavage, too.

A silver-haired man who rode over in the van from Ferncliff is making appreciative eyes at her, and Stormy is pretending not to notice, all the while batting her lashes and preening with one hand on her hip. He must be the handsome man Stormy mentioned to me.

I take a picture of her at the piano and send it directly to Margot, who texts back a smiling emoji and two thumbs up.

I’m setting up the American flag centerpiece, watching John lug a table closer to the center of the room at Stormy’s direction, when Alicia sidles up beside me, and then we’re both watching him. “You should date him.”

“Alicia, I told you, I just got out of a relationship,” I whisper back. I can’t take my eyes off him in that uniform with that side part.

“Well, get into a new one. Life is short.” For once, Alicia and Stormy are on the same page.

Stormy is now straightening John’s tie, his little hat. She even licks her finger and tries to smooth his hair, but he ducks away. Our eyes meet, and he makes a frantic face like, Help me.

“Save him,” Alicia says. “I’ll finish the table. My internment camp display is already done.” She’s set that up by the doors, so it’s the first thing you see when you walk in.

I hurry over to John and Stormy. Stormy beams at me. “Doesn’t she look like an absolute doll?” She swans off.

With a straight face John says, “Lara Jean, you’re an absolute doll.”

I giggle and touch the top of my head. “A cinnamon roll–headed doll.”

People are starting to mill in, even though it isn’t seven yet. I’ve observed that old people, as a rule, tend to show up early for things. I still have to set up the music. Stormy says that when hosting a party, music is absolutely the first order of business, because it sets the mood the second your guest walks in. I can feel my nerves starting to pulse. There’s still so much to do. “I’d better finish setting up.”

“Tell me what you need done,” John says. “I’m your second-in-command at this shindig. Did people say ‘shindig’ in the forties?”

I laugh. “Probably!” In a rush I say, “Okay, can you set up my speakers and iPod? They’re in the bag by the refreshments table. And can you pick up Mrs. Taylor in 5A? I promised her an escort.”

John gives me a salute and runs off. Tingles go up and down my spine like soda water. Tonight will be a night to remember!

We’re an hour and a half in, and Crystal Clemons, a lady from Stormy’s floor, is leading everyone in a swing-dancing lesson. Of course Stormy is up front, rock-stepping for all she’s worth. I’m following along from the refreshments table: one-two, three-four, five-six. Early on I danced with Mr. Morales, but only once, because the women were cutting their eyes at me for taking an eligible, able-bodied man off the circuit. Men are in short supply at old-age homes, so there aren’t enough male dance partners, not enough by half. I’ve heard a few of the women whispering how rude it is for a gentleman not to dance when there are ladies without partners—and looking pointedly at poor John.

John is standing at the other end of the table, drinking Coke and nodding his head to the beat. I’ve been so busy running around, we’ve hardly had a chance to talk. I lean over the table and call out, “Having fun?”

He nods. Then, quite suddenly, he bangs his glass down on the table, so hard the table shakes and I jump. “All right,” he says. “It’s do or die. D-day.”

“What?”

“Let’s dance,” John says.

Shyly I say, “We don’t have to if you don’t want to, John.”

“No, I want to. I didn’t take swing-dancing lessons from Stormy for nothing.”

I widen my eyes. “When did you take swing dance lessons from Stormy?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just dance with me.”

“Well . . . do you have any war bonds left?” I joke.

John fishes one out of his pants pocket and slaps it on the refreshments table. Then he grabs my hand and marches me to the center of the dance floor, like a soldier heading off to the battlefield. He’s all grim concentration. He signals to Mr. Morales, who is manning the music because he’s the only one who can figure out my phone. Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” comes blaring out of the speakers.

John gives me a determined nod. “Let’s do this.”

And then we’re dancing. Rock-step, side, together, side, repeat. Rock-step, one-two-three, one-two-three. We step on each other’s feet about a million times, but he’s swinging me around—twirl, twirl—and our faces are flushed and we’re both laughing. When the song is over, he pulls me in and then throws me back out one last time. Everyone is clapping. Mr. Morales screams, “To the young ones!”

John picks me up and lifts me into the air like we’re ice dancers, and the crowd erupts. I’m smiling so hard my face feels like it could break.

After, John helps me take down all the decorations and pack everything up. He goes out to the parking lot with the two big boxes, and I stay behind to say good-bye to everyone and make sure we have everything. I still feel sort of a high from the night. The party went so well, and Janette was so pleased. She came up and squeezed my shoulders and said, “I’m proud of you, Lara Jean.” And then the dance with John . . . Thirteen-year-old me would have died. Sixteen-year-old me is floating down the nursing-home hallway, and it’s like I’m in a dream.

I’m floating out the front entrance when I see Genevieve and Peter walking up, her arm linked in his, and it’s like we’re in a time machine and the past year never happened. We never happened.

They’re coming closer. Now they are about ten feet away, and I am frozen to this spot. Is there no way out of this? Out of this humiliation, and out of losing yet again? I got so caught up in the USO party and John that I forgot all about the game. What are my options here? If I turn and run back into the nursing home, she’ll just wait in the parking lot for me all night. Just like that, I am a rabbit under her paw again. Just like that, she wins.