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

Автор книги: Jenny Han

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

18

A LITTLE WHILE LATER I wake up to kitty standing at the foot of my bed. “You’ve got ice cream on your sheets,” she informs me.

I groan and turn over to my side. “Kitty, that’s the least of my problems today.”

“Daddy wants to know if you want chicken for dinner or hamburgers. My vote is chicken.”

I sit straight up. Daddy’s home! Maybe he knows something. He was on that cleaning binge, throwing things away. Maybe he’s spirited my hatbox away somewhere safe, and the Peter letter was just an unfortunate fluke!

I jump out of bed and run downstairs, my heart thumping hard in my chest. My dad’s in his study, wearing his glasses and reading a thick book on Audubon paintings.

All in one breath I ask, “Daddy-have-you-seen-my-hatbox?”

He looks up; his face is hazy and I can tell he is still with Audubon’s birds and not at all focused on my frenzied state. “What box?”

“My teal hatbox Mommy gave me!”

“Oh, that . . . ,” he says, still looking confused. He takes off his glasses. “I don’t know. It might have gone the way of your roller skates.”

“What does that mean? What are you even saying?”

“Goodwill. There’s a slight possibility I took them to Goodwill.”

When I gasp, my dad says defensively, “Those roller skates don’t even fit you anymore. They were just taking up space!”

I sink to the floor. “They were pink and they were vintage and I was saving them for Kitty . . . and that’s not even the point. I don’t care about the roller skates. I care about my hatbox! Daddy, you don’t even know what you’ve done.” My dad gets up and tries to pull me off the floor. I resist him and flop onto my back like a goldfish.

“Lara Jean, I don’t even know that I got rid of it. Come on, let’s have a look around the house, all right? Don’t let’s panic yet.”

“There’s only one place it could be, and it’s not there. It’s gone.”

“Then I’ll check Goodwill tomorrow on my way to work,” he says, squatting down next to me. He’s giving me that look—sympathetic but also exasperated and mystified, like How is it possible that my sane and reasonable DNA created such a crazy daughter?

“It’s too late. It’s too late. There’s no point.”

“What was in that box that’s so important?”

I can feel my ice cream sundae curdling in my stomach. For the second time today I feel like I’m going to be sick. “Only everything.”

He grimaces. “I really didn’t realize your mother had given it to you or that it was so important.” As he retreats off to the kitchen, he says, “Hey, how about an ice cream sundae before dinner? Will that cheer you up?”

As if dessert before dinner would be the thing that cheers me up, as if I am Kitty’s age and not sixteen going on seventeen. I don’t even bother dignifying it with an answer. I just lie there on the floor, my cheek against the cool hardwood. Besides, there isn’t any ice cream left anyway, but he’ll find that out soon enough.

I don’t even want to think about Josh reading that letter. I don’t even want to think it. It’s too terrible.

* * *

After dinner (chicken, per Kitty’s request), I’m in the kitchen doing dishes when I hear the doorbell ring. Daddy opens the door, and I hear Josh’s voice. “Hey, Dr. Covey. Is Lara Jean around?”

Oh, no. No no no no. I can’t see Josh. I know I have to at some point, but not today. Not right this second. I can’t. I just can’t.

I drop the plate back into the sink and make a run for it, out the back door, down the porch steps, across the backyard to the Pearces’ yard. I scramble up the wooden ladder and into Carolyn Pearce’s old tree house. I haven’t been in this tree house since middle school. We used to hang out up here sometimes, at night—Chris and Genevieve and Allie and me, the boys a couple of times.

I peek through the wooden slats, crouched in a ball, waiting until I see Josh walk back to his house. When I’m sure he’s inside, I climb down the ladder and run back to mine. I sure have been doing a lot of running today. I’m exhausted, now that I think of it.

19

I WAKE UP THE NEXT morning renewed. I am a girl with a plan. I’m just going to have to avoid Josh forever. It’s as simple as that. And if not forever, then at least until this dies down and he forgets about my letter. There’s still the tiny chance he never even got it. Perhaps whoever mailed Peter’s only sent the one! You never know.

My mom always said optimism was my best trait. Both Chris and Margot have said it’s annoying, but to that I say looking on the bright side of life never killed anybody.

When I get downstairs, Daddy and Kitty are already at the table eating toast. I make myself a bowl of cereal and sit down with them.

“I’m going to stop by Goodwill on my way to work,” my dad says, crunching on his toast from behind his newspaper. “I’m sure the hatbox will turn up there.”

“Your hatbox is missing?” Kitty asks me. “The one Mommy gave you?”

I nod and shovel cereal into my mouth. I have to leave soon or else I’ll risk running into Josh on my way out.

“What was in the box, anyway?” Kitty asks.

“That’s private,” I say. “All you need to know is the contents are precious to me.”

“Will you be mad at Daddy if you never get the hatbox back?” Kitty answers her own question before I can. “I doubt it. You never stay mad for long.”

This is true. I never can stay mad for long.

Peering over his newspaper, he asks Kitty, “What in the world was in that hatbox?”

Kitty shrugs. Her mouth full of toast, she says, “Probably more French berets?”

“No, not more berets.” I give them both a mean look. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I don’t want to be late for school.”

“Aren’t you leaving a little early?”

“I’m taking the bus today,” I say. And probably every day until Margot’s car is fixed, but they don’t need to know that.

20

THE WAY IT HAPPENS IS a strange sort of serendipity. A slow-motion train wreck. For something to go this colossally wrong, everything must intersect and collide at the exact right, or in this case, wrong, moment.

If the bus driver hadn’t had trouble backing out of the cul-de-sac, taking four extra minutes to get to school, I never would have run into Josh.

If Josh’s car had started up and he hadn’t had to get a jump from his dad, he wouldn’t have been walking by my locker.

And if Peter hadn’t had to meet Ms. Wooten in the guidance office, he would not have been walking down the hallway ten seconds later. And maybe this whole thing would not have happened. But it did.

* * *

I’m at my locker; the door is jammed, and I’m trying to yank it open. I finally get the door loose and there’s Josh, standing right there.

“Lara Jean . . .” He has this shell-shocked, confused expression on his face. “I’ve been trying to talk to you since last night. I came by, and nobody could find you. . . .” He holds out my letter. “I don’t understand. What is this?”

“I don’t know . . . ,” I hear myself say. My voice feels far away. It’s like I’m floating above myself, watching it all unfold.

“I mean, it’s from you, right?”

“Oh, wow.” I take a breath and accept the letter. I fight the urge to tear it up. “Where did you even get this?”

“It got sent to me in the mail.” Josh jams his hands into his pockets. “When did you write this?”

“Like, a long time ago,” I say. I let out a fake little laugh. “I don’t even remember when. It might have been middle school.” Good job, Lara Jean. Keep it up.

Slowly he says, “Right . . . but you mention going to the movies with Margot and Mike and Ben that time. That was a couple of years ago.”

I bite my bottom lip. “Right. I mean, it was kind of a long time ago. In the grand scheme of things.” I can feel tears coming on so close that if I break concentration even for a second, if I waver, I will cry and that will make everything worse, if such a thing is possible. I must be cool and breezy and nonchalant now. Tears would ruin that.

Josh is staring at me so hard I have to look away. “So then . . . Do you . . . or did you have feelings for me or . . . ?”

“I mean, yes, sure, I did have a crush on you at one point, before you and Margot ever started dating. A million years ago.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything? Because, Lara Jean . . . God. I don’t know.” His eyes are on me, and they’re confused, but there’s something else, too. “This is crazy. I feel kind of blindsided.”

The way he’s looking at me now, I’m suddenly in a time warp back to a summer day when I was fourteen and he was fifteen, and we were walking home from somewhere. He was looking at me so intently I was sure he was going to try to kiss me. I got nervous, so I picked a fight with him and he never looked at me like that again.

Until this moment.

Don’t. Just please, don’t.

Whatever he’s thinking, whatever he wants to say, I don’t want to hear it. I will do anything, literally anything, not to hear it.

Before he can, I say, “I’m dating someone.”

Josh’s jaw goes slack. “What?”

What?

“Yup. I’m dating someone, someone I really really like, so please don’t worry about this.” I wave the letter like it’s just paper, trash, like once upon a time I didn’t literally pour my heart onto this page. I stuff it into my bag. “I was really confused when I wrote this; I don’t even know how it got sent out. Honestly, it’s not worth talking about. So please, please don’t say anything to Margot about it.”

He nods, but that’s not good enough. I need a verbal commitment. I need to hear the words come out of his mouth. So I add, “Do you swear? On your life?” If Margot was to ever find out . . . I would want to die.

“All right, I swear. I mean, we haven’t even spoken since she left.”

I let out a huge breath. “Great. Thanks.” I’m about to walk away, but then Josh stops me.

“Who’s the guy?”

“What guy?”

“The guy you’re dating.”

That’s when I see him. Peter Kavinsky, walking down the hallway. Like magic. Beautiful, dark-haired Peter. He deserves background music, he looks so good. “Peter. Kavinsky. Peter Kavinsky!” The bell rings, and I sail past Josh. “I’ve gotta go! Talk later, Josh!”

“Wait!” he calls out.

I run up to Peter and launch myself into his arms like a shot out of a cannon. I’ve got my arms around his neck and my legs hooked around his waist, and I don’t even know how my body knows how, because I’ve for sure never touched a boy like this in my life. It’s like we’re in a movie and the music is swelling and waves are crashing around us. Except for the fact that Peter’s expression is registering pure shock and disbelief and maybe a drop of amusement, because Peter likes to be amused. Raising his eyebrows, he says, “Lara Jean? What the—?”

I don’t answer. I just kiss him.

My first thought is: I have muscle memory of his lips.

My second thought is: I hope Josh is watching. He has to be watching or it’s all for nothing.

My heart is beating so fast I forget to be afraid of doing it wrong. Because for about three seconds, he’s kissing me back. Peter Kavinsky, the boy of every girl’s dreams, is kissing me back.

I haven’t kissed that many boys before. Peter Kavinsky, John Ambrose McClaren, Allie Feldman’s cousin with the weird eye, and now Peter again.

I open my eyes and Peter’s staring at me with that same expression on his face. Very sincerely I say, “Thank you.” He replies, “You’re welcome,” and I hop out of his arms and sprint off in the opposite direction.

* * *

It takes all of history class and most of English for my heart rate to slow down. I kissed Peter Kavinsky. In the hallway, in front of everybody. In front of Josh.

I didn’t think this thing through, obviously. That’s what Margot would say, including and especially the “obviously.” If I had thought it through, I would have made up a boyfriend and not picked an actual person. More specifically, I would not have picked Peter K. He is literally the worst person I could have picked, because everybody knows him. He’s Peter Kavinsky, for Pete’s sake. Kavinsky of Gen and Kavinsky. It doesn’t matter that they’re broken up. They’re an institution at this institution.

I spend the rest of the day hiding out. I even eat my lunch in the girls’ bathroom.

My last class of the day is gym. With Peter. Coach White gives us a reintroduction to the weight room, and we have to practice using the machines. Peter and his friends already know how to use them, so they separate off from the group and have a free-throw contest, and I don’t get a chance to talk to him. At one point he catches me looking at him and he winks, which makes me want to shrivel up and die.

After class is over, I wait for Peter outside the boys’ locker room, planning out what I’m going to say, how I’m going to explain it. I’ll start out with, “So about this morning . . . ,” and then I’ll give a little laugh, like how hilarious was that!

Peter’s the last one to come out. His hair is wet from a shower. It’s weird that boys take showers at school, since girls never do. I wonder if they have stalls in there, or just a bunch of shower heads and no privacy.

“Hey,” he says when he sees me, but he doesn’t stop.

To his back I hurriedly say, “So about this morning . . .” I laugh, and Peter turns around and just looks at me.

“Oh yeah. What was that all about?”

“It was a dumb joke,” I begin.

Peter crosses his arms and leans against the lockers. “Did it have anything to do with that letter you sent me?”

“No. I mean, yes. Tangentially.”

“Look,” he says kindly. “I think you’re cute. In a quirky way. But Gen and I just broke up, and I’m not in a place right now where I want be somebody’s boyfriend. So . . .”

My mouth drops. Peter Kavinsky is giving me the brush-off! I don’t even like him, and he’s giving me the brush-off. Also, “quirky”? How am I “quirky”? “Cute in a quirky way” is an insult. A total insult!

He’s still talking, still giving me the kind eyes. “I mean, I’m definitely flattered. That you would like me all this time—it’s flattering, you know?”

That’s enough. That’s plenty enough. “I don’t like you,” I say, loudly. “So there’s no reason you should feel flattered.”

Now it’s Peter’s turn to look taken aback. He quickly looks around to see if anyone heard. He leans forward and whispers, “Then why did you kiss me?”

“I kissed you because I don’t like you,” I explain, like this should be obvious. “See, my letters got sent out by someone. Not me.”

“Wait a minute. ‘Letters’? How many of us are there?”

“Five. And the guy I do like got one too—”

Peter frowns. “Who?”

Why should I tell him anything? “That’s . . . personal.”

“Hey, I think I have a right to know, since you pulled me into this little drama,” Peter says with a pointed look. I suck in my top lip and shake my head and he adds, “If there even really is a guy.”

“There is so a guy! It’s Josh Sanderson.”

“Doesn’t he go out with your sister?”

I nod. I’m surprised he even knows this. I didn’t think Josh and Margot would be on his radar. “They’re broken up now. But I don’t want him to know I have feelings for him . . . for obvious reasons. So . . . I told him you were my boyfriend.”

“So you used me to save face?”

“I mean, basically.” Basically exactly.

“You’re a funny girl.”

First I’m cute in a quirky way; now I’m a funny girl. I know what that means. “Anyway, thanks for going along with it, Peter.” I flash him what I hope is a winning smile and turn on my heel to go. “See ya!”

Peter reaches out and grabs me by the backpack. “Wait—so Sanderson thinks I’m your boyfriend now, right? So what are you going to tell him?”

I try to shrug him loose, but he won’t let go. “I haven’t figured that part out yet. But I will.” I lift my chin. “I’m quirky like that.”

Peter laughs out loud, his mouth open wide. “You really are funny, Lara Jean.”

21

MY PHONE VIBRATES NEXT TO me. It’s chris.

“Is it true?” I can hear her puffing on her cigarette.

“Is what true?”

I’m lying on my bed, on my stomach. My mom told me that if my stomach hurt, I should lie on my stomach and it would warm up and feel better. I don’t think it’s helping, though. My stomach’s been in knots all day.

“Did you run up to Kavinsky and kiss him like a maniac?”

I close my eyes and whimper. I wish I could say no, because I’m not the kind of person to do that. But I did do it, so I guess I am. But my reasons were really good! I want to tell Chris the truth, but the whole thing is just so embarrassing. “Yeah. I went up to Peter Kavinsky and kissed him. Like a maniac.”

Chris exhales. “Damn!”

“I know.”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“Honestly? I don’t even know. I just . . . did it.”

“Shit. I didn’t know you had it in you. I’m kind of impressed.”

“Thanks.”

“But you know Gen’s gonna come after you, right? They may be broken up, but she still thinks she owns his ass.”

My stomach lurches. “Yeah. I know. I’m scared, Chris.”

“I’ll do my best to protect you from her, but you know how she is. You better watch your back.” Chris hangs up.

I feel even worse than before. If Margot was here, she’d probably say that writing those letters was pointless in the first place, and she’d get on me about telling such a big lie. Then she’d help me figure out a solution. But Margot’s not here, she’s in Scotland—and even bigger than that, she’s the one person I can’t talk to. She can never-never-never know how I felt about Josh.

* * *

After a while I get out of bed and wander into Kitty’s room. She’s on the floor rifling through her bottom drawer. Without looking up, she says, “Have you seen my pajamas with the hearts?”

“I washed them yesterday, so they’re probably in the dryer. Tonight do you wanna watch a movie and play Uno?” I could use a cheer-up night.

Kitty scrambles up. “Can’t. I’m going to Alicia Bernard’s birthday. It’s in the schedule notebook.”

“Who’s Alicia Bernard?” I plop down on Kitty’s unmade bed.

“She’s the new girl. She invited all the girls in our class. Her mom’s making us crepes for breakfast. Do you know what a crepe is?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever had one? I heard they can be salty or sweet.”

“Yes, I had one with Nutella and strawberries once.” Josh and Margot and I drove down to Richmond because Margot wanted to go to the Edgar Allan Poe museum. We ate lunch at a café downtown and that’s what I had.

Kitty’s eyes go big and greedy. “I hope that’s the kind her mom makes.” Then she dashes off, I guess to find her pajamas in the laundry room downstairs.

I pick up Kitty’s stuffed pig and cuddle it in my arms. So even my nine-year-old sister has plans on a Friday night. If Margot was here, we’d be going to the movies with Josh, or stopping by the cocktail hour at the Belleview retirement home. If my dad was home, I could maybe get up the courage to take his car or have him drop me off, but I can’t even do that.

After Kitty gets picked up, I go back to my room and organize my shoe collection. It’s a little early in the season to switch out my sandals for my winter shoes, but I go ahead and do it because I’m in the mood. I think about doing my clothes too, but that’s no small undertaking. Instead I sit down and write Margot a letter on stationery my grandma bought me in Korea. It’s pale blue with a border of fluffy white lambs. I talk about school, and Kitty’s new teacher, and a lavender skirt I ordered from a Japanese website that I’m sure she’ll want to borrow, but I don’t tell her any of the real things.

I miss her so much. Nothing’s the same without her. I’m realizing now that the year is going to be a lonely one, because I don’t have Margot, and I don’t have Josh, and it’s just me alone. I have Chris, but not really. I wish I’d made more friends. If I had more friends, maybe I wouldn’t have done something as stupid as kiss Peter K. in the hallway and tell Josh he’s my boyfriend.

22

I WAKE UP TO THE sound of the lawn mower.

It’s Saturday morning and I can’t fall back to sleep, so now I’m lying in my bed staring at my walls, at all the pictures and things I’ve saved. I’m thinking I want to shake things up. I’m thinking maybe I should paint my room. The only question is, what color? Lavender? Cotton-candy pink? Something bold, like turquoise? Maybe just an accent wall? Maybe one marigold wall, one salmon pink. It’s a lot to consider. I should probably wait for Margot to come home before I make such a momentous decision. Plus I’ve never painted a room before, and Margot has, with Habitat for Humanity. She’ll know what to do.

On Saturdays we usually have something good for breakfast, like pancakes or frittata with frozen shredded potato and broccoli. But since there’s no Kitty and no Margot, I just eat cereal instead. Who ever heard of making pancakes or frittata for just one person? My dad’s been awake for hours; he’s outside mowing the lawn. I don’t want to get roped into helping him do yard work, so I make myself busy in the house and clean the downstairs. I Swiffer and DustBust and wipe the tables down, and all the while my wheels are turning about how I’m going to get myself out of this Peter K. situation with even a sliver of dignity. The wheels turn and turn, but no good solutions come to mind.

* * *

When Kitty gets dropped off, I’m folding laundry. She plops down on the couch on her belly and asks me, “What’d you do last night?”

“Nothing. I just stayed home.”

“And?”

“I organized my closet.” It’s humiliating to say that out loud. Hastily I change the subject. “So did Alicia’s mom make sweet crepes or salty ones?”

“She made both. First we had ham and cheese and then we had Nutella. How come we never have any Nutella?”

“I think maybe because hazelnuts make Margot’s throat itch.”

“Can we get some next time?”

“Sure,” I say. “We’ll just have to eat the whole jar before Margot comes home.”

“No problem,” Kitty says.

“On a scale of one to ten, how badly do you miss Gogo?” I ask her.

Kitty thinks this over. “A six point five,” she says at last.

“Only a six point five?”

“Yeah, I’ve been really busy,” she says, rolling over and kicking her legs up in the air. “I’ve hardly had time to miss Margot. You know, if you got out more, maybe you wouldn’t miss her so much.”

I boomerang a sock at her head and Kitty explodes into a giggle fit. I’m tickling her armpits when Daddy comes in from outside with a stack of mail. “Something came back return to sender for you, Lara Jean,” he says, handing me an envelope.

It’s got my handwriting! I scramble up and snatch it out of his hands. It’s my letter to Kenny from camp. It came back to me!

“Who’s Kenny?” Daddy wants to know.

“Just a boy I met at church camp a long time ago,” I say, tearing the envelope open.

Dear Kenny,

It’s the last day of camp and possibly the last time I will ever see you because we live so far apart. Remember on the second day, I was scared to do archery and you made a joke about minnows and it was so funny I nearly peed my pants?

I stop reading. A joke about minnows? How funny could it have been?

I was really homesick but you made me feel better. I think I might’ve left camp early if it hadn’t been for you, Kenny. So, thank you. Also you’re a really amazing swimmer and I like your laugh. I wish it had been me you kissed at the bonfire last night and not Blaire H.

Take care, Kenny. Have a really good rest of the summer and a really good life.

Love, Lara Jean

I clutch the letter to my chest.

This is the first love letter I ever wrote. I’m glad it came back to me. Though, I suppose it wouldn’t have been so bad if Kenny Donati got to know that he helped two people at camp that summer—the kid who almost drowned in the lake and twelve-year-old Lara Jean Song Covey.