by Jenny Han
We take turns opening presents to make it last longer. I give Margot her scarf, and the scrapbook, which she loves. She pores over every page, exclaiming over my handiwork, marveling over my font choices and paper scraps. Hugging it to her chest, she says, “This is the perfect gift,” and I feel like all the tension and bad feelings between us evaporate into nothingness. Margot’s gift to me is a pale pink cashmere sweater from Scotland. I try it on over my nightgown and it’s so soft and luxurious.
Kitty’s present from Margot is an art set with oil pastels and watercolors and special markers, which makes Kitty squeal like a piglet. In return Kitty gives her socks with monkeys on them. I give Kitty a new basket for her bike and the ant farm she asked for months ago, and Kitty gives me a book on knitting. “So you can get better,” she says.
The three of us pitched in for Daddy’s present—a thick Scandinavian sweater that makes him look like an ice fisherman. It’s a little too big, but Daddy insists he likes it that way. He gives Margot a fancy new e-reader, Kitty a bike helmet with her name on it—Katherine, not Kitty—and me a gift certificate to Linden & White. “I wanted to get you that locket necklace you’re always looking at, but it was gone,” he says. “But I bet you’ll find something else you like just as much.” I jump up and throw my arms around him. I feel like I could cry.
Santa, aka Daddy, brings silly gifts like sacks of coal and water guns with disappearing ink inside, and also practical things like athletic socks and printer ink and my favorite kind of pens—I guess Santa shops at Costco too.
When we’re done opening presents, I can tell Kitty is disappointed there is no puppy, but she doesn’t say anything. I pull her into my arms and whisper to her, “There’s always your birthday next month,” and she nods.
Daddy goes to see if the waffle iron is hot and the doorbell rings. “Kitty, could you get that?” he calls from the kitchen.
Kitty goes to the door, and seconds later we hear her high-pitched scream. Margot and I leap up and run to the door, and right there on the welcome mat is a basket with a biscuit-colored puppy in it and a ribbon around its neck. We all start jumping up and down and screaming.
Kitty scoops the puppy up in her arms and runs into the living room with it, where Daddy stands grinning. “Daddy Daddy Daddy!” she squeals. “Thank you thank you thank you!”
According to Daddy, he picked the puppy up from the animal shelter two nights ago, and our neighbor Ms. Rothschild has been hiding him in her house. It’s a boy, by the way—we figure that out pretty quick, since he pees all over the kitchen floor. He is a Wheaten Terrier mix, which Kitty declares is far better than an Akita or a German shepherd.
“I always wanted a dog with bangs,” I say, cuddling him to my cheek.
“What should we name him?” Margot asks. We all look to Kitty, who chews on her bottom lip in a contemplative way.
“I don’t know,” she says.
“How about Sandy?” I suggest.
Kitty sneers. “Unoriginal.”
So I say, “What about François? We can call him Frankie for short.”
“No thanks,” Kitty says. Cocking her head, she says, “What about Jamie?”
“Jamie,” Daddy repeats. “I like it.”
Margot nods. “It has a nice ring to it.”
“What’s his full name?” I ask, setting him down on the floor.
Kitty promptly says, “Jamie Fox-Pickle, but we’ll only call him that when he’s in trouble.” She claps her hands and coos, “Come here, Jamie!” and he skitters over to her, tail wagging like mad.
I’ve never her seen her so happy or so patient. She spends all of Christmas Day trying to teach him tricks and taking him outside to pee. Her eyes never stop shining. It makes me wish I was little again and everything could be solved with a Christmas Day puppy.
I only check my phone once to see if Peter called. And he didn’t.
68
THE MORNING OF THE PARTY I come downstairs after ten, and they’ve been working for hours. Margot’s the head chef and Daddy’s her sous-chef. She has him chopping onions and celery and washing pots. To us she says, “Lara Jean, I need you to clean the downstairs bathroom and mop and tidy. Kitty, you’re overseeing decorations.”
“Can we at least have some cereal first?” I ask.
“Yes, but be quick about it.” She goes back to scooping cookie dough.
To Kitty I whisper, “I didn’t even want to have this party and now she’s got me scrubbing the toilet. Why do you get the good job?”
“Because I’m the littlest,” Kitty says, climbing onto a stool at the breakfast bar.
Margot spins around and says, “Hello, the toilet needed to be scrubbed anyway! Besides, it’ll all be worth it. We haven’t done recital party in so long.” She slides a cookie sheet into the oven. “Daddy, I’m going to need you to make a run to the store soon. We’re out of sour cream and we need a big bag of ice.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” our dad says.
The only one of us Margot doesn’t put to work is Jamie Fox-Pickle, who is taking a nap under the Christmas tree.
* * *
I’m wearing a red-and-green plaid bow tie with a white button-down and a tartan skirt. I read on a fashion blog that mixing plaids is a thing. I go to Kitty’s room to beg her to give me a braid crown, and she curls her lip at me and says, “That’s not very sexy.”
I frown. “Excuse me? I wasn’t trying to look sexy! I was trying to look festive.”
“Well . . . you look like you’re a Scottish waiter, or maybe a bartender at a bar in Brooklyn.”
“What do you know about bartenders in Brooklyn, Katherine?” I demand.
She gives me a withering look. “Duh, I watch HBO.”
Hmm. We might need to put some parental controls on the TV.
Kitty goes to my closet and pulls out my red off-the-shoulder knit dress with the swishy skirt. “Wear this. It’s still Christmasy but less elf-costumey.”
“Fine, but I’m putting my candy-cane pin on it.”
“Fine, you can wear the pin. But leave your hair down. No braid.” I give her my best sad pouty face, but Kitty shakes her head. “I’ll curl the ends to give it some body, but no braids of any kind.”
I plug in the curling iron and sit on the floor with Jamie in my lap, and Kitty sits on the bed and sections my hair off. She wraps my hair around the barrel like a real pro. “Did Josh RSVP yes to the party?” she asks me.
“I’m not sure,” I say.
“What about Peter?”
“He’s not coming,” I say.
“Why not?”
“He just can’t,” I tell her.
* * *
Margot’s at the piano playing “Blue Christmas,” and our old piano teacher Mr. Choi is sitting next to her singing along. Across the room, Daddy’s showing off a new cactus to the Shahs from down the street, and Kitty and Josh and a few of the other little kids are trying to teach Jamie how to sit. I’m sipping cranberry-and-ginger-ale punch and talking to Aunt D. about her divorce when Peter Kavinsky walks in wearing a hunter-green sweater with a button-down shirt underneath, carrying a Christmas tin. I almost choke on my punch.
Kitty spots him when I do. “You came!” she cries. She runs right into his arms, and he puts down the cookie tin and picks her up and throws her around. When he sets her down, she takes him by the hand and over to the buffet table, where I’m busying myself rearranging the cookie plate.
“Look what Peter brought,” she says, pushing him forward.
He hands me the cookie tin. “Here. Fruitcake cookies my mom made.”
“What are you doing here?” I whisper accusingly.
“The kid invited me.” He jerks his head toward Kitty, who has conveniently run back over to the puppy. Josh is standing up now, looking over at us with a frown on his face. “We need to talk.”
So now he wants to talk. Well, too late. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”
Peter takes me by the elbow and I
try to shake him off, but he won’t let go. He steers me into the kitchen. “I want you to make up an excuse to Kitty and leave,” I say. “And you can take your fruitcake cookies with you.”
“First tell me why you’re so pissed at me.”
“Because!” I burst out. “Everyone is saying how we had sex in the hot tub and I’m a slut and you don’t even care!”
“I told the guys we didn’t!”
“Did you? Did you tell them that all we did was kiss and that’s all we’ve ever done?” Peter hesitates, and I go on. “Or did you say, ‘Guys, we didn’t have sex in the hot tub,’ wink wink, nudge nudge.”
Peter glares at me. “Give me a little more credit than that, Covey.”
“You’re such a scumbag, Kavinsky.”
I spin around. There is Josh, in the doorway, glaring at Peter.
“It’s your fault people are saying that crap about Lara Jean.” Josh shakes his head in disgust. “She’d never do that.”
“Keep your voice down,” I whisper, my eyes darting around. This is not happening right now. At recital party, with everyone I’ve ever known my whole entire life in the next room.
Peter’s jaw twitches. “This is a private conversation, Josh, between me and my girlfriend. Why don’t you go play World of Warcraft or something. Or maybe there’s a Lord of the Rings marathon on TV.”
“Fuck you, Kavinsky,” Josh says. I gasp. To me Josh says, “Lara Jean, this is exactly what I’ve been trying to protect you from. He’s not good enough for you. He’s only bringing you down.”
Beside me Peter stiffens. “Get over it! She doesn’t like you anymore. It’s over. Move on.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Josh says.
“Whatever, dude. She told me you tried to kiss her. You try that again, and I’m kicking your ass.”
Josh lets out a short laugh. “Go ahead.”
Panic rises in my chest as Peter moves toward Josh with purpose. I pull Peter’s arm back. “Stop it!”
That’s when I see her. Margot, standing a few feet behind Josh, her hand to her mouth. The piano music has stopped, the world has stopped spinning, because Margot has heard everything.
“It’s not true, is it? Please tell me it’s not true.”
I open and close my mouth. I don’t have to say anything, because she already knows. Margot who knows me so well.
“How could you?” she asks, and her voice trembles. The hurt in her eyes makes me want to die. I’ve never seen that look in her eyes before.
“Margot,” Josh begins, and she shakes her head and backs away.
“Get out,” she says, her voice breaking. Then she looks at me. “You’re my sister. You’re the person I trust more than anybody.”
“Gogo, wait—” But she’s already gone. I hear her feet run up the stairs. I hear her door shut and not slam.
And then I burst into tears.
“I’m so sorry,” Josh says to me. Bleakly, he says, “This is all my fault.” He walks out the back door.
Peter moves to put his arms around me, but I stop him. “Can you just . . . can you just go?”
Hurt and surprise register on his face. “Sure, I can go,” he says, and he walks out of the kitchen.
I go to the bathroom off the side of the kitchen and sit on the toilet and cry. Someone knocks and I stop crying and call out, “Just a minute.”
Mrs. Shah’s cheery voice says, “Sorry, dear!” and I hear her heels clack away.
Then I get up and splash cold water on my face. My eyes are still red and puffy. I run water over a hand towel and I wet my face with it. My mom used to do this for me when I was sick. She’d put an ice-cold washcloth over my forehead and she’d switch it out with a fresh one when it wasn’t cold anymore. I wish my mom was here.
* * *
When I step back into the party, Mr. Choi is sitting at the piano playing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” and Ms. Rothschild has my dad cornered on the couch. She’s throwing back champagne, and he has a mildly startled look on his face. As soon he sees me, my dad jumps off the couch and over to me. “Oh, thank God,” he says. “Where’s Gogo? We haven’t done our number yet.”
“She doesn’t feel well,” I say.
“Hm. I’ll go check on her.”
“I think she just wants to be left alone.”
Daddy’s forehead creases. “Did she and Josh have a fight? I just saw him leave.”
I swallow. “Maybe. I’ll go talk to her.”
He pats me on the shoulder. “You’re a good sister, honey.”
I force a smile. “Thank you, Daddy.”
I go upstairs and Margot’s bedroom door is locked. I stand outside it and ask, “Can I come inside?”
No answer.
“Please, Margot. Please just let me explain. . . .”
Still nothing.
“I’m sorry. Margot, I’m so sorry. Please talk to me.”
I sit down outside my door and start to cry. My big sister knows how to hurt me best. Silence from her, being shut out by her, is the worst punishment she could conjure up.
69
BEFORE MOMMY DIED, MARGOT AND I were enemies. We battled constantly, mostly because I was always messing up something of hers—some game, some toy.
Margot had a doll she loved named Rochelle. Rochelle had silky auburn hair, and she wore glasses like Margot did. Mommy and Daddy had given her to her for her seventh birthday. Rochelle was Margot’s only doll. She adored her. I remember begging Margot to let me hold her, just for a second, but Margot always said no. There was this one time, I had a cold, and I stayed home from school. I crept into Margot’s room and I took Rochelle, I played with her all afternoon, I pretended Rochelle and I were best friends. I got it into my head that Rochelle’s face was actually kind of plain; she would look better with lipstick on. It would be a favor to Margot if I made Rochelle more beautiful. I got one of Mommy’s lipsticks out of her bathroom drawer and I put some on her lips. Right away I knew it was a mistake. I’d drawn it on outside of her lip lines, she looked clownish, not sophisticated. So then I tried to clean off the lipstick with toothpaste, but it only made her look like she had a mouth disease. I hid under my blankets until Margot came home. When she found the state Rochelle was in, I heard Margot’s scream.
After Mommy died, we all had to realign ourselves. Everybody had new roles. Margot and I were no longer locked in battle, because we both understood that Kitty was ours to take care of now. “Look out for your sister,” Mommy was always saying. When she was alive, we did it begrudgingly. After she was gone, we did it because we wanted to.
* * *
Days go by and still nothing. She looks through me, speaks to me only when necessary. Kitty watches us with worried eyes. Daddy is bewildered and asks what’s going on with us, but doesn’t push me for an answer.
There is a wall between us now, and I can feel her moving farther and farther away from me. Sisters are supposed to fight and make up, because they are sisters and sisters always find their way back to each other. But the thing that scares me is that maybe we won’t.
70
OUTSIDE MY WINDOW, SNOW IS falling in clumps that look like cotton. The yard is starting to look like a cotton field. I hope it snows all day and all night. I hope it’s a blizzard.
There’s a knock at my door.
I lift my head up from my pillow. “Come in.”
My dad comes in and sits down at my desk. “So,” he says, scratching his chin the way he does when he’s uncomfortable. “We need to talk.”
My stomach drops. I sit up and wrap my arms around my knees. “Did Margot tell you?”
My dad clears his throat. “She did.” I can’t even look at him. “This is awkward. I never had to do this with Margot, so . . .” He clears his throat again. “You’d think I would be better at this since I’m a health professional. I’ll just say that I think you’re too young to be having sex, Lara Jean. I don’t think you’re ready yet.” He sounds li
ke he’s about to cry. “Did . . . did Peter pressure you in any way?”
I can feel all the blood rush to my face. “Daddy, we didn’t have sex.”
He nods, but I don’t think he believes me. “I’m your dad, so of course I’d rather you wait until you’re fifty, but . . .” He clears his throat again. “I want you to be safe. I’m making an appointment with Dr. Hudecz on Monday.”
I start to cry. “I don’t need an appointment, because I’m not doing anything! I didn’t have sex! Not in the hot tub or anyplace. Somebody made the whole thing up. You have to believe me.”
My dad has a pained expression on his face. “Lara Jean, I know it’s not easy to talk about this with a dad and not a mom. I wish your mom was here to navigate us through this.”
“I wish she was too, because she’d believe me.” Tears are running down my cheeks. It’s bad enough for strangers to think the worst of me, but I never thought my sister and dad would believe it.
“I’m sorry.” My dad puts his arms around me. “I’m sorry. I do believe you. If you tell me you’re not having sex, you’re not having sex. I just don’t want you to grow up too fast. When I look at you, you’re still as young as Kitty to me. You’re my little girl, Lara Jean.”
I sag against him. There’s no place safer than my dad’s arms. “Everything’s a mess. You don’t trust me anymore; Peter and I are broken up; Margot hates me.”
“I trust you. Of course I trust you. And of course you and Margot will make up like you always do. She was only worried about you; that’s why she came to me.” No, it’s not. She did it out of spite. It’s her fault that Daddy thought that of me for even a second.
Daddy lifts my chin and wipes the tears off my face. “You must really like Peter, huh?”
“No,” I sob. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
He tucks my hair behind my ears. “Everything will work out.”