by Jenny Han
“I still have to clean up the upstairs, too,” I say, standing up.
He tugs on my shirt and tries to pull me back onto the bed. “Come on, five more minutes.”
I lie back down next to him and he cuddles in close, but I’m still thinking about the yearbook. I’ve been working on his scrapbook for months; the least he can do is write me a nice yearbook message.
“This is good practice for college,” he murmurs, pulling me toward him, wrapping his arms around me. “The beds are small at UVA. How big are the beds at UNC?”
My back to him, I say, “I don’t know. I didn’t get to see the dorms.”
He tucks his head in the space between my neck and shoulder. “That was a trick question,” he says, and I can feel him smile against my neck. “To check and see if you visited a random UNC guy’s dorm room with Chris. Congrats, you passed the test.”
I can’t help but laugh. Then my smile fades and I give him a test of my own. “Don’t let me forget to take my yearbook with me when we leave.”
He stiffens for a second and then says in an easy tone, “I have to hunt it down. It’s here somewhere. If I can’t find it, I’ll just bring it over later.”
I pull away from him and sit up. Confused, he looks up at me. “I saw my yearbook on your desk, Peter. I know you haven’t written anything yet!”
Peter sits up and sighs and scrubs his hand through his hair roughly. His eyes flit over to me and then back down again. “I just don’t know what to write. I know you want me to write some great, romantic thing, but I don’t know what to say. I’ve tried a bunch of times, and I just—I freeze up. You know I’m not good at that kind of thing.”
Feelingly, I tell him, “I don’t care what you say as long as it’s from the heart. Just be sweet. Be you.” I crawl closer to him and put my arms around his neck. “Okay?” Peter nods, and I give him a little kiss, and he surges up and kisses me harder, and then I don’t even care about my dumb yearbook anymore. I am aware of every breath, every movement. I memorize it all, I hold it in my heart.
When we break away, he looks up at me and says, “I went to my dad’s house yesterday.”
My eyes widen. “You did?”
“Yeah. He invited me and Owen to come over for dinner, and I wasn’t going to go, but then Owen asked me to come with him and I couldn’t say no.”
I lie back down, rest my head on his chest. “How was it?”
“It was fine, I guess. His house is nice.” I don’t say anything; I just wait for him to go on. It feels like a long time before he says, “You know that old movie you made me watch, where the poor kid was standing outside with his nose pressed to the glass? That’s how I felt.”
“That old movie” he’s referring to is Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, when Charlie is watching all the kids go hog wild at the candy store but he can’t go inside because he doesn’t have any money. The thought of Peter—handsome, confident, easy Peter—feeling that way makes me want to cry. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him so hard to reconnect with his dad.
“He put up a basketball hoop for those kids. I asked him for one so many times, but he never did it. His kids aren’t even athletic. I don’t think Everett’s picked up a basketball once in his whole life.”
“Did Owen have a good time?”
This he grudgingly concedes. “Yeah, he and Clayton and Everett played video games. My dad grilled hamburgers and steaks. He even wore a damn chef’s apron. I don’t think he ever helped my mom in the kitchen once the whole time they were married.” Peter pauses. “He didn’t do the dishes, though, so I guess he hasn’t changed that much. Still, I could tell he and Gayle were trying. She baked a cake. Not as good as yours, though.”
“What kind of cake?” I ask.
“Devil’s food cake. Kind of dry.” Peter hesitates before he says, “I invited him to graduation.”
“You did?” My heart swells.
“He kept asking about school, and . . . I don’t know. I thought about what you said, and I just did it.” He shrugs, like he doesn’t care much either way if his dad’s there or not. It’s an act. Peter cares. Of course he cares. “So you’ll meet him then.”
I snuggle closer to him. “I’m so proud of you, Peter.”
He gives a little laugh. “For what?”
“For giving your dad a chance even though he doesn’t deserve it.” I look up at him and say, “You’re a nice boy, Peter K.,” and the smile that breaks across his face makes me love him even more.
30
AFTER PETER DROPS ME OFF at home, I end up having just enough time to run to the grocery store and pick up chips and salsa, ice cream, challah bread, Brie, blood-orange soda—you know, all the essentials—and then come home and clean the upstairs bathroom and make up Margot’s bed with fresh sheets.
Daddy picks Margot up at the airport on the way home from work. It’s the first time she’s been home since Trina moved in. When we step inside the house with her suitcases, I see her looking around the living room; I see her eyes flit to the mantel, where there is now framed art that Trina brought over from her house—it’s an abstract painting of the shoreline. Margot’s expression doesn’t change, but I know she notices. How could she not? I moved Mommy and Daddy’s wedding portrait into my room the day before Trina moved in. Margot’s looking around the whole room now, silently noting everything that is different. The embroidered throw pillows Trina brought with her, a framed picture of her and Daddy on the day he proposed on the side table by the couch, the armchair we switched out for Trina’s. All of Trina’s little knickknacks, of which there are many. Now that I’m looking at it all through Margot’s eyes, it is kind of cluttered.
Margot takes off her shoes and opens the door to the shoe closet and sees how stuffed it is—Trina has a lot of shoes, too. “Geez, this closet is packed,” she says, shoving Trina’s cycling shoes to the side to make room for her booties.
After we lug her suitcases upstairs and Margot changes into comfy clothes, we come back down for a snack while Daddy fixes dinner. I’m sitting on the couch, chomping on chips, when Margot suddenly stands up and declares that she’s going to go through the shoe closet and get rid of all her old shoes. “Right now?” I say, my mouth full of chips.
“Why not?” she says. When Margot gets it into her head to do something, she does it right away.
She dumps everything out of the shoe closet and sits on the floor cross-legged, going through piles, deciding which ones to keep and which to donate to the Salvation Army. She holds up a pair of black boots. “To keep or to toss?”
“Keep them or give them to me,” I say, scooping salsa with a tortilla chip. “They look so cute with tights.”
She tosses them in the keep pile. “Trina’s dog sheds so much,” Margot grouses, plucking dog fur off of her leggings. “How do you ever wear black clothes?”
“There’s a lint roller in the shoe case. And I guess I don’t wear that many black clothes?” I really should wear black more often. Every fashion blog emphasizes the importance of a little black dress. I wonder if there will be a lot of occasions for a little black dress at college. “How often do you get dressed up at Saint Andrews?”
“Not that often. People mostly wear jeans and boots when they go out. Saint Andrews isn’t that dressy of a place.”
“You don’t get dressed up even to go to a wine-and-cheese night at your professor’s house?”
“We get dressed up for high table dinners with professors, but I’ve never been invited to one’s house. Maybe they do that at UNC, though.”
“Maybe!”
Margot holds up a pair of yellow rain boots. “Keep or toss?”
“Keep.”
“You’re no help. You’ve voted to keep everything.” She tosses the rain boots into the cardboard giveaway box.
It seems both of my sisters are pretty ruthless about throwing away old things. When Margot’s done sorting through everything, I go through the box one more time to see if there isn’t a
nything I can save. I end up taking her rain boots and a pair of patent-leather Mary Janes.
* * *
That night I’m heading to the bathroom to brush my teeth when I hear Trina’s hushed voice coming from Margot’s room. I stop in the hallway to listen like a little spy, like Kitty. “This is a little awkward, but you left this in the bathroom, so I stuck it in a drawer just in case you wanted to keep it private.”
Margot’s cool voice returns, “Keep it private from whom? Kitty?”
“Well, from your dad. Or whoever. I just wasn’t sure.”
“My dad’s an obstetrician. It’s not like he’s never seen birth-control pills before.”
“Oh, I know. I just . . .” Lamely she says again, “I just wasn’t sure. If it was a secret or not, I mean.”
“Well, thanks. I appreciate the thought, but I don’t keep secrets from my dad.”
I scurry back to my bedroom before I hear Trina’s reply. Eek.
* * *
The day before graduation, Peter comes over to hang out at the house. I’m sewing little flowers onto my graduation cap, Kitty’s watching TV on the floor on her beanbag, and Margot’s shelling beans into a mixing bowl. She has a recipe she wants to try out for dinner tonight. A wedding show is on the TV, one of those who-had-the-best-wedding type programs.
“Hey, for your dad’s wedding, what about one of those sky-lantern ceremonies, where you light up the lantern and make a wish and release it into the sky?” Peter pipes up. “I saw it in a movie.”
I’m impressed. “Peter, that’s a really nice idea!”
“I saw that in a movie too,” Kitty says. “Hangover Part Two?”
“Yeah!” I give them both a look. Peter is quick to ask, “Isn’t that an Asian tradition? Could be nice.”
“It’s not a Korean tradition, it’s Thai,” Kitty says. “Remember, the movie takes place in Thailand?”
“Not that it matters, because it’s not like Trina is even Asian,” says Margot. “Why would she need to appropriate Asian culture into her wedding just because we’re Asian? It doesn’t have anything to do with her.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I say. “She wants us to feel included. The other day she was saying it might be nice to acknowledge Mommy in some way.”
Margot rolls her eyes. “She didn’t even know her.”
“Well, she knew her a little. They were all neighbors, after all. I don’t know, I thought during the ceremony, like, maybe the three of us could light a candle. . . .” I trail off because Margot doesn’t look at all convinced. “It was just an idea,” I say, and Peter makes a yikes face at me.
“I don’t know, I think that sounds kind of awkward? I mean, this wedding is about Trina and Daddy starting a new life together, not the past.”
“That’s a good point,” Peter agrees.
Peter works hard to impress Margot. He’s always taking her side. I pretend to be annoyed by it, but really I am touched. Of course he should take her side. It’s his job to take her side. It shows that he gets how important her good opinion is to me, and he gets the place she has in my life. I could never be with someone who didn’t understand how important my family is to me.
When Margot leaves to take Kitty to piano lessons, Peter says, “Your sister is really not loving Ms. Rothschild, huh.” Peter still hasn’t gotten the hang of calling Ms. Rothschild Trina, and he likely never will. In our neighborhood, none of the kids growing up called the adults by their first names. Everyone was Miss or Mrs. or Mr., except for Daddy, who was Dr.
“I wouldn’t say Gogo dislikes Trina,” I say. “She likes her; she just isn’t used to her yet. You know how Trina is.”
“True,” he says. “I also know how your sister is. It took her forever to warm up to me.”
“It wasn’t forever. You’re just used to people liking you from the very first minute they meet you.” I give him a sidelong look. “Because you’re so very charming.” He scowls, because I don’t say it like a compliment. “Gogo doesn’t care about charm. She cares about real.”
“Well, now she loves me,” he says, all confidence. When I don’t answer right away, he says, “Right? Doesn’t she?”
I laugh. “She does.”
* * *
Later that day, after Peter leaves to help his mom out at her store, Margot and Trina get into a spat over, of all things, hair. I’m in the laundry room, ironing my dress when I hear Trina say, “Margot, when you shower, would you mind picking up your hair out of the drain catch? I was cleaning the tub this morning and I noticed it.”
Then comes Margot’s quick reply. “Sure.”
“Thanks. I just don’t want the drain to get clogged.”
A minute later Margot’s in the laundry room with me. “Did you hear that? Can you believe her? How does she even know it was my hair and not yours or Kitty’s?”
“Your hair is lighter, and it’s shorter,” I point out. “Plus, Kitty and I pick ours up because we know it grosses Trina out.”
“Well, dog fur all over my clothes grosses me out! Every time I take a breath, I feel like I’m inhaling fur. If she’s so concerned about housekeeping, she should vacuum more often.”
Trina comes up behind Margot, looking stony-faced, and says, “I actually vacuum once a week, which is the standard amount.”
Margot’s gone red. “Sorry. But if you have a dog that sheds as much as Simone, I think twice a week is probably more appropriate.”
“Then tell that to your dad, since I haven’t seen him pick up a vacuum once in the whole time I’ve known him.” Trina stalks off, and Margot’s mouth drops open, and I go back to ironing.
“Don’t you think that was a bit much?” she whispers to me.
“She’s right, though. Daddy never vacuums. He sweeps, and he mops, but he doesn’t vacuum.”
“Still!”
“Trina isn’t one to be trifled with,” I tell her. “Especially not when she’s about to get her period.” Margot stares at me. “We’re synced up. It’s only a matter of time before you are too.”
* * *
Margot and I go to the mall, ostensibly so I can get a new strapless bra for my dress, but really because Margot wants to escape Trina. When we get back, the downstairs rugs are freshly vacuumed and neat as a pin, and Kitty is putting the vacuum cleaner away, which I can tell Margot feels bad about.
At dinner Trina and Margot are cordial to each other, as if nothing happened. Which, in some ways, is worse than a fight. At least when you’re in a fight, you’re in it with someone.
31
THE DAY OF MY GRADUATION, I wake up early and lie in bed listening to the sounds of the house waking up. Daddy is puttering around downstairs making coffee; Margot has the shower running; Kitty is probably still sound asleep. Trina, too. They’re both late sleepers.
I will miss these house sounds when I’m gone. A part of me is already homesick for them. Another part of me is so, so excited to take this next step, and I never thought I would be, not after things didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped.
* * *
For my graduation present, Margot gives me a college kit. A pink satin eye mask with my name embroidered on it in pale silvery blue. A USB drive shaped like a gold tube of lipstick. Earplugs that look like circus peanuts, pink fuzzy slippers, a nylon makeup bag covered in sketches of bows. I love every single thing in the kit equally.
Kitty makes a beautiful card. It’s a collage of pictures of us, but she’s used some sort of app to turn the pictures into line drawings, like a coloring book. She’s colored them all with coloring pencils. On the inside she’s written, Congratulations. Have fun at college. P.S. I’ll miss you an 11. Tears spring to my eyes, and I scoop Kitty into my arms and hug her tightly, for so long that she says, “All right, all right—enough already,” but I can tell she is pleased. “I’m going to frame it,” I declare.
My gift from Trina is a vintage tea set—cream with pink rosebuds and rimmed in gold. “It was my mom’s,” she tells me, and I
feel like I could cry, I love it so much. When I hug her, I whisper in her ear, “This is my favorite gift,” and she winks at me. Winking is one of Trina’s talents. She’s great at it, very natural.
Daddy sips from his coffee and then clears his throat. “Lara Jean, your gift from me is one that Margot and Kitty will also partake in.”
“What is it, what is it?” Kitty presses.
“Hush, it’s my gift,” I say, looking at Daddy expectantly.
Grinning, he says, “I’m sending you three girls to Korea with Grandma this summer. Happy graduation, Lara Jean!”
Kitty screams and Margot is beaming, and I’m in shock. We’ve been talking about going to Korea for years. Mommy always wanted to take us. “When, when?” Kitty asks.
“Next month,” Trina says, smiling at her. “Your dad and I will go on our honeymoon, and you guys will jet off to Korea.”
Next month?
“Aw, you guys aren’t coming?” Kitty pouts. Margot, on the other hand, is smiling. Ravi’s visiting family in India over the summer, and she doesn’t have any big plans.
“We really want to come, but I can’t take that much time away from the hospital,” Daddy says, regretful.
“For how long?” I ask. “How long will we go?”
“For all of July,” Daddy says, gulping the rest of his coffee. “Grandma and I have set the whole thing up. You’re going to stay at your great-aunt’s in Seoul, you’ll take Korean language classes a few times a week, and you’re going on a tour of the whole country, too. Jeju, Busan, the works. And Lara Jean, something special for you—a Korean pastry-making class! Don’t worry, it’ll be in English.”
Kitty starts doing a little dance in her seat.
Margot looks at me then, her eyes shining. “You’ve always wanted to learn how to bake Korean cream cakes! We’ll go shopping for face masks and stationery and cute things, like, every day. By the time we come back, we’ll be able to watch Korean dramas without subtitles!”
“I can’t wait,” I say, and Margot and Kitty and Daddy start discussing all the logistics, but Trina looks over at me closely. I keep the smile on my face.