by Jenny Han
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, believe it. My dad is a very forgiving, very forgetful man.”
As we’re pulling into my driveway, Peter suddenly says, “What if I threw your dad a bachelor party? We could do steaks, maybe cigars—”
“My dad doesn’t smoke cigars.”
“Well, just steaks, then. Geez.”
“Steaks and no strip club.”
“Oh my God, give me a little credit, Covey! Besides, I’m not twenty-one yet. I doubt I could even get in.”
I give him a dirty look.
Quickly he says, “Not that I would even want to. And I definitely wouldn’t want to go to one with my girlfriend’s dad.” He shudders. “That’s sick.”
“So then what’s the plan? Grill some steaks?”
“No. We’ll go to a nice steakhouse. We’ll get dressed up; it’ll be a real guys’ night. Maybe we’ll even wear suits.”
I suppress a smile. Peter will never admit it, but he loves to get dressed up. So vain. “Sounds good.”
“Will you ask him about it?” he asks.
“I think you should ask him.”
“If he says yes, who should I invite?”
“Josh?” I suggest it half-heartedly, knowing he won’t agree.
“No way. Doesn’t he have any work friends?”
“He doesn’t have that many close friends at work,” I say. “Just Dr. Kang. . . . You could invite my uncle Victor. And sometimes he goes on bike rides with Mr. Shah from down the street.”
“Can you get me their e-mails ASAP?” Peter asks me. “I want to get the invites out as soon as I get the okay from your dad. When’s the bachelorette? The weekend after next?”
My heart surges. I’m so touched by how eager Peter is to impress my dad. “It’s the third Friday of the month. We’re waiting for Margot to come home.”
* * *
Kitty was suspiciously serene about not being invited to Trina’s bachelorette night, and I thought to myself, Wow, Kitty’s really growing up. She gets that it’s not about her; she understands that the night is about Trina.
But of course Kitty always has a long game.
For the first time in a while, she’s riding to school with us. She wanted Peter to take her in his Audi, but I put my foot down and said I needed to get to school too. So we’re all in his mom’s minivan like old times.
However, Kitty is up front and I am in the backseat.
From the passenger seat Kitty sighs heavily and rests her head against the window.
“What’s up with you?” Peter asks.
“The bridesmaids won’t let me go on the bachelorette night,” she says. “I’m the only one left out.”
I narrow my eyes at the back of her head.
“That’s bullshit!” Peter looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Why won’t you guys let her go?”
“We’re going to a karaoke bar! We can’t bring Kitty in because she’s too young. Honestly, I think I was barely allowed to go.”
“Why can’t you guys just go to a restaurant like we’re doing?”
“Because that’s not a real bachelorette.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you guys are going to a strip club or something—wait, did you change your mind? Are you going to a strip club?”
“No!”
“Then what’s the big deal? Just go somewhere else.”
“Peter, it’s not my decision. You’ll have to take it up with Kristen.” I smack the back of Kitty’s arm. “Same goes for you, you little fiend! Quit trying to weasel your way in by manipulating Peter. He has no power here.”
“Sorry, kid,” Peter says.
Kitty slumps in her seat and then straightens. “What if I came to the bachelor night instead?” she suggests. “Since you’re just going to a restaurant?”
Peter stutters, “Uh—uh, I don’t know, I’d have to talk to the guys. . . .”
“So you’ll ask? Because I like steak too. I like it so much. I’ll order steak with a baked potato on the side, and for dessert I’ll have a strawberry sundae with whipped cream.” Kitty beams a smile at Peter, who smiles back weakly.
When we get to the elementary school and she hops out, perky and puffed up like a chickadee, I lean forward in my seat and say into Peter’s ear, “You just got played.”
28
WITH ONLY THREE DAYS LEFT of school, yearbooks arrive. There are several blank pages in the back for signatures, but everybody knows the place of honor is the back cover. Of course I’ve saved mine for Peter. I never want to forget how special this year was.
My yearbook quote is “I have spread my dreams under your feet; / Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.” I had a very hard time choosing between that and “Without you, today’s emotions would be the scurf of yesterday’s.” Peter was like, “I know that’s from Amélie, but what the hell is a scurf?” and honestly, he had a point. Peter let me write his. “Surprise me,” he said.
As we walk through the cafeteria doors, someone holds the door for us, and Peter says, “Cheers.” Peter’s taken to saying cheers instead of thanks, which I know he learned from Ravi. It makes me smile every time.
For the past month or so, the cafeteria’s been half-empty at lunch. Most of the seniors have been eating off-campus, but Peter likes the lunches his mom packs and I like our cafeteria’s french fries. But because the student council’s passing out our yearbooks today, it’s a full house. I pick up my copy and run back to the lunch table with it. I flip to his page first. There is Peter, smiling in a tuxedo. And there is his quote: “You’re welcome.” —Peter Kavinsky.
Peter’s brow furrows when he sees it. “What does that even mean?”
“It means, here I am, so handsome and lovely to look at.” I spread my arms out benevolently, like I am the pope. “You’re welcome.”
Darrell busts out laughing, and so does Gabe, who spreads his arms out too. “You’re welcome,” they keep saying to each other.
Peter shakes his head at all of us. “You guys are nuts.”
Leaning forward, I kiss him on the lips. “And you love it!” I drop my yearbook in front of him. “Write something memorable,” I say, leaning over his shoulder. “Something romantic.”
“Your hair is tickling my neck,” he complains. “I can’t concentrate.”
I straighten up and rock back on my heels, arms crossed. “I’m waiting.”
“How am I supposed to think of something good with you looking over my shoulder?” he says. “Let me do it later.”
I shake my head firmly. “No, because then you never will.”
I keep bugging him about it, until finally he says, “I just don’t know what to write,” which makes me frown.
“Write down a memory, or a hope, or—or anything.” I’m disappointed and trying not to show it, but would it be so hard for him to think of something on his own?
“Let me take it home tonight so I can take my time with it,” he says hastily.
I spend the rest of the day filling up my yearbook, and people write generic things like Good luck at UNC, and You made freshman year gym fun, and Add me on Instagram, but also more meaningful things, like I wish you had started coming out more sooner, so I’d know you better. Ben Simonoff writes, It’s always the quiet ones that are the most interesting. Stay interesting. I hand the yearbook over to Peter at the end of the day. “Keep it safe,” I tell him.
* * *
The next morning, he forgets to bring it to school with him, which is annoying, because I want to get the whole senior class’s signatures, and I still have a few more to go. Tomorrow is the last day of school.
“Did you at least finish it?” I ask him.
“Yeah! I just forgot it,” he says, wincing. “I’ll bring it tomorrow, I swear.”
* * *
Beach Week is a tradition where we’re from. It’s exactly what it sounds like. The day after graduation, the senior class packs up and goes to Nags Head for a week. Never in a million years di
d I think I would be going. For one thing, you have to gather up enough friends to rent a house together—like ten friends! Before Peter I didn’t have ten friends I could rent a beach house with. Somebody’s parent has to rent the house in their name, because no one wants to rent out a house to a bunch of high school kids. Margot didn’t go her year. She and Josh went camping with some friends. She said Beach Week wasn’t really her thing. A year ago, it wouldn’t have been my thing either. But now I have Peter, and Pammy, and Chris and Lucas.
When the topic of Beach Week first came up months ago, Peter asked me if I thought my dad would let me stay at his house. I said no way. Instead I’m staying with a bunch of girls. Pammy’s older sister Julia rented the house, and Pammy assured me it had air-conditioning and everything. She said the boys’ house was on the beach and we were two rows back, but it was better this way because then we could junk up their house with sand and ours would stay pristine.
My dad said yes at the time, but I’m fairly certain he’s forgotten about it, because when I bring up Beach Week tonight at dinner, he looks confused. “Wait, what’s Beach Week again?”
“It’s when everybody goes to the beach after graduation and parties all week,” Kitty explains, stuffing her slice of pizza in her mouth.
I shoot her a look.
“My Beach Week was insane,” Trina says, and a fond smile crosses her face.
I shoot Trina one too.
Daddy’s forehead creases. “Insane?”
“Well it wasn’t that insane,” Trina amends. “It was just a fun girls trip. One last fling with all the girls before college.”
“Where’s Peter staying?” Daddy asks me, and now his forehead looks as wrinkled as a walnut.
“In a boy house. I told you all about it ages ago and you said yes, so you can’t go back on it now. It’s the day after graduation!”
“And there won’t be any adult supervision? Just kids?”
Trina puts her hand on Daddy’s arm. “Dan, Lara Jean isn’t a kid anymore. In a few months she’ll be living on her own. This is just practice.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He sighs heavily and stands up. “Kitty, help me clear the table, will you?”
As soon as they’re gone, Trina turns to me, and in a low voice she says, “Lara Jean, I know you’re not a drinker, but here’s a pro tip that you can take with you to Beach Week and college and beyond. Always, always have a buddy system in place. It’ll go like this: One night, you get to drink. The next night, your girlfriend gets to drink. That way one person is always sober enough to hold the other person’s hair back and make sure nothing bad happens.”
Smiling, I say, “Peter will be there. He’ll hold my hair back if need be. Or I can just wear it in a ponytail.”
“True. I’m just saying, for the future.” For when he isn’t there. My smile dims, and she quickly goes on to say, “At my Beach Week, we took turns cooking dinner for the house. When it was my turn, I made chicken parmesan and all the smoke detectors went off and we couldn’t figure out how to make the beeping stop all night!” She laughs. Trina has such an easy laugh.
“I doubt my Beach Week will get that crazy,” I say.
“Well, let’s hope it gets a little crazy,” she says.
29
THIS IS THE LAST TIME we’ll walk up this staircase together, Peter taking the stairs two at a time, me nipping at his heels, huffing and puffing to keep up. It’s the last day of school for seniors, the last day of my high school career.
When we reach the top of the staircase, I say, “I feel like taking the stairs two at a time is just bragging. Have you ever noticed that only boys ever take stairs two at a time?”
“Girls probably would if they were as tall.”
“Margot’s friend Chelsea is five eleven, and I don’t think she does it.”
“So what are you saying—boys brag more?”
“Probably. Don’t you think?”
“Probably,” he admits.
The bell rings, and people start heading for class.
“Should we just skip first period? Go get pancakes?” He raises his eyebrows at me enticingly, pulling me toward him by the dangling straps of my book bag. “Come on, you know you want to.”
“No way. It’s the last day of school. I want to say good-bye to Mr. Lopez.”
Peter groans. “Goody-goody.”
“You knew who I was when you started dating me,” I tell him.
“True,” he says.
Before we go our separate ways, I hold out my hands and wait expectantly. Peter gives me a curious look. “My yearbook!”
“Oh shit! I forgot it again.”
“Peter! It’s the last day of school! I only got half the signatures I wanted!”
“I’m sorry,” he says, rubbing his hand through his hair and making it go all messy. “Do you want me to go back home and get it? I can go right now.” He looks genuinely sorry, but I’m still annoyed.
When I don’t say anything right away, Peter starts to head back toward the stairs, but I stop him. “No, don’t. It’s fine. I’ll just pass it around at graduation.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say. We’re not even here the full school day; I don’t want him to have to run back home just for my yearbook.
Classes are pretty lax; we mostly just walk around saying good-bye to teachers, the office staff, the cafeteria ladies, the school nurse. A lot of them we’ll see at graduation, but not everyone. I pass around cookies that I baked last night. We get our final grades—all good, so no worries there.
It takes me forever to clean out my locker. I find random notes I saved from Peter, which I promptly put in my bag so I can add them to his scrapbook. An old granola bar. Dusty black hair ties, which is ironic because you can never seem to find a hair tie when you need one.
“I’m sad to throw any of this stuff away, even this old granola bar,” I say to Lucas, who is sitting on the floor keeping me company. “I’ve seen it there at the bottom of my locker every day. It’s like an old pal. Should we split it, to commemorate this day?”
“Sick,” Lucas says. “It’s probably got mold.” Matter-of-factly he says, “After graduation I probably won’t see any of these people again.”
I throw him a hurt look. “Hey! What about me?”
“Not you. You’re coming to visit me in New York.”
“Ooh! Yes, please.”
“Sarah Lawrence is so close to the city. I’ll be able to go to Broadway shows whenever I want. There’s an app for same-day student tickets.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes.
“You’re so lucky,” I say.
“I’ll take you. We’ll go to a gay bar, too. It’ll be amazing.”
“Thank you!”
“But everybody else I can take or leave.”
“We still have Beach Week,” I remind him, and he nods.
“For the rest of our lives, we’ll always have Beach Week,” he says mockingly, and I throw a hair tie at him.
Lucas can mock me for being nostalgic all he wants. I know these days are special. High school will be a time we remember the whole rest of our lives.
* * *
After school, Peter and I go to his house because mine is a disaster zone with wedding stuff, and Peter’s mom has her book club after work, and Owen has soccer, so we have the house all to ourselves. It seems the only place we’re ever truly alone is in his car, so moments like these are rare and of note. My last drive home from high school, and Peter K. is the one who’s driving me. It’s fitting, to end high school the way I spent it—riding in the passenger seat of Peter’s car.
When we go up to his room, I sit down on his bed, which is neatly made, with the comforter pulled in tight; the pillows look fluffed, even. It’s a new comforter, probably for college—a cheery red and cream and navy tartan that I’m sure his mom picked out. “Your mom makes your bed, doesn’t she?” I ask him, leaning back agains
t the pillows.
“Yes,” he says, without an ounce of shame. He flops onto the bed, and I scoot over to make room for him.
Late afternoon light filters in through his pale curtains, and it casts the room in a dreamy kind of filter. If I were going to name it, I would call it “summer in the suburbs.” Peter looks beautiful in this light. He looks beautiful in any light, but especially this one. I take a picture of him in my mind, just like this. Any annoyance I felt over him forgetting my yearbook melts away when he snuggles closer to me, rests his head on my chest, and says, “I can feel your heart beating.”
I start playing with his hair, which I know he likes. It’s so soft for a boy. I love the smell of his detergent, his soap, everything.
He looks up at me and traces the bow of my lip. “I like this part the best,” he says. Then he moves up and brushes his lips against mine, teasing me. He bites on my bottom lip playfully. I like all his different kinds of kisses, but maybe this kind best. Then he’s kissing me with urgency, like he is utterly consumed, his hands in my hair, and I think, no, these are the best.
Between kisses he asks me, “How come you only ever want to hook up when we’re at my house?”
“I—I don’t know. I guess I never thought about it before.” It’s true we only ever make out at Peter’s house. It feels weird to be romantic in the same bed I’ve slept in since I was a little girl. But when I’m in Peter’s bed, or in his car, I forget all about that and I’m just lost in the moment.
We’re at it kissing again—Peter’s shirt is off; mine is still on—when the phone rings downstairs, and Peter says it’s probably the repairman calling about when he’s coming to fix the pipes. He puts on his shirt and runs downstairs to answer it, and that’s when I spot my yearbook on his desk.
I get out of bed and pick it up and flip to the back. It’s still empty. When Peter comes back upstairs, I’m sitting on his bed again and I don’t mention my yearbook, I don’t ask why he still hasn’t written in it. I’m not sure why. I tell him I’d better get going, because Margot’s coming home from Scotland tonight, and I want to stock the fridge with all her favorite foods.
Peter’s face falls. “You don’t want to hang out a little longer? I can take you to the store.”
