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

Автор книги: Jenny Han

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

34

“DO YOU THINK IF A guy and a girl have been dating for a long time, they’ve automatically had sex?” I ask Peter. We’re sitting on the floor of the library, our backs against the wall of the reference section nobody ever goes to. It’s after school, the library’s empty, and we’re doing homework. Peter gets Cs and Ds in chemistry, so I’ve been helping him study.

Peter looks up from his chem book, suddenly interested. He tosses the book aside and says, “I need more information. How long have they been dating?”

“A long time. Like two years, something like that.”

“How old are they? Our age?”

“About.”

“Then most likely but not necessarily. It depends on the girl and the guy. But if I had to put money on it, yeah.”

“But the girl’s not like that. The guy isn’t either.”

“Who are we talking about here?”

“That’s a secret.” I hesitate, and then say, “Chris thinks there’s no way they haven’t. She says it’s impossible.”

Peter snorts. “Why are you going to her for advice? That girl is a train wreck.”

“She is not a train wreck!”

He gives me a look. “Freshman year she got wasted on Four Loko and she climbed up on Tyler Boylan’s roof and did a striptease.”

“Were you there?” I demand. “Did you see it with your own two eyes?”

“Damn straight. Fished her clothes out of the pool like the gentleman I am.”

I blow out my cheeks. “Well, Chris never mentioned that story to me, so I can’t really speak to that. Besides, didn’t they ban Four Loko or whatever it’s called?”

“They still make it, but a shitty watered-down version. You can dump Five-Hour Energy in it to get the same effect.” I shudder, which makes Peter smile. “What do you and Chris even talk about?” he asks. “You have nothing in common.”

“What do we talk about?” I counter.

Peter laughs. “Point taken.” He pushes away from the wall and puts his head in my lap, and I go completely still.

I try to make my voice sound normal as I say, “You’re in a really strange mood today.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “What kind of mood am I in?” Peter sure loves to hear about himself. Normally, I don’t mind, but today I’m not in the mood to oblige him. He already has too many people in his life telling him how great he is.

“The obnoxious kind,” I say, and he laughs.

“I’m sleepy.” He closes his eyes and snuggles against me. “Tell me a bedtime story, Covey.”

“Don’t flirt,” I tell him.

His eyes fly open. “I wasn’t!”

“Yes, you were. You flirt with everyone. It’s like you can’t help yourself.”

“Well, I don’t ever flirt with you.” Peter sits back up and checks his phone, and suddenly I’m wishing I didn’t say anything at all.

35

I’M IN FRENCH CLASS, LOOKING out the window as I am wont to do, and that’s when I see Josh walking toward the bleachers by the track. He’s carrying his lunch, and he’s alone. Why is he eating alone? He has his comic-book group; he has Jersey Mike.

But I guess he and Jersey Mike didn’t hang out so much last year. Josh was always with Margot and me. The trio. And now we’re not even a duo, and he’s all alone. Part of it’s Margot’s fault for leaving, but I can see my part in it too—if I’d never started liking him, I wouldn’t have had to make up this whole Peter K. story. I could just be his good friend Lara Jean like always.

Maybe this is why Mommy told Margot not to go to college with a boyfriend. When you have a boyfriend or a girlfriend, you only want to be with that person, and you forget about everybody else, and then when the two of you break up, you’ve lost all your friends. They were off doing fun stuff without you.

All I can say is, Josh sure is a lonely figure eating his sandwich on the very top bleacher.

* * *

I take the bus home from school because Peter had to leave early for a lacrosse game with his club team. I’m in front of the house, taking the mail out of our mailbox, when Josh pulls into his driveway. “Hey!” he calls out. He climbs out of his car and jogs over to me, his backpack slung over his shoulder.

“I saw you on the bus,” he says. “I waved, but you were doing your daydreaming thing. So how long’s your car going to be in the shop?”

“I don’t know. It keeps changing. They had to order a part from, like, Indiana.”

Josh gives me a knowing look. “So you’re secretly relieved, right?”

“No! Why would I be relieved?”

“Come on. I know you. You hate driving. You’re probably glad to have the excuse not to drive.”

I start to protest, but then I stop. There’s no use. Josh knows me too well. “Well, maybe I’m a teeny-tiny bit relieved.”

“If you ever need a ride, you know you can call me.”

I nod. I do know that. I wouldn’t call him for myself, but I would for Kitty, in an emergency.

“I mean, I know you have Kavinsky now, but I’m right next door. It’s way more convenient for me to give you a ride to school than him. I mean, it’s more environmentally responsible.” I don’t say anything, and Josh scratches the back of his neck. “I want to say something to you, but I feel weird bringing it up. Which is also weird, because we’ve always been able to talk to each other.”

“We can still talk to each other,” I say. “Nothing’s changed.” That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told him, even bigger than the lie about my so-called dead twin Marcella. Until a couple of years ago Josh thought I had a twin sister named Marcella who died of leukemia.

“Okay. I feel like . . . I feel like you’ve been avoiding me ever since . . .”

He’s going to say it. He’s actually going to say it. I look down at the ground.

“Ever since Margot broke up with me.”

My head snaps up. That’s what he thinks? That I’m avoiding him because of Margot? Did my letter really make that little of an impact? I try to keep my face still and expressionless when I say, “I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve just been busy.”

“With Kavinsky. I know. You and I have known each other a long time. You’re one of my best friends, Lara Jean. I don’t want to lose you, too.”

It’s the “too” that’s the sticking point. The “too” is what stops me in my tracks. It sticks in my craw. Because if he hadn’t said “too,” it would be about me and him. Not about me and him and Margot.

“That letter you wrote—”

Too late. I don’t want to talk about the letter anymore. Before he can say another word, I say, “I’ll always be your friend, Joshy.” And then I smile at him, and it takes a lot of effort. It takes so much effort. But if I don’t smile, I’ll cry.

Josh nods. “Okay. Good. So . . . so can we hang out again?”

“Sure.”

Josh reaches out and chucks my chin. “So can I give you a ride to school tomorrow?”

“Okay,” I say. Because wasn’t that kind of the whole point of this? To be able to hang out with Josh again without that letter hanging over our heads? To just be his good friend Lara Jean again?

* * *

After dinner I teach Kitty how to do laundry. She resists me at first, but I tell her that this is a job we are all sharing from now on, so she’d better just accept it.

“When the buzzer goes off, that means it’s done and you have to fold it right away or it’ll get wrinkled.”

To both of our surprise, Kitty likes doing laundry. Mostly because she can sit in front of the TV and fold and watch her shows in peace.

“Next time I’ll teach you how to iron.”

“Ironing, too? Who am I, Cinderella?”

I ignore her. “You’ll be good at ironing. You like precision and clean lines. You’ll probably be better at it than me.”

This piques her interest. “Yeah, maybe. Your stuff always looks wrinkled no matter what.”

After we finish the laundry, Kitty and I are washing up in the bathroom we share. There are two sinks; Margot had the one on the left and Kitty and I used to fight over who the sink on the right belonged to. It’s hers now.

Kitty’s brushing her teeth and I’m putting on a cucumber-aloe face mask, when Kitty says to me, “Do you think if I asked, Peter would take us to McDonald’s tomorrow on the way to school?”

I rub another dollop of green face mask onto my cheeks. “I don’t want you getting used to Peter giving us rides. You’re taking the bus from now on, okay?”

Kitty pouts. “Why!”

“Because. Besides, Peter’s not giving me a ride tomorrow, Josh is.”

“But won’t Peter be mad?”

My face is getting tight from the mask drying. Through clenched teeth I say, “Nah. He’s not the jealous type.”

“Then who’s the jealous type?”

I don’t have a good answer for that. Who is the jealous type? I’m mulling this over when Kitty giggles at me in the mirror and says, “You look like a zombie.”

I hold my hands out to her face and she ducks away. In my best zombie voice I say, “I want to eat your brains.”

Kitty runs away, screaming.

When I’m back in my room, I text Peter that I don’t need a ride to school tomorrow. I don’t tell him Josh is giving me a ride. Just in case.

36

TODAY’S NOTE FROM PETER SAYS, Tart and Tangy after school?

He’s drawn two boxes, a yes or a no. I check yes and drop the note in his locker.

* * *

After school ends, I meet Peter at his car, and we caravan with his lacrosse friends to Tart and Tangy. I order an original frozen yogurt with Cap’n Crunch and strawberries and kiwi and pineapple, and Peter gets key lime with crushed-up Oreos. I pull out my wallet to pay for my yogurt, but Peter stops me. He winks at me and says, “I got this.”

I whisper, “I thought you weren’t ever paying for anything.”

“My boys are here. I can’t look like a cheap-ass in front of my boys.” Then he puts his arm around me and says loudly, “For as long as you’re my girl, you don’t pay for frozen yogurt.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m not going to say no to a free frozen yogurt. No boy has ever paid for me before. I could get used to this kind of nice treatment.

I was bracing myself to see Genevieve here, but she doesn’t show. I think Peter’s wondering too, because he keeps his eyes on the door. With Genevieve, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. So far she’s been eerily, disturbingly quiet. She’s hardly ever in the cafeteria during lunch because she and Emily Nussbaum have been eating off campus, and when I see her in the hallways, she fake smiles at me without showing her teeth, which is somehow more menacing.

When is she going to strike back against me? When will I have my Jamila Singh moment? Chris says Genevieve’s too obsessed with her college boyfriend to care about me and Peter, but I don’t believe it. I’ve seen the way she looks at him. Like he’s hers.

The boys put a few tables together and we basically take over the place. It’s just like at the lunch table, with them being loud, talking about the football game coming up on Friday. I don’t think I say two words. I don’t really have anything to add. I just eat my free frozen yogurt and enjoy the fact that I’m not at home organizing my shoe closet or watching the Golf Channel with my dad.

* * *

We’re walking to our cars when Gabe says, “Hey, Lara Jean, did you know that if you say your name really fast, it sounds like Large? Try it! Larajean.”

Dutifully I repeat, “Larajean. Larjean. Largy. Actually I think it sounds more like Largy, not Large.”

Gabe nods to himself and announces, “I’m going to start calling you Large. You’re so little it’s funny. Right? Like those big guys who go by the name Tiny?”

I shrug. “Sure.”

Gabe turns to Darrell. “She’s so little she could be our mascot.”

“Hey, I’m not that small,” I protest.

“How tall are you?” Darrell asks me.

“Five two,” I fib. It’s more like five one and a quarter.

Tossing his spoon in the trash, Gabe says, “You’re so little you could fit in my pocket!” All the guys laugh. Peter’s smiling in a bemused way. Then Gabe suddenly grabs me and throws me over his shoulder like I’m a kid and he’s my dad.

“Gabe! Put me down!” I shriek, kicking my legs and pounding on his chest.

He starts spinning around in a circle, and all the guys are cracking up. “I’m going to adopt you, Large! You’re going to be my pet. I’ll put you in my old hamster cage!”

I’m giggling so hard I can’t catch my breath and I’m starting to feel dizzy. “Put me down!”

“Put her down, man,” Peter says, but he’s laughing too.

Gabe runs toward somebody’s pickup truck and sets me down in the back. “Get me out of here!” I yell. Gabe’s already running away. All the guys start getting into their cars. “Bye, Large!” they call out. Peter jogs over to me and extends his hand so I can hop down.

“Your friends are crazy,” I say, jumping onto the pavement.

“They like you,” he says.

“Really?”

“Sure. They used to hate when I would bring Gen places. They don’t mind if you hang out with us.” Peter slings his arm around me. “Come on, Large. I’ll take you home.”

As we walk to his car, I let my hair fall in my face so he doesn’t see me smiling. It sure is nice being part of a group, feeling like I belong.

37

I VOLUNTEERED TO BAKE SIX dozen cup cakes for Kitty’s PTA bake sale. I did it because Margot’s done it for the past two years. Margot only ever did it because she didn’t want people to think Kitty’s family wasn’t involved enough in PTA. She did brownies both times, but I signed up for cupcakes because I thought they’d be a bigger hit. I bought a few different kinds of blue sprinkles and I made little toothpick flags that say BLUE MOUNTAIN ACADEMY. I thought Kitty would have fun helping me decorate.

But now I’m realizing Margot’s way was better, because with brownies, you just pour them in the pan, bake, and slice, and there you go. Cupcakes are a lot more work. You have to scoop the perfect amount six dozen times, and then you have to wait for them to cool, and then you’re frosting and sprinkling.

I’m measuring out my eighth cup of flour when the doorbell rings. “Kitty!” I scream. “Get the door!”

It rings again. “Kitty!”

From upstairs she screams back, “I’m running an important experiment!”

I run to the door and fling it open without bothering to check who it is.

Peter. He busts up laughing.

“You have flour all over your face,” he says, dusting off my cheeks with the backs of his hands.

I twist away from him and wipe my face with my apron. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re going to the game. Didn’t you read my note from yesterday?”

“Oh, shoot. I had a test and I forgot.” Peter frowns and I add, “I can’t go anyway because I have to bake seventy-two cupcakes by tomorrow.”

“On a Friday night?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

“Is this for the PTA bake sale?” Peter brushes past me and starts taking off his sneakers. “You guys are a no-shoes house, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, surprised. “Is your mom making something too?”

“Rice Krispie treats.” Another way smarter choice than seventy-two cupcakes.

“Sorry you came over here for nothing. Maybe we can go to the game next Friday,” I say, expecting him to put his shoes back on.

But he doesn’t, he wanders into the kitchen and sits on a stool. Huh? “Your house looks the same as I remembered,” he says, looking around. He points at the framed picture of me and Margot taking a bath when we were babies. “Cute.”

I can feel my cheeks burn. I go and turn the photo over. “When have you ever been to my house?”

“Back in seventh grade. Remember how we’d hang out in your neighbor’s tree house? I had to pee once and you let me use your bathroom.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say.

It’s funny to see a boy other than Josh in our kitchen. I feel nervous for some reason. “How long’s it going to take?” he asks me, his hands in his pockets.

“Hours, probably.” I pick up the measuring cup again. I can’t remember what cup I was on.

Peter groans. “Why can’t we just go to the store and buy some?”

I start measuring the flour that’s in the bowl, separating it into piles. “Because, do you think any of the other moms are buying cupcakes from Food Lion? How would that make Kitty look?”

“Well, if it’s for Kitty, then Kitty should be helping.” Peter hops off the stool and comes up to me and slides his hands around my waist and tries to untie my apron strings. “Where is the kid?”

I stare at him. “What . . . are you doing?”

Peter looks at me like I’m a dummy. “I need an apron too if I’m going to help. I’m not trying to get my clothes all messed up.”

“We’re not going to be done in time for the game,” I tell him.

“Then we’ll just go to the party after.” Peter shoots me an incredulous look. “That was in the note I wrote you today! God, why do I even bother?”

“I was really busy today,” I say meekly. I feel bad. He’s following through on his end of the deal and faithfully writing me a note a day and I can’t even be bothered to read them. “I don’t know if I can go to a party. I don’t know if I’m allowed to go out that late.”

“Is your dad home? I’ll ask him.”

“No, he’s at the hospital. Besides I can’t just leave Kitty here by herself.” I pick up the measuring cup again.

“Well, what time does he get home?”

“I don’t know. Maybe late.” Or maybe like in the next hour. But Peter will be long gone by then. “You should just go. I don’t want to hold you up.”

Peter groans. “Covey. I need you. Gen hasn’t said a word about us yet, which is kind of the whole point of this. And . . . she might bring that dickhole she’s dating.” Peter pushes out his lower lip. “Come on. I came through for you with Josh, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” I admit. “But, Peter, I have to make these cupcakes for the bake sale—”

Peter stretches his arms out. “Then I’ll help you. Just give me an apron.”

I back away from him and start rummaging around for another apron. I find one with a cupcake print and hand it to him.

He makes a face and points at mine. “I want the one you’re wearing.”

“But it’s mine!” It’s red-and-white gingham with little brown bears; my grandma got it for me in Korea. “I always bake in this. Just wear that one.”

Slowly Peter shakes his head and holds out his hand. “Give me yours. You owe me for not reading any of my notes.”

I untie the apron and hand it over. I turn around and go back to my measuring. “You’re a bigger baby than Kitty.”

“Just hurry up and give me a task.”

“Are you qualified, though? Because I only have exactly enough ingredients for six dozen cupcakes. I don’t want to have to start over—”

“I know how to bake!”

“Okay, then. Dump those sticks of butter into the mixing bowl.”

“And then?”

“And then when you’re done, I’ll give you your next task.”

Peter rolls his eyes but he does as he’s told. “So this is what you do on Friday nights? Stay home and bake in your pj’s?”

“I do other stuff too,” I say, tying my hair into a tighter ponytail.

“Like?”

I’m still so flustered from Peter’s sudden appearance that I can’t think. “Um, I go out.”

“Where?”

“God, I don’t know! Quit interrogating me, Peter.” I blow my bangs out of my eyes. It’s getting really warm in here. I might as well just turn off the oven, because Peter’s arrival has slowed down this whole process. At this rate I’ll be up all night. “You made me lose my count on the flour. I’m going to have to start over from scratch!”

“Here, let me do it,” Peter says, coming up close behind me.

I jerk away from him. “No no, I’ll do it,” I say, and he shakes his head and tries to take the measuring cup from me, but I won’t let go, and flour poufs out of the cup and into the air. It dusts us both. Peter starts cracking up and I let out an outraged shriek. “Peter!”

He’s laughing too hard to speak.

I cross my arms. “I’d better still have enough flour.”

“You look like a grandma,” he says, still laughing.

“Well, you look like a grandpa,” I counter. I dump the flour in my mixing bowl back into the flour canister.

“Actually, you’re really a lot like my granny,” Peter says. “You hate cussing. You like to bake. You stay at home on Friday nights. Wow, I’m dating my granny. Gross.”

I start measuring again. One, two. “I don’t stay home every Friday night.” Three.

“I’ve never seen you out. You don’t go to parties. We used to hang out back in the day. Why’d you stop hanging out?”

Four. “I . . . I don’t know. Middle school was different.” What does he want me to say? That Genevieve decided I wasn’t cool enough so I got left behind? Why is he so clueless?

“I always wondered why you stopped hanging out with us.”

Was I on five or six? “Peter! You made me lose my count again!”

“I have that effect on women.”

I roll my eyes at him and he grins back at me, but before he can say anything else, I yell, “Kitty! Get down here!”

“I’m working—”

“Peter’s here!” I know that will get her.

In five seconds flat, Kitty’s running into the kitchen. She skids to a stop, all of a sudden shy. “Why are you here?” she asks him.

“To pick up Lara Jean. Why aren’t you helping?”

“I was running an experiment. Wanna help me?”

I answer for him. “Sure, he’ll help you.” To Peter I say, “You’re distracting me. Go help Kitty.”

“I don’t know if you want my help, Katherine. See, I’m really distracting to women. I make them lose their count.” Peter winks at her and I make a gagging sound. “Why don’t you stay down here and help us bake?”

“Bo-ring!” Kitty turns tail and runs back up the stairs.

“Don’t you dare try to sprinkle or frost when it’s all over!” I yell. “You haven’t earned the right!”

I’m creaming the butter and Peter’s cracking eggs into a chipped salad bowl when my dad gets home. “Whose car is that out front?” Daddy asks as he walks into the kitchen. He stops short. “Hello,” he says, surprised. He has a Chan’s Chinese Bistro bag in his hands.

“Hey, Daddy,” I say, like it’s perfectly normal that Peter Kavinsky is cooking in our kitchen. “You look tired.”

Peter stands up straighter. “Hi, Dr. Covey.”

My dad sets the bag down on the kitchen table. “Oh, hello,” he says, clearing his throat. “Nice to see you. You’re Peter K., right?”

“Right.”

“One of the old gang,” my dad says jovially, and I cringe. “What are you kids up to tonight?”

“I’m baking cupcakes for Kitty’s PTA bake sale and Peter’s helping,” I say.

My dad nods. “Are you hungry, Peter? I have plenty.” He lifts the bag. “Shrimp lo mein, kung pao chicken.”

“Actually, Lara Jean and I were going to stop by our friend’s party,” Peter says. “If that would be okay? I’ll bring her back early.”

Before my dad can answer, I say to Peter, “I told you I have to finish these cupcakes.”

“Kitty and I will finish them,” my dad interjects. “You two go to that birthday party.”

My stomach flips. “It’s really okay, Daddy. I have to be the one to do them; I’m decorating them specially.”

“Kitty and I will figure it out. You can go get changed. We’ll keep working on these cupcakes.”

I open and close my mouth like a trout. “All right, then.” And I don’t make a move, I just stand there, because I’m afraid to leave the two of them alone together.

Peter smiles at me broadly. “You heard the man. We’ve got this covered.”

I think, Don’t act too confident, because then my dad will think you’re arrogant.

* * *

There are certain outfits you have that make you feel good every time you wear them, and then there are outfits where you wore them too many times in a row because you liked them so much, and now they just feel like garbage. I’m looking at my closet now and everything looks like garbage. My anxiety is only compounded by the fact that I know Gen will be wearing the exact right thing, because she always wears the exact right thing. And I have to be wearing the right thing too. Peter wouldn’t have come by and made such a point of going to this party if it weren’t important to him.

I pull on my jeans and try on different tops—a frilly peach one that suddenly looks prissy in my eyes, a long fuzzy sweater with a penguin on it that looks too kiddish. I’m stepping into a pair of gray shorts with black suspenders when someone knocks at my door. I freeze and grab a sweater to cover myself up.

“Lara Jean?” It’s Peter.

“Yes?”

“Are you almost ready?”

“Almost! Just—just go downstairs. I’ll be down soon.”

He lets out an audible sigh. “Okay. I’m gonna see what the kid’s doing.”

When I hear his footsteps walking away, I scramble and try a cream polka-dot blouse with the shorts-suspenders ensemble. It’s cute, but is it too cute? Too much? And should I do black tights or black knee socks? Margot said I look Parisian in this outfit. Parisian is a good thing. It’s sophisticated, romantic. I try on a beret, just to see the effect, and I immediately throw it off. Definitely too much.

I wish Peter hadn’t snuck up on me with this. I need time to plan, to prepare. Though truthfully, if he’d asked me ahead of time, I would have come up with an excuse not to go. It’s one thing to go to Tart and Tangy after school, but a party with all of Peter’s friends, not to mention Genevieve?

I hop around my room, searching for my over-the-knee socks, then searching for my strawberry lip pot that looks like a strawberry. Gosh, I really need to clean my room. It’s hard to find anything in this mess.

I run to Margot’s room for her big grandpa cardigan, and I pass Kitty’s open door, where I see Peter and Kitty lying on the floor, working with her lab set. I root through Margot’s sweater drawer, which is now T-shirts and shorts because she’s taken most of her sweaters. No grandpa cardigan. But at the bottom of the drawer there is an envelope. A letter, from Josh.

I want to open it so badly. I know I shouldn’t.

Carefully, ever so carefully, I take out the letter and unfold it.

Dear Margot,

You say we had to break up because you don’t want to go to college with a boyfriend, and you want your freedom, and you don’t want to be held back. But you know and I know that’s not the real reason. You broke up with me because we had sex and you were scared of getting close to me.

I stop reading.

I can’t believe it. Chris was right and I was wrong. Margot and Josh did have sex. It’s like everything I thought I knew is the opposite. I thought I knew exactly who my sister was, but it turns out I don’t know anything.

I hear Peter calling my name. “Lara Jean! Are you ready yet?”

Hastily I fold the letter up and put it back in the envelope. I put it back in the drawer and slam the drawer shut. “Coming!”