by Jenny Han
THE NEIGHBORHOOD POOL ALWAYS OPENS up on Memorial Day weekend. When we were little, Margot and I would count down the days. Our mom would pack ham and cheese sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, carrot sticks, and a big jug of apple water. Apple water was watered down sugar-free apple juice, but mostly water. I begged for soda out of the machine, or fruit punch, but no. Mommy would slather us up with sunscreen the same way she slathered butter on a turkey. Kitty used to scream her head off; she was too impatient for the rubdown. Kitty’s always been impatient; she’s always wanted more, now. It’s funny how much of who we are as babies is who we are as we get older. I’d never have known it if it weren’t for Kitty. She still makes the same screwy faces.
Kitty isn’t doing swim team this year; she says it isn’t fun anymore now that none of her friends are doing it. When she didn’t know I was watching, I saw her looking at the meet schedule on the community board with wistfulness in her eyes. I guess that’s part of growing up, too—saying good-bye to the things you used to love.
Everyone’s lawns are freshly cut, and the air smells of clovers and green. The first crickets of summer are chirping. This is the soundtrack of my summer and every summer. Peter and I have staked our claim on the lounge chairs farthest away from the kiddie pool, because it’s less noisy. I’m studying for my French final, or trying to, at least.
“Come over here so I can get your shoulders first,” I call out to Kitty, who is standing by the pool with her friend Brielle.
“You know I don’t burn,” she calls back, and it’s true; her shoulders are already tanned like golden brioche. By the end of summer they’ll be dark as the crust on whole wheat bread. Kitty’s hair is slicked back, a towel around her shoulders. She’s all arms and legs now.
“Just come over here,” I say.
Kitty trots over to the lounge chairs Peter and I are sitting on, her flip-flops clacking against the pavement.
I spray her with the sunscreen and rub it into her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t burn. Protect your skin so you don’t end up looking like an old leather bag.” That’s what Stormy used to tell me.
Kitty giggles at “old leather bag.” “Like Mrs. Letty. Her skin is hot dog–colored.”
“Well, I wasn’t talking about any one person in particular. But yeah. She should’ve worn sunscreen in her younger days. Let that be a lesson to you, my sister.” Mrs. Letty is our neighbor, and her skin hangs on her like crepe.
Peter puts on his sunglasses. “You guys are mean.”
“Says the guy who once toilet-papered her lawn!”
Kitty giggles and steals a sip of my Coke. “You did that?”
“All lies and propaganda,” Peter says blithely.
As the day heats up, Peter convinces me to put down my French book and jump in the pool with him. The pool is crowded with little kids, no one as old as us. Steve Bledell has a pool at his house, but I wanted to come here, for old times’ sake.
“Don’t you dare dunk me,” I warn. Peter starts circling me like a shark, coming closer and closer. “I’m serious!”
He makes a dive for me and grabs me by the waist, but he doesn’t dunk me; he kisses me. His skin is cool and smooth against mine; so are his lips.
I push him away and whisper, “Don’t kiss me—there are kids around!”
“So?”
“So nobody wants to see teenagers kissing in the pool where kids are trying to play. It isn’t right.” I know I sound like a priss, but I don’t care. When I was little, and there were teenagers horsing around in the pool, I always felt nervous to go in, because it was like the pool was theirs.
Peter bursts out laughing. “You’re funny, Covey.” Swimming sideways, he says, “ ‘It isn’t right,’ ” and then starts laughing again.
The lifeguard blows the whistle for adult swim, and all the kids get out, including Peter and me. We go back to the lounge chairs, and Peter pushes them closer together.
I turn on my side and, squinting up at the sun, I ask him, “How old do you think you have to be to stay in the pool for adult swim? Eighteen or twenty-one?”
“I don’t know. Twenty-one?” He’s scrolling on his phone.
“Maybe it’s eighteen. We should ask.” I put on my sunglasses and start to sing “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” from The Sound of Music. “You need someone older and wiser, telling you what to do.” I tap him on the nose for emphasis.
“Hey, I’m older than you,” he objects.
I run my hand along Peter’s cheek and sing, “I am seventeen going on eighteen, I-I-I’ll take care of you.”
“Promise?” he says.
“Sing it just once for me,” I prompt. Peter gives me a look. “Please? I love it when you sing. Your voice is so clean.”
He can’t help but smile. Peter never met a compliment he didn’t smile at. “I don’t know the words,” he protests.
“Yes you do.” I pretend to wave a wand in his face. “Imperio! Wait—do you know what that means?”
“It’s . . . an unforgivable curse?”
“Yes. Very impressive, Peter K. And what does it do?”
“It makes you do things you don’t want to do.”
“Very good, young wizard. There’s hope for you yet. Now sing!”
“You little witch.” He looks around to see if anyone is listening, and then he softly sings, “I need someone older and wiser telling me what to do. . . . You are seventeen going on eighteen . . . I’ll depend on you.”
I clap my hands in delight. Is there anything more intoxicating than making a boy bend to your will? I roll closer to him and throw my arms around his neck.
“Now you’re the one making PDAs!” he says.
“You really do have a pretty voice, Peter. You never should’ve quit chorus.”
“The only reason I ever took chorus is because all the girls were in chorus.”
“Well, then forget about joining a chorus at UVA. No a cappella groups either.” I mean it to be a joke, truly, but Peter looks bothered. “I’m kidding! Join all the a cappella groups you want! The Hullabahoos are all guys, anyway.”
“I don’t want to join an a cappella group. And I’m not planning on looking at other girls, either.”
Oh. “Of course you’ll look at other girls. You have eyes, don’t you? I swear, that’s just as silly as when people say they don’t see color. Everyone sees everyone. You can’t help but see.”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“I know, I know.” I sit up and put my French book back in my lap. “Are you really not going to study at all for your US history final on Wednesday?”
“All I need to do at this point is pass,” he reminds me.
“It must be nice, it must be nice,” I sing.
“Hey, it’s not like William and Mary is taking away your spot if you get a C in French,” Peter says.
“I’m not worried about French. I’m worried about my calculus exam on Friday.”
“Okay, well, it’s not like they’ll kick you out for getting a C in calculus, either.”
“I guess so, but I still want to finish well,” I say. The countdown is really on, now that May is nearly over. Just one more week left of school. I stretch out my arms and legs and squint up into the sun and let out a happy sigh. “Let’s come here every day next weekend.”
“I can’t. I’m going on that training weekend, remember?”
“Already?”
“Yeah. It’s weird that the season is over and we won’t be playing any more games together.”
Our school’s lacrosse team didn’t make it to state championships. They knew it was a long shot, because as Peter likes to say, “There’s only one of me.” Ha! Next weekend he is off to a training camp with his new team at UVA.
“Are you excited to meet your teammates?” I ask him.
“I already know a few of the guys, but yeah. It’ll be cool.” He reaches over and starts braiding a section of my hair. “I think I’m getting better at this.”
“Yo
u have the whole summer to practice,” I say, leaning forward so he can reach more of my hair. He doesn’t say anything.
24
THE END OF SCHOOL ALWAYS has a particular feeling to it. It’s the same every year, but this year the feeling is amplified, because there won’t be a next year. There’s an air of things closing down. Teachers wear shorts and T-shirts to class. They show movies while they clean out their desks. Nobody has the energy to care anymore. We’re all just counting down, passing time. Everyone knows where they’re going, and the right now already feels like it’s in the rearview. Suddenly life feels fast and slow at the same time. It’s like being in two places at once.
Finals go well; even calculus isn’t as bad as I thought. And just like that, my high school career is coming to an end. Peter’s gone away on his training weekend. It’s only been one day and I’m already longing for him the way I long for Christmas in July. Peter is my cocoa in a cup, my red mittens, my Christmas morning feeling.
He said he’d call as soon as he gets back from the gym, so I keep my phone by my side, with the volume up. Earlier this morning he called when I was in the shower, and by the time I saw it, he was gone again. Is this what the future looks like? It’ll be different when I have classes and a schedule of my own, but for now it feels like I am standing on top of a lighthouse, waiting for my love’s ship to come in. For a romantic kind of person, it’s not an altogether unpleasant feeling, not for now, anyway. It’ll be different when it’s not so novel anymore, when not seeing him every day is the new normal, but for now, just for now, longing is its own kind of perverse delight.
Late afternoon, I go downstairs in my long white nightgown that Margot says makes me look like Little House on the Prairie and Kitty says makes me look like a ghost. I sit at the counter with one leg up and open a can of cling peaches and eat them with a fork, right out of the can. There’s something so satisfying about biting into the skin of a syrupy cling peach.
I let out a sigh, and Kitty looks up from her computer and says, “What are you sighing about so loudly?”
“I miss . . . Christmas.” I bite into another slice of peach.
She brightens. “So do I! I think we should get a few deer to go in our front yard this year. Not the cheap kind, the classy wire kind that come covered in lights.”
I sigh again and set down the can. “Sure.” The syrup is starting to feel heavy in my stomach.
“Quit sighing!”
“Why does sighing feel so good?” I muse.
Kitty heaves a big sigh. “Well, it’s basically the same thing as breathing. And it feels good to breathe. Air is delicious.”
“It is, isn’t it?” I spear another slice of peach. “I wonder where you buy those kinds of deer. Target will probably sell them.”
“We should go to that store the Christmas Mouse. We can stock up on a bunch of stuff. Don’t they have one in Williamsburg?”
“Yeah, on the way to the outlet malls. You know, we could use a new wreath, too. And if they have lavender lights, that could be cool. It would give it a winter-fairyland kind of feeling. Maybe the whole tree could be in pastels.”
Dryly she says, “Let’s not get carried away.”
I ignore her. “Don’t forget that Trina has a lot of her own holiday stuff. She has a whole Christmas village, remember? It’s all packed away in those boxes in the garage.” Trina’s village isn’t just a little nativity scene. It has a barber shop and a bakery and a toy store; it’s intense. “I don’t even know where we’ll put it.”
She shrugs. “We’ll probably have to throw away some of our old stuff.” God, Kitty doesn’t have an ounce of sentimentality in her! In that same practical tone she adds, “Not everything we have is so great anyway. Our tree skirt is scraggly and chewed-up-looking. Why keep something just because it’s old? New is almost always better than old, you know.”
I look away. Our mom bought that tree skirt at a Christmas fair the elementary school had. One of the PTA moms was a knitter. Margot and I fought over which to pick; she liked the red with tartan trim, and I liked the white because I thought it would look like our tree was standing in snow. Mommy went with the red, because she said the white would get dirty fast. The red has held up well, but Kitty’s right; it’s probably time to retire it. I’ll never let her throw it away though, and neither will Margot. At the very least, I’ll cut off a square and put it in my hat box for safekeeping.
“Trina has a nice tree skirt,” I say. “It’s white fur. Jamie Fox-Pickle will love to snuggle with it.”
My phone buzzes, and I jump to see if it’s Peter, but it’s only Daddy saying he’s picking up Thai food for dinner, and do we want pad thai or pad see yew? I sigh again.
“I swear, Lara Jean, if you sigh one more time!” Kitty threatens. Eyeing me, she says, “I know it’s not really Christmas you’re missing. Peter’s been gone for like one day and you’re acting like he went off to war or something.”
I ignore her and type back pad see yew out of pure spite, because I know Kitty prefers pad thai.
That’s when I get the e-mail notification. It’s from UNC admissions. My application has been updated. I click on the link. Congratulations . . .
I’m off the wait list.
What in the what?
I sit there, stunned, reading it over and over. I, Lara Jean Song Covey, was accepted to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. I can’t believe it. I never thought I’d get in. But I’m in.
“Lara Jean? Hello?”
Startled, I look up.
“I just asked you a question three times. What’s up with you?”
“Um . . . I think I just got in to UNC Chapel Hill.”
Kitty’s jaw drops. “Whoa!”
“Weird, right?” I shake my head in wonder. Who’d have ever thought it? Not me. I’d all but forgotten about UNC after I got wait-listed.
“UNC is a really hard school to get into, Lara Jean!”
“I know.” I’m still in a daze. After I didn’t get into UVA, I felt so low, like I wasn’t good enough to be there. But UNC! It’s even harder to get into UNC out of state than it is UVA in state.
Kitty’s smile fades a little. “But aren’t you going to William and Mary? Didn’t you already send in your deposit? And aren’t you transferring to UVA next year anyway?”
UVA. For those few seconds, I forgot about transferring to UVA and I was just happy about UNC. “That’s the plan,” I say. My phone buzzes, and my heart jumps, thinking it’s Peter, but’s it’s not. It’s a text from Chris.
Wanna go to Starb
I write back, GUESS WHAT. I got into UNC!
OMG!
I’m calling you
A second later my phone rings and Chris screams, “Holy shit!”
“Thank you! I mean, wow. I just . . . it’s such a great school. I figured—”
“So what are you going to do?” she demands.
“Oh.” I glance over at Kitty, who is watching with eagle eyes. “Nothing. I’m still going to William and Mary.”
“But isn’t UNC a better school?”
“It’s higher ranked. I don’t know. I’ve never been there.”
“Let’s go,” she says.
“To visit? When?”
“Right now! Spontaneous road trip!”
“Are you crazy? It’s four hours away!”
“No it’s not. It’s only three hours and twenty-five minutes. I just looked it up.”
“By the time we get there, it’ll be—”
“Six o’clock. Big deal. We’ll walk around, get dinner, and then drive back. Why not! We’re young. And you need to know what you’re saying no to.” Before I can protest again, she says, “I’m picking you up in ten minutes. Pack some snacks for the road.” Then she hangs up.
Kitty is eyeing me. “You’re going to North Carolina? Right now?”
I’m feeling pretty euphoric at the moment. I laugh and say, “I guess!”
“Does that mean you’re going t
here instead of William and Mary?”
“No, it’s just—I’m just going to visit. Nothing’s changed. Don’t tell Daddy, though.”
“Why not?”
“Just—because. You can tell him I’m with Chris, and that I won’t be at dinner, but don’t mention anything about UNC.”
And then I’m getting dressed and flying around the house like a banshee, throwing things into a tote. Dried wasabi peas, Pocky sticks, bottled water. Chris and I have never gone on a road trip together before; I’ve always wanted to do that with her. And what would it hurt to just look at Chapel Hill, just to see? I won’t be going there, but it’s still fun to think about.
Chris and I are halfway to Chapel Hill before I realize my phone is dying and I forgot to pack my charger. “Do you have a car charger?” I ask her.
She’s singing along to the radio. “Nope.”
“Shoot!” We’ve eaten up most of her phone battery using the GPS, too. I feel a little uneasy about traveling out of state without a full charge on my phone. Plus, I told Kitty not to tell Daddy where I was going. What if something were to happen? “What time are we getting back, do you think?”
“Quit worrying, Granny Lara Jean. We’ll be fine.” She rolls down her window and mine and starts fumbling around for her purse. I get her purse from the floor of the backseat and pull out her cigarettes before she wrecks the car. When we’re at a red light, she lights her cigarette and inhales deeply. “We’ll be like pioneers. It just adds to the adventure. Our forefathers didn’t have cell phones either, you know.”
“Just remember, we’re only going to look. I’m still going to William and Mary.”
“You just remember—options are everything,” Chris says.
That’s what Margot’s always telling me. Those two have more in common than they think.
We spend the rest of the trip surfing radio stations and singing along and talking about whether or not Chris should dye her hair pink in the front. I’m surprised by how fast the time goes. We get to Chapel Hill in just under three hours and thirty minutes, like Chris said we would. We find a parking spot right on Franklin Street, which I guess is their main street. The first thing that strikes me is how similar UNC’s campus is to UVA’s. Lots of maple trees, lots of green, lots of brick buildings.
