Текст книги "P.S. I Still Love You "

Автор книги: Jenny Han

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

26

JUST WHEN I THOUGHT THE hot-tub-video ordeal was well and truly over with, another version pops up and reminds me that this particular nightmare will never be over. Nothing on the Internet ever dies; isn’t that what people say? This time I’m in the library, and out of the corner of my eye I see two sophomore girls sharing a pair of earbuds, watching the video, giggling. There I am, in my nightgown, draped all over Peter’s lap like a blanket. For a few seconds I just sit there, trapped in my indecision. To confront or not to confront. I remember Margot’s words about rising above it and acting like I couldn’t care less. And then I think, Screw it.

I stand up, stalk over to them, and snatch the earbuds out of the laptop. “Part of Your World” comes blasting out the speakers.

“Hey!” the girl says, whirling in her seat.

Then she sees it’s me, and she and her friend exchange a panicky look. She slams the laptop shut. “Go ahead, play it,” I say, crossing my arms.

“No thanks,” she says.

I reach over her and open it and push play. Whoever’s made this video has spliced it with scenes from The Little Mermaid. “When’s it my turn? Wouldn’t I love, love to explore that shore up above . . .” I snap the computer shut. “Just so you know, watching this video is the equivalent of child pornography, and you guys could be charged for it. Your IP address is already in the system. Think about that before you forward it on. That’s distribution.”

The red-haired girl gapes. “How is this child porn?”

“I’m underage and so is Peter.”

The other girl smirks and says, “I thought you guys claimed you weren’t having sex.”

I’m stumped. “Well, we’ll let the Justice Department sort that out. But first I’m notifying Principal Lochlan.”

“It’s not like we’re the only ones looking at it!” the red-haired girl says.

“Think about how you’d feel if it were you in that video,” I say.

“I’d feel great,” the girl mutters. “You’re lucky. Kavinsky’s hot.”

Lucky. Right.

It catches me off guard how upset Peter is when I show him the Little Mermaid video. Because nothing bad ever sticks to Peter; it just rolls off his back. That’s why people like him so much, I think. He’s sure of himself; he’s self-possessed. It sets people at ease.

But it’s the Little Mermaid video that breaks him. We watch it in his car, on his phone, and he’s so mad I’m afraid he’s going to throw the phone out the window. “Those fuckers! How dare they!” Peter punches the steering wheel, and the horn beeps. I jump. I’ve never seen him upset like this. I’m not sure what to say, how to calm him down. I grew up in a house full of women and one gentle dad. I don’t know anything about teenage boys’ tempers.

“Shit!” he yells. “I hate that I can’t protect you from this.”

“I don’t need you to,” I say, and I realize as I say it that it’s true. I’m coping on my own just fine.

He stares straight ahead. “But I want to. I thought I fixed it before, but here it is again. It’s like fucking herpes.”

I want to comfort him, to make him laugh and forget. Teasingly I ask him, “Peter, do you have herpes?”

“Lara Jean, it’s not funny.”

“Sorry.” I put my hand on his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

Peter starts the car. “Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere. Nowhere. Let’s just drive.” I don’t want to run into anybody, I don’t want any knowing looks or whispers. I want to hide. Peter’s Audi, our little haven. To cover up my bleak thoughts, I give Peter a bright smile, bright enough to make him smile back, just.

The drive calms Peter down, and by the time we get to my house, Peter seems to be in good spirits again. I ask him if he wants to come inside and have pizza, it being pizza night and all. I tell him he can order whichever toppings he wants. But he shakes his head, says he should get home. For the first time he doesn’t kiss me good-bye, and it makes me feel guilty, how bad he feels. It’s partly my fault, I know it is. He feels like he has to make things right for me, and now he knows he can’t, and it’s killing him.

When I walk into the house, Daddy is waiting for me at the kitchen table, just sitting and waiting, eyebrows knit together. “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

“Sorry . . . my battery died. Is everything okay?” Judging by the serious look on his face, everything is definitely not okay.

“We need to talk, Lara Jean. Come sit down.”

Dread hits me like a tidal wave. “Why, Daddy? What’s wrong? Where’s Kitty?”

“She’s in her room.” I put down my bag and make my way over to the kitchen table, feet moving as slow as I can make them. I sit down next to him and he sighs heavily, hands folded.

Just as I say, “Is this about the dating profile I set up for you? Because I haven’t even activated it yet,” he says, “Why didn’t you tell me what was going on at school?”

My heart drops all the way to the floor. “What do you mean?” I’m still hoping, praying this is about something else. Tell me I failed my chemistry test; say anything but the hot tub.

“The video of you and Peter.”

“How did you find out?” I whisper.

“Your guidance counselor called me. She was worried about you. Why didn’t you tell me what was going on, Lara Jean?”

He looks so stern, and so very disappointed, which I hate most of all. I feel pressure building behind my eyes. “Because . . . I was ashamed. I didn’t want you to think of me that way. Daddy, I swear, all we were doing was kissing. That’s it.”

“I haven’t seen the video, and I won’t. That’s private, between you and Peter. But I wish you had used better judgment that day, Lara Jean. There are long-lasting consequences to our actions.”

“I know.” Tears roll down my cheeks.

Daddy takes my hand out of my lap and holds it in his. “It pains me that you didn’t come to me when things were so hard for you at school. I knew you were going through something, but I didn’t want to push too hard. I always try to think about what your mom would do if she were here. I know it’s not easy, only having a dad to talk to—” His voice breaks, and I cry harder. “But I’m trying. I really am trying.”

I jump out of my seat and throw my arms around him. “I know you’re trying,” I cry.

He hugs me back. “You have to know you can come to me, Lara Jean. No matter what it is. I’ve spoken to Principal Lochlan, and he’s going to make an announcement tomorrow saying that anyone who watches or distributes the video will be suspended.”

Relief floods over me. I should’ve come to my dad in the first place. I stand up straight, and he reaches up and wipes my cheeks. “Now, what’s this about a dating profile?”

“Oh . . . ” I sit back down again. “Well . . . I started one for you on Singleparentloveconnection.com.” He’s frowning, so I quickly say, “Grandma doesn’t think it’s good for a man to be alone for so long, and I agree with her. I thought online dating could help you get back out there.”

“Lara Jean, I can handle my own dating life! I don’t need my daughter managing my dates.”

“But . . . you never go on any.”

“That’s my concern, not yours. I want you to take down that profile tonight.”

“It was never even active; I just set it up in case. It’s a whole new world out there, Daddy.”

“Right now we’re talking about your love life, not mine, Lara Jean. Mine we’ll save for another time. I want to hear about yours.”

“Okay.” Primly, I fold my hands in front of me on the table. “What do you want to know?”

He scratches his neck. “Well . . . are you and Peter pretty serious?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I think I might love him. But maybe it’s too early to say. How serious can you be in high school, anyway? Look at Margot and Josh and how that turned out.”

Wistfully, Daddy says, “He never comes around here anymore.”

“Exactly. I don’t want to be the girl crying in her dorm room over a boy.” I stop suddenly. “That’s something Mommy said to Margot. She said don’t be the girl who goes to college with a boyfriend and then misses out on everything.”

He smiles a knowing kind of smile. “That sounds like her.”

“Who was her high school boyfriend? Did she love him a lot? Did you ever meet him?”

“Your mom didn’t have a high school boyfriend. That was her roommate she was talking about. Robyn.” Daddy chuckles. “She drove your mom crazy.”

I rest back in my seat. All this time I thought Mommy was talking about herself.

“I remember the first time I saw your mom. She was throwing a dinner in her dorm called Fakesgiving, and a buddy of mine and I went. It was a big Thanksgiving meal in May. She had on a red dress, and her hair was long back then. You know, you’ve seen the pictures.” He pauses, a smile flickering on his face. “She gave me a hard time because I brought canned green beans and not fresh ones. That’s how you knew if she liked someone, if she teased them. Of course, I didn’t know it at the time. I was pretty clueless about girls back then.”

Ha! Back then. “I thought you guys met in a psychology class,” I say.

“According to your mom, we took the same class one semester, but I don’t remember seeing her. It was in one of those lecture halls with hundreds of people.”

“But she noticed you,” I say. That, I’ve heard before. She said she liked the way he paid attention in class, and how his hair was a little too long in the back, like an absent-minded professor.

“Thank God she did. Where would I be without her?”

This gives me pause. Where would he be? Without us, certainly, but probably he wouldn’t be a widower either. Would his life have been happier if he’d married some other girl, made some other choice?

Daddy tips my chin. Firmly he says, “I would be nowhere without her, because I wouldn’t have my girls.”

I call Peter and tell him Mrs. Duvall called my dad and he knows all about the video, but he’s talked to Principal Lochlan and everything will be fine now. I expect him to be relieved, but he still sounds down. “Now your dad probably hates me,” he says.

“He doesn’t,” I assure him.

“Do you think I should say something to him? I don’t know, like, apologize, man to man?”

I shudder. “Definitely not. My dad is super awkward.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Please stop worrying, Peter. It’s like I told you, my dad’s sorted it all out. Principal Lochlan will make the announcement and people will leave us alone. Besides, there’s nothing for you to apologize for. I was in it just as much as you were. You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do.”

We hang up soon after, and even though I feel better about the video, I still feel unsettled about Peter. I know he’s upset about not being able to protect me, but I also know that part of why he’s upset is because his pride was injured, and that has nothing to do with me. Is a boy’s ego really such a fragile, breakable thing? It must be so.

27

THE LETTER COMES ON A Tuesday, but I don’t see it until Wednesday morning before school. I’m at the kitchen window seat, eating an apple, going through the stack of mail while I wait for Peter to pick me up. Electric bill, cable bill, a Victoria’s Secret catalog, Kitty’s issue of this month’s Dog Fancy (For Kids!). And then a letter, in a white envelope, addressed to me. A boy’s handwriting. A return address I don’t recognize.

Dear Lara Jean,

A tree fell in our driveway last week and Mr. Barber of Barber Landscaping came by to haul it away. The Barbers are the family who moved into our old house in Meadowridge, and not to overstate, but they own a landscaping company. Mr. Barber brought your letter. I saw on the postmark you sent it way back in September, but I only just got it this week, because it was sent to my old house. That’s why it took me so long to write back.

Your letter made me remember all kinds of stuff I thought I’d forgotten. Like that time your older sister made peanut brittle in the microwave and you guys decided we should have a break-dancing contest for who got the biggest piece. Or the time I got locked out of my house one afternoon and I went to the tree house and you and I just read until it got really dark and we had to use a flashlight. I remember your neighbor was grilling hamburgers and you dared me to go ask for one for us to share, but I was too chicken. When I went home I was in so much trouble because no one knew where I was, but it was worth it.

I stop reading. I remember that day we both got locked out! It was Chris and John and me, and then Chris had to leave and it was just John and me. My dad had been at a seminar; I don’t remember where Margot and Kitty were. We got so hungry, we tore into the bag of Skittles that Trevor had stashed under a loose floorboard. I suppose I could have gone to Josh’s for food and shelter, but there was something fun in being vagabonds with John Ambrose McClaren. It was like we were runaways.

I have to tell you, your letter blew me away, because when I was thirteen, I was still such a little kid, and here you were this actual person with complex thoughts and emotions. My mom still cut my apple up for me for afternoon snack. If I had written a letter to you in eighth grade it would have said, your hair is pretty. That’s it. Just, your hair is pretty. I was so clueless. I had no idea you liked me back then.

A few months ago I saw you at a Model UN scrimmage at Thomas Jefferson. I doubt you recognized me, but I was there representing the Republic of China. You dropped off a note for me and I called your name but you kept walking. I tried to find you later, but you were gone. Did you see me?

I guess what I’m most curious about is why you decided to send me the letter after all this time. So if you want to call me, or email me, or write me, please do.

Yours truly, John

PS. Since you asked—the only people that call me Johnny are my mom and my grandma, but feel free.

I let out a long sigh.

In middle school John Ambrose McClaren and I had all of two “romantic” encounters—the spin-the-bottle kiss, which honestly wasn’t the least bit romantic, and that day in the rain during gym, which up until this year was the most romantic moment of my life. I’m sure John doesn’t remember it that way. I doubt he remembers it at all. To get this letter from him, after all this time, it’s like he’s come back from the dead. It feels different from seeing him for those few seconds at Model UN in December. That was like seeing a ghost. This is a real, living person I used to know, who used to know me.

John was smart; he made the best grades of the boys, and I made the best grades of the girls. We were in honors classes together. He liked history best—he always did his readings—but he was good at math and science, too. I’m sure that hasn’t changed.

If Peter was the last boy in our grade to get tall, John was the first. I liked his yellow hair, sunny and fair like white summer corn. He was innocent and sweet-cheeked, he had the face of a boy who’d never been in trouble, and the neighborhood mothers loved him best. He just had this look about him. That’s what made him such a good partner in crime. He and Peter used to get into all kinds of mischief together. John was the clever one, he had the great ideas, but he was a little bit shy to talk because he used to have a stutter.

He liked to play a supporting role, whereas Peter loved to be the star. So everyone always gave the credit, and the blame, to Peter, because he was the scamp and how could an angel like John Ambrose McClaren really be to blame for anything? Not that there was even much blame. People are so charmed by beautiful boys. Beautiful boys get an indulgent shake of the head and an “Oh, Peter,” not even a slap on the wrist. Our English teacher Ms. Holt used to call them Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, which none of us had ever heard of. Peter convinced her to show the movie to us in class one day, and then they argued all year over who got to be Butch and who had to be the Sundance Kid, even though it was very clear to everyone who was who.

I bet all the girls at his school like him. When I saw him at the Model UN scrimmage, he looked so assured, the way he sat tall in his seat, shoulders squared, utterly focused. If I went to John’s school, I bet I would be right there at the front of the pack, with binoculars and a granola bar, camping out at his locker. I’d have his schedule memorized; I’d know his lunch by heart. Does he still eat double-decker peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on whole wheat bread? I wonder. There are so many things I don’t know.

Peter’s car honking out front is what shakes me out of my reverie. I jump guiltily at the sound. I have this crazy impulse to hide the letter, to tuck it away in my hatbox for safekeeping and never think about it again. But then I think, no, that would be crazy. Of course I’ll write John Ambrose McClaren back. It would be rude not to.

So I tuck the letter in my bag, throw on my white puffer coat, and run outside to Peter’s car. There’s still a bit of snow on the ground from the last storm, but it looks shabby, like a threadbare rug. I’m an all-or-nothing kind of girl when it comes to weather, I’d much rather it all melt away or have feet and feet of snow, so deep your knees sink in.

When I get in Peter’s car, he’s texting on his phone. “What’s up?” I ask him.

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just Gen. She wanted me to give her a ride, but I told her we can’t.”

My skin prickles. It rankles that they still text so much, that they’re in such easy contact, enough to ask for rides. But they’re friends, just friends. That’s what I keep telling myself. And he’s telling me the truth, just like we promised we would. “Guess who I got a letter from.”

He backs out of the driveway. “Who?”

“Guess.”

“Um . . . Margot?”

“Why would that be surprising? No, not Margot. John Ambrose McClaren!”

Peter just looks confused. “McClaren? Why would he write you a letter?”

“Because I wrote him one, remember? Same as I did to you. There were five love letters, and his was the only letter that never came back. I thought it was lost forever, but then a tree fell in John’s driveway after this last ice storm, and Mr. Barber came to haul it away and he brought the letter.”

“Who’s Mr. Barber?”

“He’s the man who bought John’s old house. He owns a landscaping company—that’s all beside the point, anyway. The point is, John only just got my letter last week; that’s why it took him so long to write back.”

“Hm,” Peter says, messing with the heating vents. “So he wrote you an actual letter? Not an email?”

“No, it was a real letter that came in the mail.” I watch to see if he is jealous, to see if this new development gets under his skin even a little.

“Hm,” Peter says again. The second hm is bored-sounding, noncommittal. Not the slightest bit jealous. “How is the Sundance Kid anyway?” He snickers. “McClaren used to hate when I called him that.”

“I remember,” I say. We’re at the stoplight; there’s a line to get into school.

“What’d the letter say?”

“Oh, you know, just ‘how are you,’ the usual sort of things.” I look out the window. I’m feeling a bit stingy about sharing extra information because his ho-hum reaction hasn’t merited any. Doesn’t he have the decency to at least act like he cares?

Peter drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “We should hang out with him sometime.”

The thought of Peter and John Ambrose McClaren in the same space together again is discomfiting. Where would I even look? Vaguely I say, “Hmm, maybe.” Perhaps bringing up the letter wasn’t such a great idea.

“I think he still has my old baseball glove,” he muses. “Hey, did he say anything about me?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Like did he ask what I was up to?”

“Not really.”

“Hmm.” Peter’s mouth turns down into a miffed sort of expression. “What’d you write him back?”

“I just got it! I haven’t had time to write anything back.”

“Tell him I say hey when you do,” he says.

“Sure,” I say. I feel around in my bag to make sure the letter is still in there.

“So, wait, if you sent a love letter to five of us, does that mean you liked us all equally?”

He’s looking at me with expectant eyes, and I know he thinks I’m going to say I liked him best, but that wouldn’t be true. “Yes, I liked you all exactly the same,” I tell him.

“Bullshit! Who’d you like best? Me, right?”

“That’s a really impossible question to answer, Peter. I mean, it’s all relative. I could say I liked Josh best, because I liked him longest, but you can’t judge who you love the most by how long you love them.”

“Love?”

“Like,” I say.

“You definitely said ‘love.’”

“Well, I meant ‘like.’”

“What about McClaren?” he asks. “How much did you like him in comparison to the rest of us?”

Finally! A little jealousy at last. “I liked him . . .” I’m about to say “the same,” but I hesitate. According to Stormy, no one can ever like anyone exactly the same. But how can you possibly quantify how much you like a person, much less two? Peter always has to be liked the best. He expects it. So I just say, “It’s unknowable. But I like you best now.”

Peter shakes his head. “For someone who’s never had a boyfriend before, you really know how to work a guy.”

I raise my eyebrows. I know how to work a guy? That’s the first time I’ve ever heard that in my life. Genevieve, Chris, they know how to work guys. Not me. Never me.