Текст книги "P.S. I Still Love You "
Автор книги: Jenny Han
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
28
Dear John(ny),
First of all, thanks for writing me back. That was a really nice surprise. Second of all . . . the story behind the letter. I wrote you that letter in eighth grade, but I never meant for you to see it. It sounds crazy, I know, it was just a thing I used to do—when I liked a boy, I’d write the letter and then I’d hide it away in my hatbox. The letters were just for me. But then my little sister Kitty—remember her? Scrawny and willful?– sent them all out back in September, including yours.
I do remember that break-dancing contest. I think Peter won. He would’ve taken the biggest piece of peanut brittle either way, though! This is random but do you remember how he used to always take the last piece of pizza? So annoying. Do you remember how he and Trevor got into a fight over it and they ended up dropping the pizza and nobody got to have it? Do you remember how all of us went to your house to say good-bye when you moved? I made a chocolate cake with chocolate peanut butter frosting, and I brought a knife but your forks and plates were all packed up, so we ate it on the front porch with our hands. When I got home, I realized that the corners of my mouth were stained brown from the chocolate. I was so embarrassed. It feels like such a long time ago.
I’m not in Model UN but I was there that day and I did see you. Actually, I had a feeling you might be there because I remembered how into Model UN you were in middle school. I’m sorry I didn’t stick around so we could catch up. I think I was just startled because it had been so long. You looked the same to me too. Much taller, though.
I have a favor to ask—would you mind sending me back my letter? The other ones have found their way back to me, and though I’m sure it will be excruciating, I’d really like to know what I said.
Your friend, Lara Jean
29
IT’S LATE, AND ALL THE lights are off at my house. Daddy’s at the hospital; Kitty’s at a sleepover. I can tell Peter wants to come inside, but my dad will be home soon and he might be freaked out if he gets home and it’s just the two of us alone in the house so late. Daddy hasn’t said anything in so many words, but since the video, something shifted just the tiniest fraction. Now when I go out with Peter, Daddy oh-so-casually asks what time I’ll be home, where we’ll be. He never used to ask those kinds of questions, though I suppose he never had much reason to before.
I look over at Peter, who has turned off the ignition. Suddenly I say, “Why don’t we go up to Carolyn Pearce’s old tree house?”
Readily, he agrees. “Let’s do it.”
It’s dark outside; I’ve never been up here in such darkness. There was always a light on from the Pearces’ kitchen or garage or from our house. Peter climbs up first and then shines his phone flashlight down on me as I make my way up.
He marvels at how, inside, nothing’s changed. It’s just like we left it. Kitty never had much interest in coming up here. It’s just been sort of abandoned since we stopped using it in eighth grade. “We” was the neighborhood kids my age: Genevieve, Allie Feldman, sometimes Chris, sometimes the boys—Peter, John Ambrose McClaren, Trevor. It was just a private place; we weren’t doing anything bad like smoke or drink. We’d sit up there and talk.
Genevieve was always thinking up games of Who Would You Choose. If we were on a deserted island, which of us here would you choose? Peter picked Genevieve without hesitation, because she was his girlfriend. Chris said she’d pick Trevor because he was the meatiest and also the most obnoxious, and who knew if at some point she’d have to resort to cannibalism. I said I’d pick Chris because I’d never get bored. Chris liked that; Genevieve frowned at me, but she’d already been picked once. And besides, it was true: Chris would be the funner island companion, and probably more helpful around the island. I doubted Genevieve would help gather firewood or spear a fish. John took a long time to decide. He went around the circle, weighing all of our merits. Peter was a fast runner, Trevor was strong, Genevieve was crafty, Chris could handle herself in a fight, and for me he said I would never give up hope of being rescued. So he picked me.
It was the last summer we spent outside. Just, every day was outside. As you grow up, you spend less and less time outside. Nobody can say “Go play outside” anymore to you. But that summer we did. It was the hottest summer in a hundred years, they said. We spent most of it on bikes, at the pool. We played games.
Peter sits down on the floor and takes off his coat and spreads it out like a blanket. “You can sit here.”
I sit down, and he pulls me toward him by my ankles, reeling me in carefully like a big fish that might jump off the line. When we’re knees to knees, he kisses me: soft-lipped, we have all the time in the world kisses. I’m shaking, but not from the cold. I feel jittery heart-palpitations kind of nerves. Peter bends his head and starts kissing my neck, making his way down to my collarbone. I’m so keyed up, it doesn’t even tickle the way it normally does when someone touches my neck. His mouth is warm, and it feels nice. I fall back against my hands, and he moves over me. Is this it? Is this when it’s supposed to happen? On the floor of Carolyn Pearce’s tree house?
When his hand moves under my blouse, but still over my bra, a panicky thought leaps into my head, one I haven’t thought before—Genevieve’s boobs are definitely bigger than mine. Will he be disappointed?
Suddenly I blurt out, “I’m not ready to have sex with you.”
His head jerks up in alarm. “God, Lara Jean! You scared me.”
“Sorry. I just wanted to make that clear, in case it wasn’t.”
“It was clear.” Peter flashes a hurt look at me and sits up, his back ramrod straight. “I’m not some caveman. Damn!”
“I know,” I say. I sit up and fix my necklace so the heart is in front. “Just . . . I hope you weren’t thinking that because you gave me this beautiful necklace, that . . .” I stop talking because he’s glaring at me. “Sorry, sorry. But . . . do you miss sex? Since you and Genevieve used to do it all the time, I mean?” We’ve all heard the stories about Kavinsky and Gen’s sex life, how they did it in Steve Bledell’s parents’ bedroom at his last-day-of-school party, how she went on the pill in ninth grade. How can someone who’s used to having sex 24/7 be content with someone like me, a virgin who’s so far barely been to second base with him? Not content. “Content” is the wrong word. Happy.
“We didn’t do it all the time! I don’t want to talk about this with you. It’s too weird.”
“I’m just saying, since I’ve never done it, but you’ve done it a lot, is that, like, a void in your life? Do you maybe feel like . . . like you’re missing out? Is it, like, if I never had an ice cream sundae, so I don’t know how good it is, but then I finally try one and I’m craving it all the time?” I chew on my bottom lip. “Are you . . . craving it all the time?”
“No!”
“Be honest!”
“Do I wish we were having sex? I mean, okay, yes. But it’s not like I’m trying to pressure you. I’ve never even brought it up! And it’s not like guys don’t have other ways of . . .” He goes red. “Of release.”
“So . . . do you look at porn, then?”
“Lara Jean!”
“I have a naturally inquisitive personality! You know that about me. You used to answer all my questions.”
“That was before. Now it’s different.”
Sometimes Peter can say the most insightful thing and not even realize he’s said it. Things are different. They were easier before. Before sex was ever up for discussion.
Haltingly I say, “In the contract we said we’d always tell the truth.”
“Fine, but I’m not talking to you about porn.” I start to ask another question and Peter adds, “All I’ll say about it is, any guy that says he never looks at porn is a liar.”
“So you do.” I nod to myself. Okay. Good to know. “You know those statistics people are always spouting off, about teenage boys thinking about sex every seven seconds? Is that really true?”
“Nope. And I just want to point out that you’re the one who keeps bringing up sex. I think teenage girls might be more obsessed than boys.”
“Maybe,” I say, and his eyes widen, all excited. Hastily I add, “I mean, I’m definitely curious about it. It’s definitely a thought. But I don’t see myself doing it anytime soon. With anybody. Including you.”
I can tell Peter is embarrassed, the way he rushes to say, “Okay, okay, I got it. Let’s just change the subject.” Under his breath he mutters, “I didn’t even want to talk about it in the first place.”
It’s sweet that he’s embarrassed. I didn’t think he would be, with all his experience. I tug on his sweater sleeve. “At some point, when I’m ready, if I’m ready, I’ll let you know.” And then I pull him toward me and press my lips against his softly. His mouth opens, and so does mine, and I think, I could kiss this boy for hours.
Mid-kiss, he says, “Wait, so we’re never having sex? Like ever?”
“I didn’t say never. But not now. I mean, not until I’m really, really sure. Okay?”
He lets out a laugh. “Sure. You’re the one driving this bus. You have been from the start. I’m still catching up.” He snuggles closer and sniffs my hair. “What’s this new shampoo you’re wearing?”
“I stole it from Margot. It’s juicy pear. Nice, right?”
“It’s all right, I guess. But can you go back to the one you used to wear? The coconut one? I love the smell of that one.” A dreamy look crosses his face, like evening fog settling over a city.
“If I feel like it,” I say, which makes him pout. I’m already thinking I should buy a bottle of the coconut hair mask, too, but I like to keep him on his toes. Like he said, I’m the one driving this bus. Peter pulls me against him so he’s curved around my back like shelter. I let my head rest on his shoulder, rest my arms on his kneecaps. This is nice. This is cozy. Just me and him, just for a while, apart from the rest of the world.
We’re sitting there like that when suddenly I remember something, an important something. The time capsule. John Ambrose McClaren’s grandmother gave it to him for his birthday in seventh grade. He’d asked for a video game, but the time capsule was what he got. He said he was going to throw it away, but then he thought one of us girls might want it. I said I wanted it, and then Genevieve said she wanted it, so of course Chris chimed in too. And then I had the idea to bury it right there in the Pearces’ backyard under the tree house. I got really excited and said everybody needed to put in something that they had on them at that very moment. I said we should come back the day we graduate from high school and open it up and reminisce.
“Do you remember that time capsule we buried?” I ask him.
“Oh, yeah! McClaren’s. Let’s dig it up!”
“We can’t open it without everybody else,” I say. “Remember, we were going to do it after high school graduation?” This was when I still thought we’d all be friends. “You, me, John, Trevor, Chris, Allie.” I don’t say Genevieve’s name.
Peter doesn’t appear to notice. “All right, then we’ll wait. Whatever my girl wants.”
30
Dear Lara Jean,
I will give you your letter back on one condition. You have to make a solemn unbreakable vow that you will return it to me after you’re done reading it. I need physical proof that a girl liked me in middle school, otherwise who would ever believe it?
And for what it’s worth, that peanut butter chocolate cake you baked was the best I ever ate. I never had another cake quite like that one, with my name written in Reese’s Pieces. I still think about it sometimes. A guy doesn’t forget a cake like that.
I have one question for you. How many letters did you write? Just wondering how special I should feel.
John
Dear John,
I, Lara Jean, hereby make a solemn vow—nay, an unbreakable vow—to return my letter to you, intact and unchanged. Now give me my letter back!
Also you’re such a liar. You know very well that plenty of girls liked you in middle school. At sleepovers, girls would be like, are you Team Peter or Team John? Don’t pretend like you didn’t know that, Johnny!
And to answer your question—there were five letters. Five meaningful boys in my whole life history. Though, now that I’m writing it down, five sounds like a lot, considering the fact that I’m only sixteen. I wonder how many there’ll have been by the time I’m twenty! There’s this lady at the nursing home I volunteer at, and she’s had so many husbands and lived so many lives. I look at her and I think, she must not have even one regret, because she’s done and seen it all.
Did I tell you my older sister Margot’s all the way in Scotland, at St. Andrews? It’s where Prince William and Kate Middleton met. Maybe she’ll meet a prince, too, haha! Where do you want to go to college? Do you know what you want to study? I think I want to stay in state. Virginia has great public schools and it’ll be much cheaper, but I guess the main reason is I’m very close to my family and I don’t want to be too-too far away. I used to think I might want to go to UVA and live at home, but now I’m thinking dorms are the way to go for a true college experience.
Don’t forget to send back my letter, Lara Jean
Daddy’s at the hospital, but he’s made a big pot of oatmeal, a vat of it like you see in a soup kitchen. By this time it’s gummy and I have to put half a bottle of maple syrup and dried cherries on mine to make it palatable, and even then I’m not sure if I like oatmeal. I make a bowl for me with some chopped-up pecans on top, and a bowl with just honey on top for Kitty. “Have some gruel,” I call out. She’s in front of the TV, of course.
We sit on stools at the breakfast bar and eat our gruel. I will say there is something satisfying about it, the way it sticks to your insides like paste. As I eat, I keep my eyes toward the window.
Kitty snaps her fingers in my face. “Hello! I asked you a question.”
“Has the mail come yet?” I ask.
“The mailman doesn’t come until after twelve on Saturdays,” Kitty says, licking honey off her spoon. Eyeing me she says, “Why have you been so excited about the mail all week?”
“I’m waiting for a letter,” I say.
“From who?”
“Just . . . no one important.” A rookie mistake. I should’ve made up a name, because Kitty’s eyes narrow, and now she’s really interested.
“If it wasn’t someone important, you wouldn’t be so gaga looking out the window for it. Who’s it from?”
“If you must know, it’s actually a letter from me. One of those love letters of mine you sent out.” I reach across the table and pinch her arm. “It’s coming back my way.”
“From the boy with the funny name. Ambrose. What kind of name is Ambrose?”
“Do you remember him at all? He used to live on our street.”
“He had yellow hair,” Kitty says. “He had a skateboard. He let me play with it once.”
“That sounds like him,” I say, remembering. Of all the boys, he had the most patience with Kitty, even though she was a pain.
“Stop smiling,” Kitty commands. “You already have a boyfriend. You don’t need two.”
My smile slips. “We’re just writing letters, Kitty. Also don’t snap at me.” I lean in to give her another pinch, and she jumps up before I can. “What are you going to do today?”
“Ms. Rothschild said she’d take me and Jamie to the dog park,” Kitty says, putting her dirty bowl in the sink. “I’m gonna go over and remind her.”
“You’ve been hanging out with her a lot lately.” Kitty shrugs and gently I say, “Just don’t become a nuisance, all right? I mean, she’s like, forty; she might have other things she wants to be doing with her Saturday. Like go to a winery or a spa. She doesn’t need you harassing her about dating our dad.”
“Ms. Rothschild loves hanging out with me, so keep your little opinions to yourself.”
I frown at her. “Seriously, you have such bad manners, Kitty.”
“Blame my manners on you and Margot and Daddy, then. You’re the ones who raised me this way.”
“Then I guess nothing will ever be your fault in life because of the shoddy way you were raised.”
“I guess not.”
I let out a scream of frustration, and Kitty skips off, humming to herself, pleased as punch to have annoyed me.
Dear Lara Jean,
For the record, the only reason girls ever paid me any attention was because I was Peter’s best friend. It’s why Sabrina Fox asked me to be her date to the eighth grade formal! She even tried to sit next to Peter at Red Lobster before the dance.
As for college, my dad went to UNC, so he’s really pushing for that. He says I have tar in my blood. My mom wants me to stay in state. I haven’t told anyone this, but I really want to go to Georgetown. Knock on wood. Studying for the SATs as we speak.
Anyway . . . here’s your letter back. Don’t forget your promise. I’m really enjoying writing letters back and forth, but can I also have your phone number? You’re pretty hard to find online.
My very first thought is: He hasn’t seen the video. He can’t possibly have! Not if he’s saying I’m so hard to find online. I suppose deep down I must have been worrying about it, because I feel so relieved to know for certain. What a comfort, to know that he can still have a certain idea of me in his head, the same as I have of him. And truly, John Ambrose McClaren isn’t the type of boy to look at Anonybitch. Not the John Ambrose McClaren I remember.
I look back down at the letter, and there, at the bottom, is his phone number.
I blink. Letters were harmless enough, but if John and I started talking on the phone, would that be a betrayal of sorts? Is there even a difference between texting and letter writing? One is more immediate. But the act of writing a letter, of selecting paper and pen, addressing the envelope, finding a stamp, let alone putting pen to paper . . . it’s far more deliberate. My cheeks heat up. It’s more . . . romantic. A letter is something to keep.
Speaking of which . . . I unfold the second piece of paper in the envelope. It’s creased, a stationery I recognize well. Thick creamy paper with LJSC engraved in navy at the top. A birthday gift from my dad because of my delight in anything monogrammed.
Dear John Ambrose McClaren,
I know the exact day it all started. Fall, eighth grade. We got caught in the rain when we had to put all the softball bats away after gym. We started to run back to the building, and I couldn’t run as fast as you, so you stopped and grabbed my bag too. It was even better than if you’d grabbed my hand. I still remember the way you looked—your T-shirt was stuck to your back, your hair wet like you just came out of the shower. When it started to pour, you whooped and hollered like a little kid. There was this moment—you looked back at me, and your grin was as wide as your face. You said, “Come on, LJ!”
It was right then. That’s when I knew, all the way down to my soaking-wet Keds. I love you, John Ambrose McClaren. I really love you. I might have loved you for all of high school. I think you might have loved me back. If only you weren’t moving away, John! It’s so unfair when people move away. It’s like their parents just decide something and no one else gets a say in it. Not that I even deserve a say—I’m not your girlfriend or anything. But you at least deserve a say.
I was really hoping that one day I would get to call you Johnny. Your mom came to get you after school once, and a bunch of us were hanging out on the front steps. And you didn’t see her car, so she honked and called out, “Johnny!” I loved the sound of that. Johnny. One day, I bet your girlfriend will call you Johnny. She’s really lucky. Maybe you already have a girlfriend right now. If you do, know this—once upon a time in Virginia, a girl loved you.
I’m going to say it just this once, since you’ll never hear it anyway. Good-bye, Johnny.
Love,
Lara Jean
I let out a scream, so loud and so piercing that Jamie barks in alarm. “Sorry,” I whisper, falling back against my pillows.
I cannot believe that John Ambrose McClaren read that letter. I didn’t remember it to be so . . . naked. With so much . . . yearning. God, why do I have to be a person who yearns so much? How horrible. How perfectly horrible. I’ve never been naked in front of a boy before, but now I feel like I have. I can’t bear to look at it again, to even think about it. I scramble up and stuff it back inside the envelope and push it under my bed so it no longer exists. Out of sight, out of mind.
Obviously John won’t be getting this letter back. In fact I don’t know if I should write him back at all. Things feel . . . altered, somehow.
I’d forgotten that letter, how ardently I longed for him. How certain I was, how absolutely certain I believed we were meant to be, if only. The memory of that belief shakes me up; it leaves me feeling unsettled and even uncertain. Unmoored. What was it about him, I wonder, that made me so sure?
Strangely, there’s no mention of Peter in my letter. In the letter I say I started liking him in the fall of eighth grade. I liked Peter in eighth grade too, so there was a definite crossover. When did one begin and the other end?
The one person who would know is the one person I could never ask.
She is the one who foretold that I would like John.
Genevieve slept over at my house most nights that summer. Allie was only allowed to sleep over on special occasions, so it was usually just the two of us. We’d go over what happened that day with the boys, every detail. “This is going to be our crew,” she said to me one night, her lips barely moving. We were doing Korean face masks my grandma had sent, the kind that look like ski masks, and drip with “essence” and vitamins and spa-like things. “This is what high school is going to be like. It’ll be me and Peter and you and McClaren, and Chrissy and Allie can share Trevor. We’ll all be power couples.”
“But John and I don’t like each other like that,” I said, teeth clenched to keep my face mask from shifting.
“You will,” she said. She said it like it was a preordained fact, and I believed her. I always believed her.
But none of it came to be, except for the Gen and Peter part.
