by Jenny Han
12
THIS IS HOW WE MET josh. We were having a teddy-bear, tea-party picnic on the back lawn with real tea and muffins. It had to be in the backyard so no one would see. I was eleven, way too old for it, and Margot was thirteen, way, way too old. I got the idea in my head because I read about it in a book. Because of Kitty I could pretend it was for her and persuade Margot into playing with us. Mommy had died the year before and ever since, Margot rarely said no to anything if it was for Kitty.
We had everything spread out on Margot’s old baby blanket, which was blue and nubby with a squirrel print. I laid out a chipped tea set of Margot’s, mini muffins studded with blueberries and granules of sugar that I made Daddy buy at the grocery store, and a teddy bear for each of us. We were all wearing hats, because I insisted. “You have to wear a hat to a tea party,” I kept saying until Margot finally put hers on just so I’d stop. She had on Mommy’s straw gardening hat, and Kitty was wearing a tennis visor, and I’d fancied up an old fur hat of Grandma’s by pinning a few plastic flowers on top.
I was pouring lukewarm tea out of the thermos and into cups when Josh climbed up on the fence and watched us. The month before, from the upstairs playroom, we’d watched Josh’s family move in. We’d hoped for girls, but then we saw the movers unload a boy bike and we went back to playing.
Josh sat up on the fence, not saying anything, and Margot was really stiff and embarrassed; her cheeks were red, but she kept her hat on. Kitty was the one to call out to him. “Hello, boy,” she said.
“Hi,” he said. His hair was shaggy, and he kept shaking it out of his eyes. He was wearing a red T-shirt with a hole in the shoulder.
Kitty asked him, “What’s your name?”
“Josh.”
“You should play with us, Josh,” Kitty commanded.
So he did.
I didn’t know it then, how important this boy would become to me and to the people I love the most. But even if I had known, what could I have done differently? It was never going to be me and him. Even though.
13
I THOUGHT I WAS OVER him.
When I wrote my letter, when I said my good-byes, I meant it, I swear I did. It wasn’t even that hard, not really. Not when I thought about how much Margot liked him, how much she cared. How could I begrudge Margot a first love? Margot, who’d sacrificed so much for all of us. She always, always put Kitty and me before herself. Letting go of Josh was my way of putting Margot first.
But now, sitting here alone in my living room, with my sister four thousand miles away and Josh next door, all I can think is, Josh Sanderson, I liked you first. By all rights, you were mine. And if it had been me, I’d have packed you in my suitcase and taken you with me, or, you know what, I would have stayed. I would have never left you. Not in a million years, not for anything.
Thinking these kinds of thoughts, feeling these kinds of feelings, it’s more than disloyal. I know that. It’s downright traitorous. It makes my soul feel dirty. Margot’s been gone less than a week and look at me, how fast I cave. How fast I covet. I’m a betrayer of the worst kind, because I’m betraying my own sister, and there’s no greater betrayal than that. But what now? What am I supposed to do with all these feelings?
I suppose there’s only one thing I can do. I’ll write him another letter. A postscript with as many pages as it takes to X away whatever feelings I have left for him. I’ll put this whole thing to rest, once and for all.
I go to my room and I find my special writing pen, the one with the really smooth inky-black ink. I take out my heavy writing paper, and I begin to write.
P.S. I still love you.
I still love you and that’s a really huge problem for me and it’s also a really huge surprise. I swear I didn’t know. All this time, I thought I was over it. How could I not be, when it’s Margot you love? It’s always been Margot . . .
When I’m done, I put the letter in my diary instead of in my hat box. I have a feeling I’m not done-done yet, that there’s still more I need to say, I just haven’t thought of it yet.
14
KITTY’S STILL MAD AT ME. In the wake of the Josh revelation, I’d forgotten all about Kitty. She ignores me all morning, and when I ask if she wants me to take her to the store for school supplies, she snaps, “With what car? You wrecked Margot’s.”
Ouch. “I was going to take Daddy’s when he comes back from Home Depot.” I back away from her, far enough away that she can’t lash out at me with a kick or a hit. “There’s no need to be nasty, Katherine.”
Kitty practically growls, which is exactly the reaction I was hoping for. I hate when Kitty goes mad and silent. But then she flounces away, and with her back to me she says, “I’m not speaking to you. You know what you did, so don’t bother trying to get back on my good side.” I follow her around, trying to provoke her into talking to me, but there’s really no use. I’ve been dismissed. So I give up and go back to my room and put on the Mermaids soundtrack. I’m organizing my first-week back-to-school outfits on my bed when I get a text from Josh. A little thrill runs up my spine to see his name on my phone, but I sternly remind myself of my vow. He is still Margot’s, not yours. It doesn’t matter that they’re broken up. He was hers first, which means he’s hers always.
Wanna go for a bike ride on that trail by the park?
Biking is a Margot-type activity. She loves going on trails and hikes and bikes. Not me. Josh knows it too. I don’t even own my own bike anymore, and Margot’s is too big for me. Kitty’s is more my size.
I write back that I can’t; I have to help my dad around the house. It’s not a total lie. My dad did ask me to help him repot some of his plants. And I said only if he was making me and if I had no say in the matter, then sure.
What does he need help with?
What to say? I have to be careful about my excuses; Josh can easily look out the window and see if I’m home or not. I text back a vague Just some random chores. Knowing Josh, he would show up with a shovel or a rake or whatever tool the chore entailed. And then he’d stay for dinner, because he always stays for dinner.
He said I was keeping him going. Me, Lara Jean. I want to be that person for him, I want to be the one who keeps him going during this difficult time. I want to be his lighthouse keeper while we wait for Margot’s return. But it’s hard. Harder than I thought.
15
I WAKE UP HAPPY BECAUSE it’s the first day of school. I’ve always loved the first day of school better than the last day of school. Firsts are best because they are beginnings.
While Daddy and Kitty are upstairs washing up, I make whole-wheat pancakes with sliced bananas, Kitty’s favorite. First-day-of-school breakfast was always a big thing with my mom, and then Margot took over, and now I guess it’s my turn. The pancakes are a little dense, not quite as light and fluffy as Margot’s. And the coffee . . . well, is coffee supposed to be light brown like cocoa? When Daddy comes down, he says in a merry voice, “I smell coffee!” And then he drinks it and gives me a thumbs-up, but I notice he only has the one sip. I guess I’m a better baker than I am a cook.
“You look like a farm girl,” Kitty says with a touch of meanness, and I know she’s still at least a little bit mad at me.
“Thank you,” I say. I’m wearing faded shortalls and a scoop-neck floral shirt. It does look farm-girlish, but I think in a nice way. Margot left her brown lace-up combat boots, and they’re only a half size too big. With thick socks, they’re a perfect fit. “Will you braid my hair to the side?” I ask her.
“You don’t deserve a braid from me,” Kitty says, licking her fork. “Besides, a braid would take it too far.”
Kitty is only nine, but she has good fashion sense.
“Agreed,” my dad says, not looking up from his paper.
I put my plate in the sink and then put Kitty’s bag lunch down next to her plate. It’s got all her favorite things: a Brie sandwich, barbecue chips, rainbow cookies, the good kind of apple juice.
“Have a
great first day,” my dad chirps. He pops out his cheek for a kiss, and I bend down and give him one. I try to give Kitty one too, but she turns her cheek.
“I got your favorite kind of apple juice and your favorite kind of Brie,” I tell her pleadingly. I really don’t want us to start the school year off on a bad note.
“Thank you,” she sniffs.
Before she can stop me, I throw my arms around her and squeeze her so tight she yelps. Then I get my new floral back-to-school book bag and head out the front door. It’s a new day, a new year. I have a feeling it’s going to be a good one.
Josh is already in the car, and I run over and open the door and slide inside.
“You’re on time,” Josh says. He lifts his hand up for a high five, and when I slap it, our hands make a satisfying smack. “That was a good one,” he says.
“An eight at least,” I agree. We whizz past the pool, the sign for our neighborhood, then past the Wendy’s.
“Has Kitty forgiven you yet for the other night?”
“Not quite, but hopefully soon.”
“Nobody can hold a grudge like Kitty,” Josh says, and I nod wholeheartedly. I can never stay mad for long, but Kitty will nurse a grudge like her life depended on it.
“I made her a good first-day-of-school lunch, so I think that’ll help,” I say.
“You’re a good big sister.”
I pipe up with “As good as Margot?” and together we chorus, “Nobody’s as good as Margot.”
16
SCHOOL HAS OFFICIALLY BEGUN AND found its own rhythm. The first couple of days of school are always throwaway days of handing out books and syllabuses and figuring out where you’re sitting and who you’re sitting with. Now is when school really begins.
For gym, Coach White set us loose outside to enjoy the warm sun while we still have it. Chris and I are walking the track field. Chris is telling me about a party she went to over Labor Day weekend. “I almost got into a fight with this girl who kept saying I was wearing extensions. It’s not my fault my hair is fabulous.”
As we round the corner for our third lap, I catch Peter Kavinsky looking at me. I thought I was imagining it at first, him staring in my direction, but this is the third time. He’s playing ultimate Frisbee with some of the guys. When we pass them, Peter jogs over to us and says, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Chris and I look at each other. “Her or me?” she asks.
“Lara Jean.”
Chris puts her arm around my shoulder protectively. “Go ahead. We’re listening.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “I want to talk to her in private.”
“Fine,” she snaps, and she flounces away. Over her shoulder she looks back at me with wide eyes, like What? I shrug back, like I have no idea!
In a low, quiet voice, Peter says, “Just so you know, I don’t have any STDs.”
What in the world? I stare at him, my mouth open. “I never said you had an STD!”
His voice is still low but actually furious. “I also don’t always take the last piece of pizza.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That’s what you said. In your letter. How I’m an egotistical guy who goes around giving girls STDs. Remember?”
“What letter? I never wrote you any letter!”
Wait. Yes I did. I did write him a letter, about a million years ago. But that’s not the letter he’s talking about. It couldn’t be.
“Yes. You. Did. It was addressed to me, from you.”
Oh, God. No. No. This isn’t happening. This isn’t reality. I’m dreaming. I’m in my room and I’m dreaming and Peter Kavinsky is in my dream, glaring at me. I close my eyes. Am I dreaming? Is this real?
“Lara Jean?”
I open my eyes. I’m not dreaming, and this is real. This is a nightmare. Peter Kavinsky is holding my letter in his hand. It’s my handwriting, my envelope, my everything. “How—how did you get that?”
“It came in the mail yesterday.” Peter sighs. Gruffly he says, “Listen, it’s no big deal; I just hope you’re not going around telling people—”
“It came in the mail? To your house?”
“Yeah.”
I feel faint. I actually feel faint. Please let me faint right now, because if I faint I will no longer be here, in this moment. It will be like in movies when a girl passes out from the horror of it all and the fighting happens while she is asleep and she wakes up in a hospital bed with a bruise or two, but she’s missed all the bad stuff. I wish that was my life instead of this.
I can feel myself start to sweat. Rapidly I say, “You should know that I wrote that letter a really long time ago.”
“Okay.”
“Like, years ago. Years and years ago. I don’t even remember what I said.” Up close, your face wasn’t so much handsome as beautiful. “Seriously, that letter’s from middle school. I don’t even know who would have sent it. Can I see it?” I reach for the letter, trying to stay calm and not sound desperate. Just casual cool.
He hesitates and then grins his perfect Peter grin. “Nah, I want to keep it. I never got a letter like this before.”
I leap forward, and quick like a cat I snatch it out of his hand.
Peter laughs and throws up his hands in surrender. “All right, fine, have it. Geez.”
“Thanks.” I start to back away from him. The paper is shaking in my hand.
“Wait.” He hesitates. “Listen, I didn’t mean to steal your first kiss or whatever. I mean, that wasn’t my intention—”
I laugh, a forced and fake laugh that sounds crazy even to my own ears. People turn around and look at us. “Apology accepted! Ancient history!” And then I bolt. I run faster than I’ve ever run. All the way to the girls’ locker room.
How did this even happen?
I sink to the floor. I’ve had the going-to-school-naked dream before. I’ve had the going-to-school-naked-forgot-to-study-for-an-exam-in-a-class-I-never-signed-up-for combo, the naked-exam-somebody-trying-to-kill-me combo. This is all that times infinity.
And then, because there’s nothing left for me to do, I take the letter out of the envelope and I read it.
Dear Peter K,
First of all I refuse to call you Kavinsky. You think you’re so cool, going by your last name all of a sudden. Just so you know, Kavinsky sounds like the name of an old man with a long white beard.
Did you know that when you kissed me, I would come to love you? Sometimes I think yes. Definitely yes. You know why? Because you think EVERYONE loves you, Peter. That’s what I hate about you. Because everyone does love you. Including me. I did. Not anymore.
Here are all your worst qualities:
You burp and you don’t say excuse me. You just assume everyone else will find it charming. And if they don’t, who cares, right? Wrong! You do care. You care a lot about what people think of you.
You always take the last piece of pizza. You never ask if anyone else wants it. That’s rude.
You’re so good at everything. Too good. You could’ve given other guys a chance to be good, but you never did.
You kissed me for no reason. Even though I knew you liked Gen, and you knew you liked Gen, and Gen knew you liked Gen. But you still did it. Just because you could. I really want to know: Why would you do that to me? My first kiss was supposed to be something special. I’ve read about it, what it’s supposed to feel like—fireworks and lightning bolts and the sound of waves crashing in your ears. I didn’t have any of that. Thanks to you it was as unspecial as a kiss could be.
The worst part of it is, that stupid nothing kiss is what made me start liking you. I never did before. I never even thought about you before. Gen has always said that you are the best-looking boy in our grade, and I agreed, because sure, you are. But I still didn’t see the allure of you. Plenty of people are good-looking. That doesn’t make them interesting or intriguing or cool.
Maybe that’s why you kissed me. To do mind control on me, to make me see you that way. It worked
. Your little trick worked. From then on, I saw you. Up close, your face wasn’t so much handsome as beautiful. How many beautiful boys have you ever seen? For me it was just one. You. I think it’s a lot to do with your lashes. You have really long lashes. Unfairly long.
Even though you don’t deserve it, fine, I’ll go into all the things I like(d) about you:
One time in science, nobody wanted to be partners with Jeffrey Suttleman because he has BO, and you volunteered like it was no big deal. Suddenly everybody thought Jeffrey wasn’t so bad.
You’re still in chorus, even though all the other boys take band and orchestra now. You even sing solos. And you dance, and you’re not embarrassed.
You were the last boy to get tall. And now you’re the tallest, but it’s like you earned it. Also, when you were short, no one even cared that you were short—the girls still liked you and the boys still picked you first for basketball in gym.
After you kissed me, I liked you for the rest of seventh grade and most of eighth. It hasn’t been easy, watching you with Gen, holding hands and making out at the bus loop. You probably make her feel very special. Because that’s your talent, right? You’re good at making people feel special.
Do you know what it’s like to like someone so much you can’t stand it and know that they’ll never feel the same way? Probably not. People like you don’t have to suffer through those kinds of things. It was easier after Gen moved and we stopped being friends. At least then I didn’t have to hear about it.
And now that the year is almost over, I know for sure that I am also over you. I’m immune to you now, Peter. I’m really proud to say that I’m the only girl in this school who has been immunized to the charms of Peter Kavinsky. All because I had a really bad dose of you in seventh grade and most of eighth. Now I never ever have to worry about catching you again. What a relief! I bet if I did ever kiss you again, I would definitely catch something, and it wouldn’t be love. It would be an STD!
Lara Jean Song