Текст книги "To All the Boys I've Loved Before"

Автор книги: Jenny Han

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

I turn around. It’s an old man in a navy blue sweater and stiff jeans. He’s leaning against the staircase watching me. He looks very frail; his skin is paper white and thin.

“She lives in Ohio. She’s an accountant.” He’s still gazing at me, like I remind him of someone.

“Your house is lovely,” I say, even though it isn’t. It’s old; it could use a good cleaning. But the things inside it are lovely.

“It’s empty now. All my things sold up. Can’t take it with you, you know.”

“You mean when you die?” I whisper.

He glares at me. “No. I mean to the nursing home.”

Whoops. “Right,” I say, and I giggle the way I do when I feel awkward.

“What do you have there in your hand?”

I lift it up. “This. He—the man in the suit gave it to me. Do you want it back? I didn’t pay for it. It’s part of a lot.”

He smiles, and the wrinkles in his paper skin deepen. “That was Patty’s favorite.”

I hold it out to him. “Maybe she’d like to keep it?”

“No, you have it. It’s yours. She couldn’t even be bothered to help me move, so.” He gives a spiteful nod. “Is there anything else you want to take? I’ve got a trunk full of her old clothes.”

Yikes. Family drama. Best not to get involved in that. But vintage clothes! That’s tempting.

* * *

When Peter finds me, I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor in the music room, looking through an old trunk. Mr. Clarke is snoozing on the couch next to me. I found a mod minidress the color of cotton candy pink that I’m crazy about, and a sleeveless button-down with little daisies on it that I can tie at the waist. “Look, Peter!” I lift up the dress. “Mr. Clarke said I could have it.”

“Who’s Mr. Clarke?” Peter asks, and his voice fills the room.

I point at him and put my finger to my lips.

“Well, we’d better get out of here fast before the guy in charge of the sale sees him giving stuff away for free.”

I get up in a hurry. “Bye, Mr. Clarke,” I say, not too loud. Probably better to let him sleep. He was very down earlier, when he was telling me about his divorce.

Mr. Clarke’s eyes flutter open. “Is this your feller?”

“No, not really,” I say, and Peter throws his arm around my shoulder and says, “Yes, sir. I’m her feller.”

I don’t like the way he says it, like he’s making fun. Of both me and Mr. Clarke. “Thank you for the clothes, Mr. Clarke,” I say, and he sits up straight and reaches for my hand. I give it to him and he kisses it, and his lips feel like dry moth’s wings.

“You’re welcome, Patty.”

I give him a good-bye wave and grab my new things. As we walk out the front door, Peter says, “Who’s Patty?” and I pretend I don’t hear.

I must fall asleep in about two seconds from the excitement of the day, because the next thing I know, we’re parked in my driveway, and Peter’s shaking my shoulder, saying, “We’re here, Lara Jean.”

I open my eyes. I’m clutching my dress and shirt to my chest like a security blanket, and my reindeer is in my lap. My new treasures. I feel like I just robbed a bank and got away with it. “Thanks for today, Peter.”

“Thanks for coming with me.” Then, abruptly, he says, “Oh yeah. I forgot to ask you something. My mom wants you to come over to dinner tomorrow night.”

My mouth drops. “You told your mom about us?”

Peter gives me a dirty look. “Kitty knows about us! Besides, my mom and I are close. It’s just her and me and my brother, Owen. If you don’t want to come, then don’t come. But just know that my mom will think you’re rude if you don’t.”

“I’m just saying . . . the more people that know, the harder it is to manage. You have to keep lies restricted to as few people as possible.”

“How do you know so much about lying?”

“Oh, I used to lie all the time as a kid.” I didn’t think of it as lying, though. I thought of it as playing make-believe. I told Kitty she was adopted and her real family was in a traveling circus. It’s why she took up gymnastics.

40

I’M NOT SURE HOW DRESSED up I should get for dinner at Peter’s house. At the store his mom seems so fancy. I just don’t want to meet her and have her be thinking of all the ways that I’m lacking compared to Genevieve. I don’t see why I have to meet her at all.

But I do want her to like me.

I go through my closet, and then Margot’s closet. I finally pick a cream-colored sweater and a blouse with a Peter Pan collar, with a corduroy mustard circle skirt. Plus tights and flats. Then I put on some makeup, which I hardly ever wear. I put on peach blush and I try to do some eye makeup, but I end up washing everything off and starting over again, this time with just mascara and lip gloss.

I go show Kitty and she says, “Looks like a uniform.”

“Like in a good way?”

Kitty nods. “Like you work at a nice store.”

Before Peter arrives at my house, I go on the computer and look up what fork to use with what, just in case.

* * *

It’s strange. Sitting at Peter’s kitchen table, I feel like I’m living someone else’s life. It turns out Peter’s mom has made pizzas, so I didn’t even need to worry about forks. And their house isn’t fancy on the inside; it’s just normal and nice. There’s a real butter churner on display in the kitchen, pictures of Peter and his brother hanging on the walls in wooden frames, and red-and-white gingham everything.

There are a bunch of pizza toppings on the breakfast bar—not just pepperoni and sausage and mushroom and pepper, but also artichoke hearts and greasy kalamata olives and fresh mozzarella and whole cloves of garlic.

Peter’s mom is nice. She keeps putting more salad on my plate all throughout dinner, and I keep eating it even though I’m full. Once, I catch her looking at me, and she has a soft smile on her face. When she smiles, she looks like Peter.

Peter’s younger brother is named Owen. He’s twelve. He’s like a miniature Peter, but he doesn’t talk as much. He doesn’t have Peter’s easy way. Owen grabs a slice of pizza and shoves it into his mouth even though it’s too hot. He puffs out hot air and he almost spits a piece back out into his napkin, and their mom says, “Don’t you dare, Owen. We have company.”

“Leave me alone,” Owen mumbles.

“Peter says you have two sisters,” Mrs. Kavinsky says with a bright smile. She cuts a piece of lettuce into bite-sized bits. “Your mother must love having three girls.”

I open my mouth to answer her, but before I can, Peter does. He says, “Lara Jean’s mom passed away when she was little.” He says it like she should already know, and embarrassment crosses her face.

“I’m so sorry. I remember that now.”

Quickly I say, “She did love having three girls. They thought for sure my little sister Kitty was going to be a boy, and my mom said she was so used to girls she was nervous about what she was going to do with a boy. So she was really relieved when Kitty turned out to be a girl. My sister Margot and I were too; we would pray every night we’d get a sister and not a brother.”

“Hey, what’s wrong with boys?” Peter objects.

Mrs. Kavinsky’s smiling now. She puts another piece of pizza on Owen’s plate and says, “You’re heathens. Wild animals. I bet Lara Jean and her sisters are angels.”

Peter snorts.

“Well . . . Kitty might be part heathen,” I admit. “But my older sister Margot and I are pretty good.”

Mrs. Kavinsky takes her napkin and tries to wipe tomato sauce off Owen’s face, and he swats her hand away. “Mom!”

When she gets up to take another pizza out of the oven, Peter says to me, “See how my mom babies him?”

“She babies you way more,” Owen counters. To me he mumbles, “Peter doesn’t even know how to cook ramen.”

I laugh. “Can you?”

“Hell yeah, I’ve been cooking for myself for years,” he says.

“I like to cook too,” I say, taking a sip of iced tea. “We should give Peter a cooking lesson.”

He eyes me and then says, “You wear more makeup than Genevieve did.”

I shrink back like he slapped me. All I’m wearing is mascara! And a little lip gloss! I know for a fact that Genevieve wears bronzer and eye shadow and concealer every day. Plus mascara and eyeliner and lipstick!

Swiftly Peter says, “Shut up, Owen.”

Owen’s snickering. I narrow my eyes. This kid is only a few years older than Kitty! I lean forward and wave my hand in front of my face. “This is all natural. But thank you for the compliment, Owen.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, just like his big brother.

* * *

On the drive home, I say, “Hey, Peter?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“What? Just ask.”

“Well . . . your parents are divorced, right?”

“Yup.”

“So how often do you see your dad?”

“Not often.”

“Oh, okay. I was just wondering.”

Peter looks over at me with expectant eyes.

“What?” I say.

“I’m just waiting for the next question. You never just have one question.”

“Well, do you miss him?”

“Who?”

“Your dad!”

“Oh. I don’t know. I think it’s more that I miss how it used to be with us. Him and my mom and me and Owen. We were like a team. He used to come to every lacrosse game.” Peter gets quiet. “He just . . . took care of things.”

“I guess that’s what dads do.”

“That’s what he’s doing for his new family.” Peter says it matter-of-factly, without bitterness. “What about you? You miss your mom?”

“Sometimes, when I think about it.” Suddenly I say, “You know what I miss? I miss bath time. I miss when she would wash my hair. Don’t you think getting your hair washed is just the best feeling? Like, warm water and bubbles and fingers in your hair. It’s so nice.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Sometimes I don’t think about her at all, and then . . . and then sometimes I’ll have a thought like, I wonder what she would think of me now? She only knew me as a little girl, and now I’m a teenager, and I wonder, if she saw me on the street, would she recognize me?”

“Of course she would. She’s your mom.”

“I know, but I’ve changed a lot.” An uncomfortable look has crossed his face, and I can tell he’s regretting complaining about his dad, because at least his dad is still alive. And then, because Peter’s looking at me like he feels sorry for me, I straighten up and say in a haughty voice, “I’m very mature, you know.”

He’s grinning now. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh, yes, I’m very refined, Peter.”

When Peter drops me off, right before I get out of the car, he says, “I can tell my mom liked you.” This makes me feel good inside. It’s always been really important to me that other people’s moms like me.

It was my favorite part of going over to Genevieve’s house—hanging out with her mom. Wendy was so stylish. She used to wear a silky blouse and nice pants and a statement necklace, just for sitting around the house. Perfect hair, always smooth and flat. Genevieve has that same good hair, but she doesn’t have her mom’s perfect straight nose. Hers has a little bump on the bridge that I think only adds to her appeal.

“By the way, you definitely don’t wear more makeup than Gen. She was always getting bronzer on my white shirts.”

For someone who’s over Genevieve, he sure does talk about her a lot. Though it’s not just him. I was thinking about her too. Even when she’s not here, she’s here. That girl has some kind of reach.

41

DURING CHEMISTRY, PETER WRITES ME a note that says, Can I come over tonight to study for the test?

I write back, I don’t remember study sessions being in the contract. After he reads it, he turns around and gives me a wounded look. I mouth, I’m kidding!

* * *

At dinner I announce that Peter’s coming over to study and we’re going to need the kitchen, and my dad raises his eyebrows. “Leave the door open,” he jokes. We don’t even have a door to the kitchen.

“Daddy,” I groan, and Kitty groans with me.

Casually he asks, “Is Peter your boyfriend?”

“Um . . . something like that,” I say.

After we eat and Kitty and I do the dishes, I set up the kitchen like a study room. My textbook and notes are stacked up in the center of the table, with a row of highlighters in blue, yellow, and pink, a bowl of microwave kettle corn, and a plate of peanut-butter brownies I baked this afternoon. I let Kitty have two but that’s it.

He said he’d be over around eight. At first I think he’s just late as usual, but the minutes tick by and I realize he’s not coming. I text him once but he doesn’t text back.

Kitty comes down between commercial breaks, sniffing around for another brownie, which I give her. “Is Peter not coming?” she asks. I pretend I’m so absorbed in my studying I don’t hear.

Around ten he sends a text that says, Sorry something came up. I can’t come over tonight. He doesn’t say where he is or what he’s doing, but I already know. He’s with Genevieve. At lunch he was distracted; he kept texting on his phone. And then, later in the day, I saw them outside the girls’ locker room. They didn’t see me, but I saw them. They were just talking, but with Genevieve it’s never just anything. She put her hand on his arm; he brushed her hair out of her eyes. I may only be a fake girlfriend, but that’s not nothing.

I keep studying, but it’s hard to concentrate when your feelings are hurt. I tell myself it’s just because I went to the trouble of baking brownies and cleaning up the downstairs. I mean, it’s rude to just not show up somewhere. Does he not have manners? How would he like it if I did that? And really, what’s the whole point of this charade if he’s just going to keep going back to her anyway? What’s even in it for me anymore? Things are better with Josh and me, practically normal. If I wanted to I could just call the whole thing off.

The next morning, I wake up still mad. I call Josh to ask him for a ride to school. For a second I worry he might not pick up; it’s been so long since we hung out. But he does, and he says no problem.

Let’s see how Peter likes it when he comes to my house to pick me up and I’m not there.

Halfway to school I start to feel uneasy. Maybe Peter had a legitimate reason for not coming over. Maybe he wasn’t with Genevieve and now I’ve just done a very petty thing out of spite.

Josh is looking at me with suspicious eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

He doesn’t believe me, I can tell. “Did you and Kavinsky have a fight?”

“No.”

Josh sighs and says, “Just be careful.” He says it in a patronizing older-brother kind of way that makes me want to scream. “I don’t want to see you hurt by that guy.”

“Josh! He won’t hurt me. Geez.”

“He’s a douche. I’m sorry, but he is. All the guys on the lacrosse team are. Guys like Kavinsky, they only care about one thing. As soon as they get what they want, they’re bored.”

“Not Peter. He dated Genevieve for almost four years!”

“Just trust me. You haven’t had much experience with guys, Lara Jean.”

Quietly I ask, “How would you know?”

Josh gives me an Oh, come on look. “Because I know you.”

“Not as well as you think.”

We’re quiet the rest of the way.

It won’t be that big of a deal. Peter will stop by my house, see that I’m not there, and then he’ll leave. Big deal, so he had to go five minutes out of his way. I waited for him last night for two friggin’ hours.

When we get to school, Josh heads for the senior hall and I go straight to the junior hall. I keep sneaking peeks down the hallway at Peter’s locker, but he doesn’t arrive. I wait at my locker until the bell rings, and he still doesn’t come. I run off to first period, my backpack banging against my back as I go.

Mr. Schuller is taking attendance, when I look up and see Peter standing in the doorway glaring at me. He gestures at me to come out. I gulp and quickly look down at my notebook and pretend like I didn’t see him. But then he hisses my name, and I know I have to talk to him.

Shakily I raise my hand. “Mr. Schuller, can I go the bathroom?”

“You should have gone before class,” he grumbles, but he waves me on.

I hurry out to the hallway and pull Peter away from the door so Mr. Schuller can’t see.

“Where were you this morning?” Peter demands.

I cross my arms and try to stand tall. It’s hard, because I’m so short and he really is tall. “You’re one to talk.”

Peter huffs, “At least I texted you! I’ve called you like seventeen times. Why is your phone off?”

“You know we’re not allowed to have our phones on at school!”

He huffs, “Lara Jean, I waited in front of your house for twenty minutes.”

Yikes. “Well, I’m sorry.”

“How’d you get to school? Sanderson?”

“Yes.”

Peter exhales. “Listen, if you were pissed I couldn’t come over last night, you should’ve just called and said so instead of the shit you pulled this morning.”

In a small voice I say, “Well, what about that shit you pulled last night?”

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Did you just say ‘shit’? It sounds really funny coming out of your mouth.”

I ignore that. “So . . . where were you? Were you with Genevieve?” I don’t ask what I really want to know, which is, Did you guys get back together?

He hesitates and then he says, “She needed me.”

I can’t even look at him. Why is he such a dummy? Why does she have such a hold on him? Is it just the amount of time they’ve been together? Is it the sex? I don’t understand. It’s disappointing, how little self-control boys have. “Peter, if you’re just going to go running every time she beckons, I don’t see a point to any of this.”

“Covey, come on! I said I was sorry. Don’t be pissed.”

“You never said you were sorry,” I say. “When did you say you were sorry?”

Chastened, he says, “Sorry.”

“I don’t want you to go to Genevieve’s anymore. How do you think that makes me look to her?”

Peter looks at me steadily. “I can’t not be there for Gen, so don’t ask me to.”

“But Peter, what does she even need you for when she has a new boyfriend?”

He flinches, and right away I’m sorry I said it. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s fine. I don’t expect you to understand it. Gen and I . . . we just get each other.”

He doesn’t know it, but when Peter talks about Genevieve, he gets a certain softness in his face. It’s tenderness mixed with impatience. And something else. Love. Peter can protest all he wants, but I know he still loves her.

Sighing, I ask, “Did you at least study for the test?”

Peter shakes his head, and I sigh again.

“You can look at my notes during lunch,” I say, and I head back to my class.

It’s starting to make sense to me. Why he’d go along with a scheme like this, why he’d spend his time with someone like me. It’s not so he can move on from Gen. It’s so he can’t. I’m just his excuse. I’m holding Genevieve’s place for her. When that piece makes sense, everything else starts to.

42

JOSH’S PARENTS FIGHT A LOT. I don’t know if it’s a normal amount of fighting because I only have one parent, but I don’t remember my parents fighting that much when I had two. Our houses are close enough that I can hear them sometimes, if my window is open. The fights usually start out with something small, like Mrs. Sanderson accidentally leaving the car door open and the battery going dead, and end with something big, like how Mr. Sanderson works too much and is inherently selfish and not cut out for a family.

When they fight bad, Josh comes over. When we were younger, he’d sneak out sometimes in his pajamas with his pillow, and he’d stay until his mom came looking for him. It’s not something we talk about. Maybe him and Margot, but not me and him. The most he ever said about it was that sometimes he wished they’d just get divorced so it could finally be over. They never did, though.

I can hear them tonight. I’ve heard them other nights since Margot left, but tonight sounds particularly bad. So bad I close my window. I gather up my homework and go downstairs and turn on the living room light so Josh knows he can come over if he wants.

Half an hour later there’s a knock at the door. I wrap myself in my pale blue baby blanket and open it.

It’s Josh. He smiles at me sheepishly. “Hey. Can I hang out here for a bit?”

“Course you can.” I leave the door open and trudge back to the living room. I call back, “Lock it behind you.”

Josh watches TV and I do my homework. I’m highlighting my way through US history when Josh asks me, “Are you going to try out for Arcadia?” That’s the spring play. They just announced it yesterday.

“No,” I say, switching highlighter colors. “Why would I?” I hate public speaking and getting up in front of people, and Josh knows it.

“Duh, because it’s your favorite play.” Josh changes the channel. “I think you’d be a really good Thomasina.”

I smile. “Thanks but no thanks.”

“Why not? It could be something good to put on your college apps.”

“It’s not like I’m going to be a theater major or anything.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to get out of your comfort zone a little bit,” he says, stretching his arms out behind his head. “Take a risk. Look at Margot. She’s all the way over in Scotland.”

“I’m not Margot.”

“I’m not saying you should move to the other side of the world. I know you’d never do that. Hey, what about Honor Council? You love judging people!”

I make a face at him.

“Or Model UN. I bet you’d like that. I’m just saying . . . your world could be bigger than just playing checkers with Kitty and riding around in Kavinsky’s car.”

I stop highlighting midsentence. Is he right? Is my world really that small? It’s not like his world is so big! “Josh,” I begin. Then I pause, because I don’t know how I’m going to finish the sentence. So instead I throw my highlighter at him.

It ricochets off his forehead. “Hey! You could have hit me in the eye!”

“And you would have deserved it.”

“Okay, okay. You know I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean that you should give people a chance to know you.” Josh points the remote control at me and says, “If people knew you, they would love you.” He sounds so matter-of-fact.

Josh, you break my heart. And you’re a liar. Because you know me, you know me better than almost anybody, and you don’t love me.

* * *

After Josh goes back home, I tidy up the living room, lock all the doors, and turn off the lights. Then I pour myself a glass of water and head upstairs.

The light is on in my bedroom, and Chris is asleep in my bed. I roll her to the side so I can fit in too. Stirring, she mumbles, “Wanna go get hot wings?”

“It’s too late to eat hot wings,” I say, pulling my quilt up so it covers both of us. “You just missed Josh.”

Her eyes fly open. “Joshy was here? Why?”

“No reason.” I won’t tell Josh’s secrets, not even to Chris.

“Well, don’t mention it to Kavinsky.”

“He wouldn’t care,” I say.

Chris shakes her head. “All boys care.”

“Peter’s not like that. He’s really confident.”

“They’re the ones that care the most,” she says. I’m about to ask her what she means, but before I can, she says, “Let’s go do something wild.”

“Like what?” It’s a school night; I can’t go anywhere and she knows it. But I still like to hear her schemes. They’re like bedtime stories.

“Like . . . I don’t know. We could sneak into the nursing home and break out that grandma you’re always talking about. What’s her name again? Thunder?”

I giggle. “Stormy.”

“Yeah, Stormy.” She yawns. “She seems like she knows how to have a good time. I bet she’d buy us cocktails.”

“Stormy goes to sleep at nine every night to get her beauty rest. Let’s do it tomorrow.” By tomorrow, Chris will have forgotten all about it, but it’s still a nice thought. Her eyes are closed again. I poke her in the side. “Chris, wake up. Go brush your teeth.” I keep a toothbrush in my bathroom drawer just for her. I painted a cursive C on it with red nail polish so it doesn’t get mixed up with anybody else’s toothbrush.

“Can’t. I’m too tired to move.”

“A second ago you wanted to break Stormy out of Belleview, and now you’re too tired to wash your face and brush your teeth?”

Chris smiles but doesn’t open her eyes.

I turn off my bedside lamp. “Night, Chris.”

She wriggles closer to me. “G’night.”