by Jenny Han
I snap out of it when Kitty jostles her way back into the living room, balancing a glass of orange soda, the tub of red pepper hummus, and a bag of pita chips. She makes her way over to the couch and plonks down right between us. Holding out the bag, she asks, “Do you guys want some?”
“Sure,” John says, taking a chip. “Hey, I hear you’re pretty good at schemes. Is that true?”
Warily she says, “What makes you say that?”
“You’re the one who sent out Lara Jean’s letters, aren’t you?” Kitty nods. “Then I’d say you’re pretty good at schemes.”
“I mean, yeah. I guess.”
“Awesome. We need your help.”
Kitty’s ideas are a bit too extreme—like slashing Genevieve’s tires, or throwing a stink bomb in her house to smoke her out, but John writes down every one of Kitty’s suggestions, which does not go unnoticed by Kitty. Very little does.
46
THE NEXT MORNING, KITTY IS dawdling over her peanut butter toast, and from behind his newspaper, Daddy says, “You’re going to miss the bus if you don’t hurry.”
She merely shrugs and takes her time going upstairs to get her book bag. I’m sure she thinks she can just catch a ride with me if she misses the bus, but I’m running late too. I overslept and then I couldn’t find my favorite jeans so I had to settle for my second favorite.
As I’m rinsing my cereal bowl, I look out the window and see Kitty’s school bus drive by. “You missed the bus!” I yell upstairs.
No reply.
I stuff my lunch in my bag and call out, “If you’re coming with me, you’d better hustle! Bye, Daddy!”
I’m putting on my shoes by the front door when Kitty shoots right past me and out the door, book bag bouncing against her shoulder. I follow after her and close the door behind me. And there, across the street, leaning against his black Audi, is Peter. He grins broadly at Kitty, and I stand there just completely blindsided. My first thought is, Is he here to see me? No, couldn’t be. My second thought is, Could this be a trap? My eyes dart around, looking for any sign of Genevieve. There is none, and I feel guilty for thinking he could ever be that cruel.
Kitty waves madly and runs up to him. “Hi!”
“Ready to go, kid?” he asks her.
“Yup.” She turns back to look at me. “Lara Jean, you can come with us. I’ll sit in your lap.”
Peter is looking at his phone, and what little hope I had that maybe he partly came to see me is dashed. “No, that’s okay,” I say. “There’s only room for two.”
He opens the passenger-side door for her, and Kitty scrambles in. “Go fast,” she tells him.
He barely spares me a glance before they’re gone. Well. I suppose that’s that, then.
“What kind of cake are you making me?” Kitty sits on a stool and watches me. I’m baking the cake tonight so it’s all set for tomorrow’s party. I’ve got it in my head that Kitty’s slumber party has to be just the best night ever, partly because the party is so belated and should therefore be worth the wait, and partly because ten is a big year in a girl’s life. Kitty may not have a mom, but she will have a spectacular birthday sleepover if I’ve got anything to do with it.
“I told you, it’s a surprise.” I dump my premeasured flour into a mixing bowl. “So how was your day?”
“Good. I got an A-minus on my math quiz.”
“Oh, yay! Anything else cool happen?”
Kitty shrugs her shoulders. “I think Ms. Bertoli accidentally farted when she was taking attendance. Everybody laughed.”
Baking powder, salt. “Cool, cool. Did, um, Peter drive you straight to school, or did you stop somewhere along the way?”
“He took me to get donuts.”
I bite my lip. “That’s nice. Did he say anything?”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. Life.”
Kitty rolls her eyes. “He didn’t say anything about you, if that’s what you’re wondering about.”
This stings. “I wasn’t wondering about that at all,” I lie.
Kitty and I have the whole sleepover planned down to a T. Zombie makeovers. Photo booth with props. Nail art.
I chose Kitty’s cake with utmost care. It’s chocolate with raspberry jam and white chocolate frosting. I’ve made three different kinds of dips. Sour cream and onion, red pepper hummus, and cold spinach dip. Crudités. Pigs in a blanket. Salty caramel popcorn for the movie. Lime sherbet punch, the kind you pour ginger ale over. I even scrounged up an old glass punch bowl in the attic, which will also be perfect for the USO theme party. For breakfast in the morning I’m making chocolate chip pancakes. I know all of these details are important to Kitty, too. Already she’s mentioned to me that at Brielle’s birthday, her mom made strawberry smoothies for their snack, and who could forget how Alicia Bernard’s mom made crepes when she’s mentioning it all the time?
Daddy’s banished to his room for the night, which he looks relieved about—but not before I made him drag down the little vintage chest of drawers I have in my room. I artfully arrange my collection of nightgowns and pj’s and footie long underwear, plus fuzzy slippers. Between Kitty, Margot, and me, we have a lot of fuzzy slippers.
Everyone changes into pajamas right away, giggling and screaming and fighting over who gets what.
I am wearing a pale pink peignoir set I got from a thrift store brand-new with the tags still on. I feel like Doris Day in The Pajama Game. The only thing I’m missing are furry slippers with a kitten heel. I tried to convince Kitty that we should have an old movie night, but she shot that idea down right away. To be funny, I put my hair in rollers. I offer to put the girls’ hair in rollers too, but everyone shrieks and says no.
They’re so loud I keep having to say, “Girls, girls!”
Halfway into the mani session I notice that Kitty is hanging back. I thought she’d be in her element, belle of the birthday ball, but she’s ill at ease and playing with Jamie.
When all the girls run upstairs to my room to do the mud packs I’ve prepared, I grab Kitty’s elbow. “Are you having fun?” I ask. She nods and tries to dart away, but I give her stern eyes. “Sister swear?”
Kitty hesitates. “Shanae’s gotten really good friends with Sophie,” she says, her eyes welling up. “Like better friends than me and her. Did you see how they did matching manicures? They didn’t ask me if I wanted to do matching manicures.”
“I don’t think they meant to leave you out,” I say.
She shrugs her bony shoulders.
I put my arm around her, and she just stands there stiffly, so I push her head down on my shoulder. “It can be tough with best friendships. You’re both growing and changing, and it’s hard to grow and change at the same rate.”
Her head pops up, and I push it back down on my shoulder. “Is that what happened with you and Genevieve?” she asks.
“Honestly, I don’t know what happened with me and Genevieve. She moved away, and we were still friends, and then we weren’t.” I realize belatedly that it’s not the most comforting thing to say to someone who’s feeling left out by her friends. “But I’m sure that will never happen to you.”
Kitty lets out a defeated little sigh. “Why can’t things just stay the same as before?”
“Then nothing would ever change and you wouldn’t grow up; you would have stayed nine forever and never have turned ten.”
She wipes her nose with the back of her arm. “I might not mind that.”
“Then you’d never get to drive, or go to college, or buy a house and adopt a bunch of dogs. I know you want to do all that stuff. You have an adventurous spirit, and being a kid can get in the way of that, because you have to get other people’s permission. When you’re older, you can do what you want and you won’t have to ask anybody.”
Sighing she says, “Yeah, that’s true.”
I smooth her hair away from her forehead. “Want me to put on a movie for you guys?”
“A horror one?”
“Sure.”
She’s perking up, going into bargaining mode like the business lady she is. “It has to be rated R. No kid stuff.”
“Fine, but if you guys get scared, you aren’t sleeping with me in my room. Last time you guys kept me up all night. And if any parents call to complain, I’m telling them you guys snuck the movie on your own.”
“No problem.”
I watch her fly up the stairs. Impossible as she is, I like Kitty just as she is. I wouldn’t have minded if she’d stayed nine forever. Kitty’s cares are still manageable; they can fit in the palm of my hand. I like that she still depends on me for things. Her cares and her needs make me forget my own. I like that I am needed, that I am beholden to somebody. This breakup with Peter, it’s not as big as Katherine Song Covey turning ten. She has sprung up like a weed, without a mother, just two sisters and a dad. That is no small feat. That’s something extraordinary.
But ten, wow. Ten isn’t a little girl anymore. It’s right in between. The thought of her getting older, outgrowing her toys, her art set . . . it makes me feel a bit melancholy. Growing up really is bittersweet.
My phone buzzes, and it’s a pitiful text from Daddy:
Is it safe to come downstairs? I’m so thirsty.
Coast is clear.
Roger that.
47
FOLLOWING GENEVIEVE AROUND IS A strangely familiar feeling. Nothing little observations come flooding back. It’s a heady combination of the things I used to know about her and the things I don’t. She goes through the drive-thru at Wendy’s, and without even looking, I know what’s in the bag. Small Frosty, small fries to dip, six-piece chicken nuggets, also to dip.
John and I follow Genevieve around town for a bit, but we lose her at a stoplight so we just head over to Belleview. There’s a USO party planning meeting I have to get to. With the party so close, we’re all doubling our efforts to have everything ready in time. Belleview has become my solace, my safe place throughout all this. In part because Genevieve doesn’t know about it, so she can’t tag me out, but also because it’s the one place I won’t run into her and Peter, free to do whatever they want together now that he’s single again.
It starts snowing at the beginning of our meeting. Everyone crowds around the windows to look, shaking their heads and saying, “Snow in April! Can you believe it?” and then we go back to work on USO decorations. John helps with the banner.
By the time we’re done, there are a few inches of snow on the ground, and the snow has turned to ice. “Johnny, you can’t drive in this weather. I absolutely forbid it,” Stormy says.
“Grandma, it’ll be fine,” John says. “I’m a good driver.”
Stormy delivers a stinging smack on his arm. “I told you never to call me Grandma! Just Stormy. The answer is no. I’m putting my foot down. The both of you will stay at Belleview tonight. It’s far too dangerous.” She sends me a stern look. “Lara Jean, you call your father right now and tell him I won’t allow you out in this weather.”
“He can come get us,” I suggest.
“And have that poor widower get into a car accident on the way here? No. I won’t have it. Give me your phone. I’ll call him myself.”
“But—there’s school tomorrow,” I say.
“Cancelled,” Stormy says with a smile. “They just announced it on the TV.”
I protest, “I don’t have any of my things! No toothbrush, or pajamas, or anything!”
She puts her arm around me. “Lie back and let Stormy take care of everything. Don’t you worry your pretty little head.”
So that is how it came to be that John Ambrose McClaren and I are spending the night together at a retirement home.
A snowstorm in April is a magical thing. Even if it is because of climate change. A few pink flowers have already sprouted in the gardens outside Stormy’s living room window, and snow is shaking down on it hard, the way Kitty shakes powdered sugar on pancakes—fast and a lot. Soon you can’t even see the pink of the flowers; it’s all just covered in white.
We’re playing checkers in Stormy’s living room, the big kind of checkers you can buy at Cracker Barrel. John has beaten me twice and he keeps asking me if I’m hustling him. I’m coy about it, but the answer is no, he’s just better than me at checkers. Stormy serves us piña coladas that she mixes in her blender with “just a splash of rum to warm us up,” and she microwaves frozen spanakopita that neither of us touches. Bing Crosby is playing on her stereo. By nine thirty Stormy is yawning and saying she’ll need her beauty sleep soon. John and I exchange a look—it’s still so early, and I don’t know the last time I went to bed before midnight.
Stormy insists I stay with her and John stay with Mr. Morales in his spare bedroom. I can tell John isn’t crazy about this idea, because he asks, “Can’t I just sleep on your floor?”
I’m surprised when Stormy shakes her head. “I hardly think Lara Jean’s father would appreciate that!”
“I really don’t think my dad would mind, Stormy,” I say. “I could call him if you want.”
But the answer is a firm and resounding no: John must bunk with Mr. Morales. For a lady who’s always telling me to be wild and have adventures and bring the condom, she’s far more old-fashioned than I thought.
Stormy hands John a face towel and a pair of foam earplugs. “Mr. Morales snores,” she tells him as she kisses him good night.
John raises an eyebrow at her. “How do you know?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know!” She shimmies off into the kitchen like the grand dame she truly is.
In a low voice John says to me, “You know what? I really, really wouldn’t.”
I bite the cushiony part of my cheek to keep from laughing.
“Keep your phone on vibrate,” John says before he goes out the door. “I’ll text you.”
I hear the sound of Stormy snoring and the whispery sound of icy snowflakes hitting the windowsill. I keep getting twisted up in Stormy’s sleeping bag, twisted and hot and wishing Stormy didn’t have the heat turned up so high. Old people are always complaining about how cold it is at Belleview, how the heat is “piss-poor,” as Danny in the Azalea building says. Feels plenty hot to me. Stormy’s peach high-neck satin nightgown she insisted I wear isn’t helping matters. I’m lying on my side, playing Candy Crush on my phone, wondering when John will hurry up and text me.
Wanna play in the snow?
I text back right away:
YES! It’s really hot in here.
Meet me in the hallway in two min?
K.
I stand up so fast in my sleeping bag I nearly trip. I use my phone to find my coat, my boots. Stormy is snoring away. I can’t find my scarf, but I don’t want to keep John waiting, so I run out without it.
He’s already in the hallway waiting for me. His hair is sticking up in the back, and on that basis alone I think I could fall in love with him if I let myself. When he sees me, he holds his arms out and sings, “Do you want to build a snowman?” and I burst out laughing so hard John says, “Shh, you’re going to wake up the residents!” which only makes me laugh harder. “It’s only ten thirty!”
We run down the long carpeted hallway, both of us laughing as quietly as we can. But the more you try to laugh quietly, the harder it is to stop. “I can’t stop laughing,” I gasp as we run through the sliding doors and to the courtyard.
We’re both out of breath; we both stop short.
The ground is blanketed in thick white snow, thick as sheep’s wool. It’s so beautiful and hushed, my heart almost hurts with the pleasure of it. I’m so happy in this moment, and I realize it’s because I haven’t thought of Peter once. I turn to look at John, and he’s already looking at me with a half smile on his face. It gives me a nervous flutter in my chest.
I spin around in a circle and sing, “Do you want to build a snowman?” And then we’re both giggling again.
“You’re going to get us kicked out of here,” he warns.
I grab hi
s hands and make him spin around with me as fast as I can. “Quit acting like you really belong in a nursing home, old man!” I yell.
He drops my hands and we both stumble. Then he grabs a fistful of snow off the ground and starts to pack it into a ball. “Old man, huh? I’ll show you an old man!”
I dart away from him, slipping and sliding in the snow. “Don’t you dare, John Ambrose McClaren!”
He chases after me, laughing and breathing hard. He manages to grab me around the waist and raises his arm like he’s going to put the snowball down my back, but at the last second he releases me. His eyes go wide. “Oh my God. Are you wearing my grandma’s nightgown under your coat?”
Giggling, I say, “Wanna see? It’s really racy.” I start to unzip my coat. “Wait, turn around first.”
Shaking his head, John says, “This is weird,” but he obeys. As soon as his back is turned, I snatch a handful of snow, form it into a ball, and put it in my coat pocket.
“Okay, turn around.”
John turns, and I lob the snowball directly at his head. It hits him in the eye. “Ouch!” he yelps, wiping it with his coat sleeve.
I gasp and move toward him. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Are you okay—”
John’s already scooping up more snow and lunging toward me. And so begins our snowball fight. We chase each other around, and I get in another great hit square in his back. We call a truce when I nearly slip and fall on my butt. Luckily, John catches me just in time. He doesn’t let go right away. We stare at each other for a second, his arm around my waist. There’s a snowflake on his eyelashes. He says, “If I didn’t know you were still hung up on Kavinsky, I would kiss you right now.”
I shiver. Up until Peter, the most romantic thing that ever happened to me was with John Ambrose McClaren, in the rain, with the soccer balls. Now this. How strange that I’ve never even dated John, and he’s in two of my most romantic moments.
John releases me. “You’re freezing. Let’s go back inside.”
