by Jenny Han
“They haven’t even been dating that long! How long has it been, six months?”
“A little longer than that. But Gogo, they’ve known each other for years.”
She stacks up the slices of foiled pizza and says, “Can you imagine how weird it’ll be to have her living here?”
Her question gives me pause. Ms. Rothschild is at the house a lot, but that’s not the same as living here. She has her own ways of doing things, and so do we. Like, she wears shoes at her house, but we don’t wear them here, so she takes them off when she comes over. And, now that I think about it, she’s never slept over here before; she always goes back home at the end of the night. So that might feel a little weird. Also, she stores bread in the refrigerator, which I hate, and to be quite honest, her dog Simone sheds a lot and has been known to pee on the carpet. But the thing is, since I’m not going to UVA, I won’t be around much longer—I’ll be away at college. “Neither of us will be living here full-time though,” I say at last. “Just Kitty, and Kitty’s thrilled to death.”
Margot doesn’t respond right away. “Yes, they do seem really close.” She goes to the freezer and makes space for the pizza, and with her back facing me she says, “Don’t forget, we have to go prom-dress shopping before I leave.”
“Ooh, okay!” It feels like two seconds ago that we were shopping for Margot’s prom dress, and now it’s my turn.
Daddy, who I didn’t realize had walked into the kitchen, pipes up with, “Hey, maybe Trina could go too?” He casts a hopeful look my way. I’m not the one he should be looking at. I already love Ms. Rothschild. It’s Margot she has to win over.
I look over at Margot, who is giving me wide panic eyes. “Um . . . ,” I say. “I think it should just be a Song girls thing this time.”
Daddy nods like he understands. “Ah. Got it.” Then he says to Margot, “Can the two of us spend a little daughter-dad time together before you leave? Maybe take our bikes on a trail?”
“Sounds good,” she says.
When his back is turned, Margot mouths, Thank you. I feel disloyal to Ms. Rothschild, but Margot is my sister. I have to be on her side.
* * *
I think maybe Margot’s feeling guilty about cutting Ms. Rothschild out of the dress shopping expedition, because she keeps trying to make it more of a thing. When we go to the mall the next day after school, she announces that we’ll each pick two dresses, and I have to try all of them on no matter what, and then we’ll rate them. She even printed out thumbs-up and thumbs-down emojis and made paddles for us to use.
It’s cramped in the dressing room, and there are dresses everywhere. Margot gives Kitty the job of rehanging and organizing, but Kitty’s already given it up in favor of playing Candy Crush on Margot’s phone.
Margot hands me one of her picks first—it’s a flowy black dress with fluttery cap sleeves. “You could do your hair up for this one.”
Without looking up, Kitty says, “I would go with beachy waves.”
Margot makes a face at her in the mirror.
“Is black really me, though?” I wonder.
“You should try wearing black more often,” Margot says. “It really suits you.”
Kitty picks at a scab on her leg. “When I go to prom, I’m going to wear a tight leather dress,” she says.
“It can get hot in Virginia in May,” I say, as Margot zips me up. “You could wear a leather dress to homecoming though, since it’s in October.”
We study my reflection in the mirror. The dress is too big in the bodice, and the black makes me look like a witch, but a witch in an ill-fitting dress.
“I think you need bigger boobs for that dress,” Kitty says. She holds up the thumbs-down paddle.
I frown at her in the mirror. She’s right, though. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
“Did Mommy have big boobs?” Kitty asks suddenly.
“Hmm. I think they were on the small side,” Margot says. “Like an A?”
“What size do you wear?” she asks.
“A B.”
Eyeing me, Kitty says, “And Lara Jean’s small like Mommy.”
“Hey, I’m practically a B!” I protest. “I’m a large A. An almost B. Somebody unzip me.”
“Tree has big boobs,” Kitty says.
“Are they real?” Margot asks as she pulls down my zipper.
I step out of the dress and hand it over to Kitty to hang. “I think so.”
“They’re real. I’ve seen her in a bikini, and hers spread when she’s lying down, and that’s how you know. The fake ones stay in place like scoops of ice cream.” Kitty picks up Margot’s phone again. “Also, I asked her.”
“If they were fake, I doubt she’d tell you that,” Margot says.
Kitty frowns at her. “Tree doesn’t lie to me.”
“I’m not saying she’d lie; I’m saying she might be private about plastic surgery! Which is her right!” Kitty just shrugs coolly.
I quickly put on the next dress to get off the subject of Ms. Rothschild’s boobs. “What do you guys think of this one?”
They both shake their heads and reach for the thumbs-down paddle at the same time. At least they are united in their dislike of my dress.
“Where’s my pick? Try mine on next.” Kitty’s pick is a skin-tight, white, off-the-shoulder bandage dress I would never in a million years wear, and she knows it. “I just want to see it on you.”
I try it on to appease her, and Kitty insists it’s the best dress of all the dresses, because she wants to have the winning pick. In the end, none of the dresses are my style, but I’m not bothered by it. Prom is still more than a month away, and I want to scour vintage shops before I commit to anything from a regular store. I like the idea of a lived-in dress, a dress that has gone places, seen things, a dress that a girl like Stormy might’ve worn to a dance.
When Margot leaves for Scotland the next morning, she makes me promise to send pictures of potential dresses so she can weigh in. She doesn’t say another word about Ms. Rothschild, but then, she wouldn’t, because that’s not her style.
13
LUCAS SAYS, “I THINK PROM is a lot like New Year’s Eve.” He and Chris and I are hanging out in the nurse’s office, because she is out to lunch, and she doesn’t care if we lie on her couch. Since we’re so far into senior year, all the teachers are in a pretty generous mood.
“New Year’s Eve is for basics,” Chris sneers, picking at her nails.
“Will you let me finish?” Lucas sighs and begins again. “As I was saying, prom buckles under the weight of all the expectations you put on it. One perfect high school night that every American teenager is supposed to have. You spend all this time and money and you feel obligated—no, owed an epic night. What can possibly live up to that amount of pressure?”
I think the perfect high school night will end up being some random little nothing moment that you didn’t plan or expect; it just happened. I think I’ve already had like twelve perfect high school nights, with Peter, so I don’t need prom to be epic. When I picture my prom night, I picture Peter in a tux, being polite to my dad, putting a corsage on Kitty. All of us taking a picture by the mantel. I make a mental note to ask Peter to get an extra little corsage for her.
“So does that mean you aren’t going?” I ask Lucas.
He sighs again. “I don’t know. There’s no one here I would even want to go with.”
“If I wasn’t going with Peter, I would ask you,” I say. Then I look from Lucas to Chris. “Hey, why don’t you guys go together?”
“I’m not going to prom,” Chris says. “I’ll probably go clubbing in DC with my Applebee’s people.”
“Chris, you can’t not go to prom. You can go clubbing with your Applebee’s friends anytime. We only get one senior prom.”
My birthday’s the day after prom and I’m a little hurt that Chris seems to have forgotten. If she goes clubbing in DC, she’ll probably stay all weekend and I won’t even see her on my actual birthday.
“Prom’s going to be lame. No offense. I mean, I’m sure you’ll have fun, Lara Jean; you’re going with the prom king. And what’s that girl’s name you’re friends with now? Tammy?”
“Pammy,” I say. “But it won’t be fun if you’re not there.”
She puts her arm around me. “Aww.”
“We always said we’d go to prom together and watch the sun rise over the elementary school playground!”
“You can watch it with Kavinsky.”
“That’s not the same!”
“Calm down,” Chris says. “You’re probably going to lose your V that night anyway, so I’ll be the last thing you’ll be thinking about.”
“I wasn’t planning on having sex on prom night!” I hiss. My eyes dart over at Lucas, who is looking at me, bug-eyed.
“Lara Jean . . . you and Kavinsky haven’t had sex yet?”
I look to make sure no one’s in the hallway listening. “No, but please don’t tell anybody. Not that I’m ashamed of it or anything. I just don’t want everyone knowing my business.”
“I get it, obviously, but wow,” he says, still sounding shocked. “That’s . . . wow.”
“Why is it so wow?” I ask him, and I can feel my cheeks warming.
“He’s so . . . hot.”
I laugh. “That’s true.”
“There’s a reason why having sex on prom night is a thing,” Chris says. “I mean, yes, it’s tradition, but also, everybody’s dressed up, you get to stay out all night . . . Most of these people will never look as good as they do on prom night, grooming-wise, and that’s sad. All these lemmings getting their manis and their pedis and their blowouts. So basic.”
“Don’t you get blowouts?” Lucas says.
Chris rolls her eyes. “Of course.”
I say, “Then why are you judging other people for—”
“Look, that’s not my point here. My point is . . .” She frowns. “Wait, what were we talking about?”
“Blowouts, manis, lemmings?” Lucas says.
“Before that.”
“Sex?” I suggest.
“Right! My point is, losing your virginity on prom night is a cliché, but clichés are clichés for a reason. There’s a practicality to it. You get to stay out all night, you look great, et cetera, et cetera. It just makes sense.”
“I’m not having sex for the first time because it’s convenient and my hair looks good, Chris.”
“Fair enough.”
I don’t know for sure, but I imagine my first time will probably be at college, in my own room, as an adult. It’s hard to imagine it happening now, at home, when I’m Lara Jean the sister and the daughter. At college, I’ll just be Lara Jean.
14
IT’S DECIDED THAT DADDY WILL propose to Ms. Rothschild on Saturday, after hiking on one of their favorite trails. He’s going to do it right by a waterfall. The plan is for Peter and Kitty and me to hide behind trees and record the whole thing, then pop out with a romantic picnic basket. Daddy was nervous about the video part, in case Ms. Rothschild doesn’t say yes, but Kitty begged. “It’s for Margot,” she kept saying, when really she’s just nosy and wants to see it go down. Of course I do too. Peter’s along for the ride, literally. He’s giving us a ride.
That morning, before he leaves to pick up Ms. Rothschild, Daddy says, “Guys, if it doesn’t look like it’s going to be a yes, can you stop videotaping?”
I’m carefully wrapping roast beef sandwiches in wax paper. I look up to say, “She’s going to say yes.”
“Just promise me you’ll quietly slip away,” he says. He gives Kitty a pointed look.
“You got it, Dr. Covey,” Peter says, lifting his hand for a high five.
As they slap hands, I say, “Daddy, did you pack the ring?”
“Yup!” Then he frowns. “Wait, did I?” He pats his pockets and unzips the inside compartment of his windbreaker. “Damn, I forgot it!” Then he runs upstairs.
Peter and I exchange a look. “I’ve never seen your dad so stressed out,” he says, popping a grape in his mouth. “He’s usually a cool customer.”
I slap Peter’s hand away from the grapes.
Kitty steals a grape and says, “He’s been like this all week.”
Daddy runs back downstairs with the engagement ring. Kitty and I helped him pick it out. It’s a white-gold princess cut with a diamond halo. I was certain about the princess cut and Kitty was certain about the halo.
Daddy heads off to pick up Ms. Rothschild, and I finish putting together the picnic basket. I’m glad to have an excuse to bring it out. I bought it from a yard sale ages ago, and I haven’t used it once. I pack a bottle of champagne, a perfect cluster of grapes, the sandwiches, a wedge of Brie, crackers.
“Pack a bottle of water, too,” Peter says. “They’ll be dehydrated from the hike.”
“And probably from all the crying after she says yes,” Kitty says.
“Should we play some music for them, when he gets down on one knee?” Peter suggests.
“We didn’t discuss that part of the plan, and Daddy’s nervous enough as it is,” I say. “He can’t be thinking about how we’re hiding in the bushes waiting to cue up music for them. It’ll make him self-conscious.”
“Besides, we can add the music in post,” Kitty says. “We need to be able to hear the dialogue.”
I give her a look. “Katherine, this isn’t a movie. This is real life.”
I leave them to go to the downstairs bathroom, and after I wash my hands, I’m turning off the faucet when I hear Kitty say, “Peter, when Lara Jean’s gone, will you still come visit me sometimes?”
“Course I will.”
“Even if you guys break up?”
There’s a pause. “We’re not breaking up.”
“But if you do?” she presses.
“We won’t.”
She ignores this. “Because we never see Josh anymore, and he said he’d visit too.”
Peter scoffs. “Are you kidding me? You think I’m the same as Sanderson? Me? I’m a completely different league than him. I’m insulted you would even compare us.”
Kitty lets out a relieved kind of laugh, the kind that sounds more like a sigh. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Trust me, kid. You and I have our own thing.”
I love him so much for that I could cry. He’ll look after Kitty for me, I know he will.
* * *
Daddy told us they’d get to the waterfall around noon, so we should be there by eleven forty-five to get into position. We end up going a little earlier than that, just to be on the safe side, at Kitty’s insistence.
We pick a hiding spot far enough away that Ms. Rothschild won’t spot us, but close enough to see. Kitty and I hide behind a tree, and Peter crouches behind one close by, phone in his hand, ready to record. Kitty wanted to be the one to do it, but I make the executive decision that it should be Peter, because he isn’t as emotionally invested in this moment and will have a steady hand.
Just after twelve, they come up the trail. Ms. Rothschild is laughing about something, and Daddy is laughing robotically with that same nervous look on his face. It’s funny to watch them interact when she doesn’t know we’re watching. Kitty was right; it is a bit like a movie. He looks somehow younger next to her—maybe it’s because he’s in love. They walk over to the waterfall, and Ms. Rothschild sighs with happiness. “God, it’s gorgeous up here,” she says.
“I can barely hear anything,” Kitty whispers to me. “The waterfall is too loud.”
“Shh. You’re the one being loud.”
“Let’s take a picture,” Daddy says, fishing around in his windbreaker pocket.
“I thought you were morally opposed to selfies!” She laughs. “Hold on, let me try and fix my hair for this momentous occasion.” She pulls her hair out of its ponytail holder and tries to fluff it up. Then she pops what looks like a cough drop or a piece of candy in her mouth.
Daddy’s taking so long that for a second I�
��m afraid he’s lost the ring or his nerve, but then he gets down on one knee. Daddy clears his throat. It’s happening. I grab Kitty’s hand and squeeze it. Her eyes are shining. My heart is bursting.
“Trina, I never expected to fall in love again. I thought I got my shot, and I was okay with that, because I had my girls. I didn’t realize anything was missing. Then came you.”
Ms. Rothschild’s hands are covering her mouth. She has tears in her eyes.
“I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Trina.” Ms. Rothschild starts choking on her candy, and Daddy leaps up off his knee and starts pounding her on the back. She’s coughing like crazy.
From his tree Peter whispers, “Should I go do the Heimlich on her? I know how to do it.”
“Peter, my dad’s a doctor!” I whisper back. “He’s got it.”
As her coughing subsides, she stands up straight and wipes her eyes. “Wait. Were you asking me to marry you?”
“I was trying to,” Daddy says. “Are you all right?”
“Yes!” She claps her hands to her cheeks.
“Yes, you’re all right, or yes, you’ll marry me?” Daddy asks her, and he’s only half kidding.
“Yes, I’ll marry you!” she screams, and Daddy reaches for her, and they kiss.
“This feels private,” I whisper to Kitty.
“It’s all part of the show,” she whispers back.
Daddy hands Ms. Rothschild the ring box. I can’t quite make out what he says next, but whatever it was, it makes her double over laughing.
“What’s he saying?” Kitty asks me, just as Peter says, “What did he say?”
“I can’t hear! Both of you be quiet! You’re ruining the video!”
Which is when Ms. Rothschild looks over in our direction.
Shoot.
We all pop back behind our respective trees, and then I hear Daddy’s wry voice call out, “You can come out, guys. She said yes!”
We run out from behind the trees; Kitty launches herself into Ms. Rothschild’s arms. They fall over onto the grass, and Ms. Rothschild is laughing breathlessly, her laughter echoing through the woods. I hug Daddy, and meanwhile Peter’s still playing videographer, recording the moment for posterity like the good boyfriend he is.
