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الرئيسية Always and Forever, Lara Jean
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For my dear readers. This one's for you. "I don't know what lies around the bend, but I'm going to believe that the best does." —L. M. MONTGOMERY, Anne of Green Gables 1 I LIKE TO WATCH PETER when he doesn't know I'm looking. I like to admire the straight line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone. There's an openness to his face, an innocence—a certain kind of niceness. It's the niceness that touches my heart the most. It's Friday night at Gabe Rivera's house after the lacrosse game. Our school won, so everyone is in very fine spirits, Peter most of all, because he scored the winning shot. He's across the room playing poker with some of the guys from his team; he is sitting with his chair tipped back, his back against the wall. His hair is still wet from showering after the game. I'm on the couch with my friends Lucas Krapf and Pammy Subkoff, and they're flipping through the latest issue of Teen Vogue, debating whether or not Pammy should get bangs. "What do you think, Lara Jean?" Pammy asks, running her fingers through her carrot-colored hair. Pammy is a new friend—I've gotten to know her because she dates Peter's good friend Darrell. She has a face like a doll, round as a cake pan, and freckles dust her face and shoulders like sprinkles. "Um, I think bangs are a very big commitment and not to be decided on a whim. Depending on how fast your hair grows, you could be growing them out for a year or more. But if you're serious, I think you should wait till fall, because it'll be summer before you know it, and bangs in the summer can be sort of sticky and sweaty and annoying. . . ." My eyes drift back to Peter, and he looks up and sees me looking at him, and raises his eyebrows questioningly. I just smile and shake my head. "So don't get bangs?" My phone buzzes in my purse. It's Peter. Do you want to go? No. Then why were you staring at me? Because I felt like it. Lucas is reading over my shoulder. I push him away, and he shakes his head and says, "Are you guys really texting each othe; r when you're only twenty feet away?" Pammy crinkles up her nose and says, "So adorable." I'm about to answer them when I look up and see Peter sweeping across the room toward me with purpose. "Time to get my girl home," he says. "What time is it?" I say. "Is it that late already?" Peter's hoisting me off the couch and helping me into my jacket. Then he pulls me by the hand and leads me through Gabe's living room. Looking over my shoulder, I wave and call out, "Bye, Lucas! Bye, Pammy! For the record, I think you would look great with bangs!" "Why are you walking so fast?" I ask as Peter marches me through the front yard to the curb where his car is parked. He stops in front of the car, pulls me toward him, and kisses me, all in one fast motion. "I can't concentrate on my cards when you stare at me like that, Covey." "Sorry," I start to say, but he is kissing me again, his hands firm on my back. When we're in his car, I look at the dashboard and see that it's only midnight. I say, "I still have an hour until I have to be home. What should we do?" Of the people we know, I'm the only one with an actual curfew. When the clock strikes one o'clock, I turn into a pumpkin. Everyone is used to it by now: Peter Kavinsky's Goody Two-shoes girlfriend who has to be home by one. I've never once minded having a curfew. Because truly, it's not like I'm missing out on anything so wonderful—and what's that old saying? Nothing good happens after two a.m. Unless you happen to be a fan of watching people play flip cup for hours on end. Not me. No, I'd much prefer to be in my flannel pajamas with a cup of Night-Night tea and a book, thank you very much. "Let's just go to your house. I want to come inside and say hi to your dad and hang out for a bit. We could watch the rest of Aliens." Peter and I have been working our way down our movie list, which consists of my picks (favorite movies of mine that he's never seen), his picks, (favorite movies of his that I've never seen), and movies neither of us have seen. Aliens was Peter's pick, and it's turning out to be quite good. And even though once upon a time Peter claimed he didn't like rom coms, he was very into Sleepless in Seattle, which I was relieved for, because I just don't see how I could be with someone who doesn't like Sleepless in Seattle. "Let's not go home yet," I say. "Let's go somewhere." Peter thinks about it for a minute, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, and then he says, "I know where we can go." "Where?" "Wait and see," he says, and he puts the windows down, and the crisp night air fills the car. I lean back into my seat. The streets are empty; the lights are off in most of the houses. "Let me guess. We're going to the diner because you want blueberry pancakes." "Nope." "Hmm. It's too late to go to Starbucks, and Biscuit Soul Food is closed." "Hey, food isn't the only thing I think about," he objects. Then: "Are there any cookies left in that Tupperware?" "They're all gone, but I might have some more at home, if Kitty didn't eat them all." I dip my arm out the window and let it hang. Not many more nights left like these, where it's cool enough to need a jacket. I look at Peter's profile out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes I still can't believe he's mine. The handsomest boy of all the handsome boys is mine, all mine. "What?" he says. "Nothing," I say. Ten minutes later, we are driving onto the University of Virginia campus, only nobody calls it campus; they call it Grounds. Peter parks along the side of the street. It's quiet for a Friday night in a college town, but it's UVA's spring break, so a lot of kids are still gone. We're walking across the lawn, his hand in mine, when I'm hit with a sudden wave of panic. I stop short and ask, "Hey, you don't think it's bad luck for me to come here before I'm actually in, do you?" Peter laughs. "It's not a wedding. You're not marrying UVA." "Easy for you to say, you're already in." Peter gave a verbal commitment to the UVA lacrosse team last year, and then he applied early action in the fall. Like with most college athletes, he was all but in, so long as his grades stayed decent. When he got the official yes back in January, his mom threw a party for him and I baked a cake that said, I'm taking my talents to UVA in yellow frosting. Peter pulls me by the hand and says, "Come on, Covey. We make our own luck. Besides, we were here two months ago for that thing at the Miller Center." I relax. "Oh, yeah." We continue our walk across the lawn. I know where we're going now. To the Rotunda, to sit on the steps. The Rotunda was designed by Thomas Jefferson, who founded the school, and he modeled it after the Pantheon, with its white columns and big domed top. Peter runs up the brick steps Rocky-style and plops down. I sit down in front of him, leaning back and resting my arms on the tops of his knees. "Did you know," I begin, "that one of the things that makes UVA unique is that the center of the school, right there inside the Rotunda, is a library and not a church? It's because Jefferson believed in the separation between school and church." "Did you read that in the brochure?" Peter teases, planting a kiss on my neck. Dreamily, I say, "I learned it when I went on the tour last year." "You didn't tell me you went on a tour. Why would you go on a tour when you're from here? You've been here a million times!" He's right that I've been here a million times—I grew up going here with my family. When my mom was still alive, we'd go see the Hullabahoos perform because my mom loved a cappella. We had our family portrait taken on the lawn. On sunny days after church, we'd come picnic out here. I twist around to look at Peter. "I went on the tour because I wanted to know everything about UVA! Stuff I wouldn't know just by living around here. Like, do you know what year they let women in?" He scratches the back of his neck. "Uh . . . I don't know. When was the school founded? The early 1800s? So, 1920?" "Nope. 1970." I turn back around and face forward, looking out onto the grounds. "After a hundred and fifty years." Intrigued, Peter says, "Whoa. That's crazy. Okay, tell me more facts about UVA." "UVA is America's only collegiate World Heritage UNESCO site in all of the United States," I begin. "Never mind, don't tell me more facts about UVA," Peter says, and I slap him on the knee. "Tell me something else instead. Tell me what you're looking forward to most about going to school here." "You go first. What are you most excited about?" Right away, Peter says, "That's easy. Streaking the lawn with you." "That's what you're looking forward to more than anything? Running around naked?" Hastily I add, "I'm never doing that, by the way." He laughs. "It's a UVA tradition. I thought you were all about UVA traditions." "Peter!" "I'm just kidding." He leans forward and puts his arms around my shoulders, rubbing his nose in my neck the way he likes to do. "Your turn." I let myself dream about it for a minute. If I get in, what am I most looking forward to? There are so many things, I can hardly name them all. I'm looking forward to eating waffles every day with Peter in the dining hall. To us sledding down O-Hill when it snows. To picnics when it's warm. To staying up all night talking and then waking up and talking some more. To late-night laundry and last-minute road trips. To . . . everything. Finally I say, "I don't want to jinx it." "Come on!" "Okay, okay . . . I guess I'm most looking forward to . . . to going to the McGregor Room whenever I want." People call it the Harry Potter room, because of the rugs and chandeliers and leather chairs and the portraits on the wall. The bookshelves go from the floor to the ceiling, and all of the books are behind metal grates, protected like the precious objects they are. It's a room from a different time. It's very hushed—reverential, even. There was this one summer—I must have been five or six, because it was before Kitty was born—my mom took a class at UVA, and she used to study in the McGregor Room. Margot and I would color, or read. My mom called it the magic library, because Margot and I never fought inside of it. We were both quiet as church mice; we were so in awe of all the books, and of the older kids studying. Peter looks disappointed. I'm sure it's because he thought I would name something having to do with him. With us. But for some reason, I want to keep those hopes just for me for now. "You can come with me to the McGregor Room," I say. "But you have to promise to be quiet." Affectionately Peter says, "Lara Jean, only you would look forward to hanging out in a library." Actually, judging by Pinterest alone, I'm pretty sure a lot of people would look forward to hanging out in such a beautiful library. Just not people Peter knows. He thinks I'm so quirky. I'm not planning on being the one to break the news to him that I'm actually not that quirky, that in fact lots of people like to stay home and bake cookies and scrapbook and hang out in libraries. Most of them are probably in their fifties, but still. I like the way he looks at me, like I am a wood nymph that he happened upon one day and just had to take home to keep. Peter pulls his phone out of his hoodie pocket. "It's twelve thirty. We should go soon." "Already?" I sigh. I like being here late at night. It feels like the whole place is ours. In my heart, it was always UVA. I've never really expected to go anywhere else, or even really thought about it. I was going to apply early when Peter did, but my guidance counselor, Mrs. Duvall, advised me against applying early action, because she said it would be better to wait so they could see my senior mid-year grades. According to Mrs. Duvall, it's always best to apply at your peak moment. And so I ended up applying to five schools. At first it was just going to be UVA, the hardest to get into and only fifteen minutes from home; William and Mary, the second hardest to get into and also my second choice (two hours away); and then University of Richmond and James Madison, both only an hour away, in a tie for third choice. All in state. But then Mrs. Duvall urged me to apply to just one out-of-state school, just in case, just to have the option—so I applied to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. It's really hard to get into out-of-states, but I picked it because it reminds me of UVA. It has a strong liberal arts program, and it's not too far away, close enough to come home in a hurry if I needed to. But if I had the choice, I would still pick UVA every time. I've never wanted to be far from home. I'm not like my big sister. Going far away, that was her dream. She's always wanted the world. I just want home, and for me, UVA is home, which is why it's the college I've measured all other colleges against. The perfect storybook campus, the perfect everything. And, of course, Peter. We stay a bit longer, me telling Peter more facts about UVA and Peter making fun of me for knowing so many facts about UVA. Then he drives me home. It's nearly one a.m. when we pull up in front of my house. The downstairs lights are all off, but my dad's bedroom light is on. He never goes to bed until I'm home. I'm about to hop out when Peter reaches across me and stops me from opening the door. "Give me my good-night kiss," he says. I laugh. "Peter! I have to go." Stubbornly he closes his eyes and waits, and I lean forward and plant a quick kiss on his lips. "There. Satisfied?" "No." He kisses me again like we have all the time in the world and says, "What would happen if I came back after everyone went to sleep, and I spent the night, and left really early in the morning? Like, before dawn?" Smiling, I say, "You can't, so we'll never know." "But what if?" "My dad would kill me." "No, he wouldn't." "He'd kill you." "No, he wouldn't." "No, he wouldn't," I agree. "But he'd be pretty disappointed in me. And he'd be mad at you." "Only if we got caught," Peter says, but it's halfhearted. He won't risk it either. He's too careful about staying in my dad's good graces. "You know what I'm really looking forward to the most?" He gives my braid a tug before saying, "Not having to say good night. I hate saying good night." "Me too," I say. "I can't wait until we're at college." "Me too," I say, and I kiss him one more time before jumping out of the car and running toward my house. On the way, I look up at the moon, at all the stars that cover the night sky like a blanket, and I make a wish. Dear God, please, please let me get into UVA. 2 "SHOULD I DUST MARIE'S WIG with pink glitter or gold glitter?" I hold up an Easter egg to my computer screen for Margot's inspection. I've dyed the shell pale turquoise blue and decoupaged it with a cameo of Marie Antoinette. "Hold it up closer," Margot says, squinting into the camera. She's in her pajamas; a sheet mask clings to her face. Her hair has grown just past her shoulders, which means she'll probably cut it soon. I have a feeling she'll always keep her hair short now. It really suits her. It's night in Scotland, and still afternoon here. We are five hours and 3,500 miles apart. She's in her dorm room; I'm sitting at our kitchen table, surrounded by Easter eggs and bowls of dye and rhinestones and stickers and fluffy white feathers that I saved from when I made Christmas ornaments a few years ago. I've got my laptop propped up on a stack of cookbooks. Margot's keeping me company while I finish decorating my eggs. "I think I'm going to do a pearl border around her, if that helps inform your decision," I tell her. "Then I say go with the pink," she says, adjusting her sheet mask. "Pink will pop more." "That's what I was thinking too," I say, and I get to work dusting glitter with an old eye-shadow brush. Last night I spent hours blowing the yolks out of the shells. This was supposed to be a fun thing for Kitty and me to do together like the old days, but she bailed when she was invited over to Madeline Klinger's house. An invitation from Madeline Klinger is a rare and momentous occasion, so of course I couldn't begrudge Kitty that. "Only a little while longer before you find out, right?" "Sometime this month." I start lining up pearls in a row. Part of me wishes I could just get this over with, but another part of me is glad to have this time of not knowing, of still hoping. "You'll get in," Margot says, and it's like a proclamation. Everyone around me seems to think that my getting into UVA is a foregone conclusion. Peter, Kitty, Margot, my dad. My guidance counselor, Mrs. Duvall. I'd never dare say it out loud, for fear of jinxing anything, but maybe I think so too. I've worked hard: I got my SAT scores up by two hundred points. My grades are almost as good as Margot's were, and Margot got in. I've done everything I'm supposed to do, but will it be enough? At this point, all I can do is wait, and hope. And hope and hope. I'm in the middle of hot-gluing a little white bow to the top of my egg when I stop to cast a suspicious look at my sister. "Wait a minute. If I get in, are you going to try to convince me to go somewhere else, just so I can spread my wings?" Margot laughs, and her sheet mask slips down her face. Readjusting it, she says, "No. I trust you to know what's best." She means it, I can tell. Just like that, her words make it so. I trust me too. I trust that when the time comes, I will know what's best. And for me, UVA is best. I know it. "The only thing I'll say is, make your own friends. Peter will be making tons of friends because of lacrosse, and the people he'll be friends with aren't necessarily the kinds of people you'd pick to be friends with. So make your own friends. Find your people. UVA is big." "I will," I promise. "And make sure you join the Asian association. The one thing I feel like I've missed out on by going to school in a different country is an Asian-American group. It's definitely a thing, you know, going to college and finding your racial identity. Like Tim." "Tim who?" "Tim Monahan, from my class." "Oh, Tim," I say. Tim Monahan is Korean, and he was adopted. There aren't all that many Asian people at our school, so we all know who each other are, at least tangentially. "He never hung out with Asians in high school, and then he went to Tech and met a ton of Korean people, and now I think he's the president of an Asian fraternity." "Wow!" "I'm glad Greek life isn't a thing in the UK. You're not going to join a sorority, are you?" She is quick to add, "No judgment if so!" "I hadn't thought about it." "Peter will probably join a fraternity, though." "He hasn't said anything about it either. . . ." Even though he hasn't mentioned it, I could easily picture Peter in a fraternity. "I've heard it's hard if your boyfriend's in one and you're not. Something about all the mixers and stuff, like it's easier if you're friends with the girls from the sister sorority. I don't know. The whole thing seems silly to me, but it could be worth it. I hear sorority girls like to craft." She waggles her eyebrows at me. "Speaking of which." I hold up my egg for her. "Ta-da!" Margot moves closer to the camera to look. "You should go into the egg-decorating business! I want to see the other ones." I hold up the egg carton. I've got a dozen blown-out eggs, pale pink with neon pink rickrack trim, brilliant blue and lemon yellow, lavender with dried lavender buds. I was glad to have an excuse to use that dried lavender. I bought a sack of it months ago for a lavender crème brûlée, and it's just been taking up space in our pantry. "What are you going to do with them?" Margot asks. "I'm bringing them over to Belleview so they can put them on display in the reception area. It always looks so dreary and hospitaly there." Margot leans back against her pillows. "How is everyone at Belleview?" "Fine. I've been so busy with college apps and senior year stuff, I haven't been able to go by as much as I used to. Now that I don't officially work there anymore, it's a lot harder to find the time." I spin the egg in my hand. "I think I'll give this one to Stormy. It's very her." I set the Marie Antoinette egg down on the rack to dry, and I pick up a lilac egg and begin affixing it with candy-colored gemstones. "I'm going to visit more, from here on out." "It's hard," Margot agrees. "When I come home for spring break, let's go over there together. I want to introduce Ravi to Stormy." Ravi is Margot's boyfriend of six months. His parents are from India, but he was born in London, so his accent is as posh as you might imagine. When I met him over Skype, I said, "You sound just like Prince William," and he laughed and said, "Cheers." He's two years older than Margot, and maybe it's because he's older, or maybe it's because he's English, but he seems very sophisticated and not at all like Josh. Not in a snobby way, but definitely different. More cultured, probably from living in such a grand city, and going to the theater whenever he wants, and meeting dignitaries and the like because his mother is a diplomat. When I told Margot that, she laughed and said it's just because I haven't gotten to know him yet, but Ravi's actually a huge nerd and not at all smooth or Prince Williamish. "Don't let the accent fool you," she said. She's bringing Ravi home with her over spring break, so I suppose I'll see for myself soon enough. The plan is for Ravi to stay at our house for two nights and then fly to Texas to see relatives. Margot will stay here with us for the rest of the week. "I can't wait to meet him in real life," I say, and she beams. "You're going to love him." I'm sure I will. I like everyone Margot likes, but the truly lucky thing is that now that Margot's gotten to know Peter better, she sees how special he is. When Ravi's here, all four of us will be able to hang out, true double dates. My sister and I are both in love at the same time, and we have this thing we can share, and how wonderful is that! 3 THE NEXT MORNING, I PUT on the poppy-colored lipstick Stormy likes me in, gather up my Easter eggs in a white wicker basket, and drive over to Belleview. I stop at the reception desk to drop off the eggs and chat with Shanice for a bit. I ask her what's new, and she says there are two new volunteers, both UVA students, which makes me feel a lot less guilty about not coming around as much. I say good-bye to Shanice and then head over to Stormy's with my Easter egg. She answers the door in a persimmon-colored kimono and lipstick to match and cries out, "Lara Jean!" After she sweeps me into a hug, she frets, "You're looking at my roots, aren't you? I know I need to dye my hair." "You can barely tell," I assure her. She's very excited about her Marie Antoinette egg; she says she can't wait to show it off to Alicia Ito, her friend and rival. "Did you bring one for Alicia, too?" she demands. "Just you," I tell her, and her pale eyes gleam. We sit on her couch, and she wags her finger at me and says, "You must be completely moonstruck over your young man since you've barely had time to visit with me." Contritely I say, "I'm sorry. I'll come visit more now that college applications are in." "Hmph!" The best way to deal with Stormy when she's like this is to charm and cajole her. "I'm only doing what you told me, Stormy." She cocks her head to the side. "What did I tell you?" "You said to go on lots of dates and lots of adventures, just like you did." She purses her orangey-red lips, trying not to smile. "Well, that was very good advice I gave you. You just keep listening to Stormy, and you'll be right as rain. Now, tell me something juicy." I laugh. "My life isn't that juicy." She tsks me. "Don't you have any dances coming up? When's prom?" "Not till May." "Well, do you have a dress?" "Not yet." "You'd better get a move on it. You don't want some other girl wearing your dress, dear." She studies my face. "With your complexion, I think you ought to wear pink." Then her eyes light up and she snaps her fingers. "That reminds me! There's something I want to give you." Stormy hops up and goes to her bedroom and she returns with a heavy velvet ring box. I open the box and let out a gasp. It's her pink diamond ring! The one from the veteran who lost his leg in the war. "Stormy, I can't accept this." "Oh, but you will. You're just the girl to wear it." Slowly, I take the ring out and put it on my left hand, and oh, how it sparkles. "It's beautiful! But I really shouldn't . . ." "It's yours, darling." Storm winks at me. "Heed my advice, Lara Jean. Never say no when you really want to say yes." "Then—yes! Thank you, Stormy! I promise I'll take good care of it." She kisses me on the cheek. "I know you will, dear." As soon as I get home, I put it in my jewelry box for safekeeping. * * * Later that day, I'm in the kitchen with Kitty and Peter, waiting for my chocolate chip cookies to cool. For the past few weeks I've been on a quest to perfect my chocolate chip cookie recipe, and Peter and Kitty have been my steadfast passengers on the journey. Kitty prefers a flat, lacy kind of chocolate chip cookie, while Peter likes his chewy. My perfect cookie is a combination of the two. Crunchy but soft. Light brown, not pale in color or flavor. A little height but not puffy. That's the cookie I've been searching for. I've read all the blog posts, seen the pictures of all white sugar versus a mix of brown and white, of baking soda versus baking powder, vanilla bean versus vanilla extract, chip versus chunk versus chopped bars. I've tried freezing in balls, flattening cookies with the bottom of a glass to get an even spread. I've frozen dough in a log and sliced; I've scooped, then frozen. Frozen, then scooped. And yet, still, my cookies rise too much. This time I used considerably less baking soda, but the cookies are still vaguely puffy, and I am ready to throw the entire batch out for not being perfect. Of course I don't—that would be a waste of good ingredients. Instead I say to Kitty, "Didn't you say you got in trouble for talking during silent reading last week?" She nods. "Take these to your teacher and tell her you baked them and you're sorry." I'm running low on people to give my cookies to. I've already given some to the mailman, Kitty's bus driver, the nurses' station at Daddy's hospital. "What will you do when you figure it out?" Kitty asks me, her mouth full of cookie. "Yeah, what's the point of all this?" Peter says. "I mean, who cares if a chocolate chip cookie is eight percent better? It's still a chocolate chip cookie." "I'll take pleasure in the knowledge that I am in possession of the perfect chocolate chip cookie recipe. I will pass it down to the next generation of Song girls." "Or boys," Kitty says. "Or boys," I agree. To her I say, "Now go upstairs and get a big Mason jar for me to put these cookies in. And a ribbon." Peter asks, "Will you bring some to school tomorrow?" "We'll see," I say, because I want to see him make that pouty face I love so much. He makes the face, and I reach up and pat his cheeks. "You're such a baby." "You love it," he says, snagging another cookie. "Let's get the movie started. I promised my mom I would stop by the store and help her move some furniture around." Peter's mom owns an antiques store called Linden & White, and Peter helps her out as much as he can. Today's movie off our list is Romeo + Juliet, the 1996 version with Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes. Kitty's already seen it a dozen or so times, I've seen bits and pieces, and Peter's never seen it at all. Kitty drags her beanbag cushion downstairs and arranges herself on the floor with a bag of microwave popcorn beside her. Our wheaten terrier mix Jamie Fox-Pickle immediately plants himself next to her, no doubt hoping for a falling popcorn crumb. Peter and I are on the couch, cuddled under a sheep's-wool blanket that Margot sent from Scotland. From the moment Leo comes on screen in that navy blue suit, I have chest palpitations. He's like an angel, a beautiful, damaged angel. "What's he so stressed out about?" Peter asks, reaching down and stealing a handful of Kitty's popcorn. "Isn't he a prince or something?" "He's not a prince," I say. "He's just rich. And his family is very powerful in this town." "He's my dream guy," Kitty says in a proprietary tone. "Well, he's all grown up now," I say, not taking my eyes off the screen. "He's practically Daddy's age." Still . . . "Wait, I thought I was your dream guy," Peter says. Not to me, to Kitty. He knows he's not my dream guy. My dream guy is Gilbert Blythe from Anne of Green Gables. Handsome, loyal, smart in school. "Ew," Kitty says. "You're like my brother." Peter looks genuinely wounded, so I pat him on the shoulder. "Don't you think he's a little scrawny?" Peter presses. I shush him. He crosses his arms. "I don't get why you guys get to talk during movies and I get shushed. It's pretty bullshit." "It's our house," Kitty says. "Your sister shushes me at my house too!" We ignore him in unison. In the play, Romeo and Juliet were only thirteen. In the movie they're more like seventeen or eighteen. Definitely still teens. How did they know they were meant to be? Just one look across a bathroom fish tank was all it took? They knew it was a love worth dying for? Because they do know. They believe. I guess the difference is, in those times people got married so much younger than they do now. Realistically, till death do us part probably only meant, like, fifteen or twenty years, because people didn't live as long back then. But when their eyes meet across that fish tank . . . when Romeo goes to her balcony and professes his love . . . I can't help it. I believe too. Even though, I know, they barely know each other, and their story is over before it even truly begins, and the real part would have been in the everyday, in the choosing to be with each other despite all the hardships. Still, I think they could have made it work, if they had only lived. As the credits roll, tears roll down my cheeks and even Peter looks sad; but unsentimental, dry-eyed little Kitty just hops up and says she's taking Jamie Fox-Pickle outside to pee. Off they go, and meanwhile I'm still lost in my emotions on the couch, wiping tears from my eyes. "They had such a good meet-cute," I croak. "What's a meet-cute?" Peter's lying on his side now, his head propped up on his elbow. He looks so adorable I could pinch his cheeks, but I refrain from saying so. His head is big enough as it is. "A meet-cute is when the hero and heroine meet for the very first time, and it's always in a charming way. It's how you know they're going to end up together. The cuter the better." "Like in Terminator, when Reese saves Sarah Connor from the Terminator and he says, 'Come with me if you want to live.' Freaking amazing line." "I mean, sure, I guess that's technically a meet-cute. . . . I was thinking more like It Happened One Night. We should add that to our list." "Is that in color or black-and-white?" "Black-and-white." Peter groans and falls back against the couch cushions. "It's too bad we don't have a meet-cute," I muse. "You jumped me in the hallway at school. I think that's pretty cute." "But we already knew each other, so it doesn't really count." I frown. "We don't even remember how we met. How sad." "I remember meeting you for the first time." "Nuh-uh. Liar!" "Hey just because you don't remember something doesn't mean I don't. I remember a lot of things." "Okay, so how did we meet?" I challenge. I'm sure that whatever comes out of his mouth next will be a lie. Peter opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. "I'm not telling." "See! You just can't think of anything." "No, you don't deserve to know, because you don't believe me." I roll my eyes. "So full of it." After I turn off the movie, Peter and I go sit on the front porch, drinking sweet tea I made the night before. It's cool out; there's still enough bite in the air to let you know it isn't quite full-on spring yet, but soon. The dogwood tree in our front yard is just beginning to flower. There is a nice breeze. I think I could sit here all afternoon and watch the branches sway and bow and the leaves dance. We still have a little time before he has to go help his mom. I would go with him, mind the register while he moves around furniture, but the last time Peter brought me, his mom frowned and said her store was a place of business, not a "teenage hangout." Peter's mom doesn't outwardly dislike me, and I don't even think she inwardly dislikes me—but she still hasn't forgiven me for breaking up with Peter last year. She's kind to me, but there's this distrust, this wariness. It's a let's-wait-and-see kind of feeling—let's wait and see when you hurt my son again. I'd always imagined I would have a great, Ina Garten–type relationship with my first boyfriend's mom. The two of us cooking dinner together, sharing tea and sympathy, playing Scrabble on a rainy afternoon. "What are you thinking about?" Peter asks me. "You've got that look." I chew on my lower lip. "I wish your mom liked me better." "She does like you." "Peter." I give him a look. "She does! If she didn't like you, she wouldn't invite you over for dinner." "She invites me over for dinner because she wants to see you, not me." "Untrue." I can tell this thought has never occurred to him, but it has the ring of truth and he knows it. "She wishes we'd break up before we leave for college," I blurt out. "So does your sister." I crow, "Ha! So you're admitting your mom wants us to break up!" I don't know what I'm being so triumphant about. The thought is depressing, even if I already suspected it. "She thinks getting serious when you're young is a bad idea. It has nothing to do with you. I told her, just because it didn't work out with you and Dad, it doesn't mean it'll be like that for us. I'm nothing like my dad. And you're nothing like my mom." Peter's parents got divorced when he was in sixth grade. His dad lives about thirty minutes away, with his new wife and two young sons. When it comes to his dad, Peter doesn't say much. It's rare for him to even bring him up, but this year, out of the blue, his dad has been trying to reconnect with him—inviting him to a basketball game, over to his house for dinner. So far Peter's been a stone wall. "Does your dad look like you?" I ask. "I mean, do you look like him?" Sullenly he says, "Yeah. That's what people always say." I put my head on his shoulder. "Then he must be very handsome." "Back in the day, I guess," he concedes. "I'm taller than him now." This is a thing that Peter and I have in common—he only has a mom and I only have a dad. He thinks I got the better end of the deal, losing a mom who loved me versus a dad who is alive but a dirtbag. His words, not mine. Part of me agrees with him, because I have so many good memories of Mommy, and he has hardly any of his dad. I loved how after a bath, I would sit cross-legged in front of her and watch TV while she combed the tangles out of my hair. I remember Margot used to hate to sit still for it, but I didn't mind. It's the kind of memory I like best—more of a feeling than an actual remembrance. The hum of a memory, blurry around the edges, soft and nothing particularly special, all kind of blending into one moment. Another memory like that is when we'd drop Margot off at piano lessons, and Mommy and I would have secret ice cream sundaes in the McDonald's parking lot. Caramel and strawberry sauce; she'd give me her peanuts so I had extra. Once I asked her why she didn't like nuts on her sundae, and she said she did like them, but I loved them. And she loved me. But despite all of these good memories, memories I wouldn't trade for anything, I know that even if my mom was a dirtbag, I'd rather have her here with me than not. One day, I hope Peter will feel that way about his dad. "What are you thinking about now?" Peter asks me. "My mom," I say. Peter sets down his glass and stretches out and rests his head in my lap. Looking up at me, he says, "I wish I could've met her." "She would've really liked you," I say, touching his hair. Hesitantly, I ask, "Do you think I might get to meet your dad some day?" A cloud passes over his face, and I wish I hadn't brought it up. "You don't want to meet him," he says. "He's not worth it." Then he snuggles closer to me. "Hey, maybe we should go as Romeo and Juliet for Halloween this year. People at UVA go all out for Halloween." I lean back against the post. He's changing the subject, and I know it but I play along. "So we'd be going as the Leo and Claire version of Romeo and Juliet." "Yeah." He tugs on my braid. "I'll be your knight in shining armor." I touch his hair. "Would you be willing to consider growing your hair out a little bit? And maybe . . . dyeing it blond? Otherwise people might think you're just a knight." Peter is laughing so hard I doubt he hears the rest of my sentence. "Oh my God, Covey. Why are you so hilarious?" "I was joking!" Half joking. "But you know I take costuming seriously. Why bother doing something if you're only going to do it halfway?" "Okay, I would maybe wear a wig, but I'm not promising anything. It'll be our first UVA Halloween." "I've been to UVA for Halloween before." The first fall Margot got her driver's license, we took Kitty trick-or-treating on the lawn. She was Batman that year. I wonder if she might like to do that again. "I mean we'll finally be able to go to UVA Halloween parties. Like, legit go to them and not have to sneak in. Sophomore year me and Gabe got kicked out of an SAE party and it was the most embarrassing moment of my life." I look at him in surprise. "You? You're never embarrassed." "Well, I was that day. I was trying to talk to this girl who was dressed up in a Cleopatra costume and these older guys were like, 'Get your ass out of here, scrub,' and she and her friends laughed. Jerks." I lean down and kiss him on both cheeks. "I would never laugh." "You laugh at me all the time," he says. He lifts his head up and pulls my face closer and we are kissing an upside-down Spider-Man type of kiss. "You like it when I laugh at you," I say, and, smiling, he shrugs. 4 IT'S THE FIRST DAY OF senior week, and during Senior Week, every day there's a theme. Today's theme is school spirit, and I'm wearing Peter's lacrosse jersey and pigtails with yarn ribbons in our school colors, light blue and white. Peter has painted his face half blue and half white. When he picked me up this morning, I screamed when I saw him. The rest of the week goes: Tuesday seventies day, Wednesday pajamas day, Thursday characters day (the day I am truly looking forward to), and Friday we're off on our senior trip. The vote was between New York City and Disney World, and New York won. We're driving up on a charter bus for the three-day weekend. It's perfect timing for a trip like this, because the seniors are going crazy waiting to hear from colleges and we could all use a distraction. Except for those of us who applied early decision and already know where they're going, like Peter, and Lucas Krapf, who's going to Sarah Lawrence. The majority of my class will stay in state. It's like our guidance counselor, Mrs. Duvall, is always saying: What's the point of living in Virginia if not to take advantage of all the great state schools? I think it's nice that so many of us will still be here in Virginia, that we aren't scattering off to the four corners of the earth. At lunchtime, when Peter and I walk into the cafeteria, the a cappella group is serenading a junior girl with the song "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?" but with the words "Will You Go to Prom with Me, Gina?" We stop and listen before we get in line for our food. Prom isn't for another few months, but promposals have already started in earnest. So far the most impressive was last week, when Steve Bledell hacked into the announcements board and replaced the day's events with Will you go to prom with me, Liz? and it took two days for the IT department to figure out how to fix it. Just this morning, Darrell filled Pammy's locker with red roses, and he spelled out PROM? in petals on the door. The janitor yelled at him for it, but the pictures look amazing on Pammy's Instagram. I don't know what Peter's planning. He's not exactly one for big romantic gestures. When we're in line for food, Peter reaches for a brownie and I say, "Don't—I brought cookies," and he gets excited. "Can I have one now?" he asks. I pull my Tupperware out of my bag and Peter grabs one. "Let's not share with anybody else," he says. "Too late," I say, because our friends have spotted us. Darrell is singing, "Her cookies bring all the boys to the yard," as we walk up to the table. I set the Tupperware down on the table and the boys wrestle for it, snatching cookies and gobbling them up like trolls. Pammy manages to snag one and says, "Y'all are beasts." Darrell throws his head back and makes a beastlike sound, and she giggles. "These are amazing," Gabe groans, licking chocolate off his fingers. Modestly I say, "They're all right. Good, but not amazing. Not perfect." I break a piece off of Peter's cookie. "They taste better fresh out of the oven." "Will you please come over to my house and bake me cookies so I know what they taste like fresh out of the oven?" Gabe bites into another one and closes his eyes in ecstasy. Peter snags one. "Stop eating all my girlfriend's cookies!" Even a year later, it still gives me a little thrill to hear him say "my girlfriend" and know that I'm her. "You're gonna get a gut if you don't quit with that shit," Darrell says. Peter takes a bite of cookie and lifts up his shirt and pats his stomach. "Six-pack, baby." "You're a lucky girl, Large," Gabe says. Darrell shakes his head. "Nah, Kavinsky's the lucky one." Peter catches my eye and winks, and my heart beats quicker. I have a feeling that when I'm Stormy's age, these everyday moments will be what I remember: Peter's head bent, biting into a chocolate chip cookie; the sun coming through the cafeteria window, bouncing off his brown hair; him looking at me. After school, Peter has lacrosse practice, and I sit in the stands and do my homework. Of all the guys on the team, Peter is the only one going to a division one school, and Coach White is already crying about what the team will look like when Peter's gone. I don't understand all the ins and outs of the game, but I know when to cheer and when to boo. I just like to watch him play. He thinks every shot he takes will go in, and they usually do. * * * Daddy and Ms. Rothschild are, officially, a couple, and they have been since last September. Kitty's over the moon; she takes credit for it at every opportunity. "It was all a part of my master plan," she brags. I'll give it to her. The girl does have vision. After all, she got Peter and me back together against all the odds, and now we're in love. For not having a lot in common, Ms. Rothschild and Daddy are a surprisingly good couple. (Again, not unlike Peter and me.) Proximity really does make all the difference. Two lonely neighbors, Netflix, a couple of dogs, a bottle of white wine. If you ask me, it's lovely. Daddy has way more of a life now that Ms. Rothschild's in it. They're always going places together, doing actual activities. Like on a Saturday morning, before any of us are awake, they'll go hiking and watch the sun rise. I've never known Daddy to hike, but he's taken to it like a fish to water. They go out to dinner; they go to wineries; they meet up with Ms. Rothschild's friends. Sure, he still likes to stay in and watch a documentary, but his world is so much more with her in it—and so much less lonely, which I never knew he was, these eight long years since Mommy died. But he must have been, now that I see him so energized and so out and about. Ms. Rothschild eats with us at least a few times a week, and it's gotten to where it feels strange to not see her sitting there at the kitchen table, with her rich, throaty laugh and her glass of white wine next to Daddy's glass of beer. After dinner that night, when I bring out cookies and ice cream for dessert, Daddy says, "More cookies?" and he and Ms. Rothschild exchange a meaningful look. Spreading vanilla ice cream on a cookie with a spoon, Daddy says, "You've been doing a lot of baking lately. You must be pretty stressed waiting on those college acceptance letters." "It has nothing to do with that," I tell them. "I'm only trying to perfect my chocolate chip cookie recipe. Just be grateful, you guys." Daddy begins, "You know, I read a study that found that baking is actually therapeutic. It's something to do with the repetition of measuring ingredients, and creativity. Psychologists call it behavioral activation." "Hey, whatever works," Ms. Rothschild says, breaking a piece of cookie off and popping it into her mouth. "I go to SoulCycle; that's where I find my center." If Margot were here, she'd roll her eyes at that. Ms. Rothschild made me go with her once—I kept losing the beat and trying to find it again but to no avail. "Lara Jean, you've got to come with me again. There's a great new instructor who plays all Motown music. You'll love it." "When can I go with you, Tree?" Kitty asks. That's what Kitty's taken to calling Ms. Rothschild. I still think of her as Ms. Rothschild, and I slip up from time to time, but I try to call her Trina to her face when I remember. "You can come with me when you're twelve," she says. "Those are the rules of SoulCycle." It's hard to believe that Kitty is eleven already. Kitty is eleven and I'll be eighteen in May. Time goes by so quickly. I look across the table at Daddy, who is looking at Kitty with a sad kind of smile, and then at me. I know he must be thinking the same thing. He catches my eye and sings, "Lara Jean, don't you worry 'bout a thing," in his best Stevie Wonder voice, and we all groan. Biting into his makeshift ice cream sandwich, Daddy says, "You've worked hard; everything will turn out the way it's supposed to." "There's no way in the world that UVA would ever say no to you," Ms. Rothschild says. "Knock on wood," Kitty says, rapping the kitchen table with her knuckle. To me she says, "You knock too." Dutifully I knock on the table. "What does knock on wood even mean?" Daddy perks up. "Actually, it's thought to come from Greek mythology. According to Greek myths, dryads lived in trees, and people would invoke them for protection. Hence knocking on wood: just that added bit of protection so as not to tempt fate." Now it's Ms. Rothschild, Kitty, and me exchanging a look. Daddy's so square, and Ms. Rothschild seems so young compared to him, even though he's not that much older than her. And yet it works. * * * That night I can't fall asleep, so I lie in bed going over my extracurriculars again. The highlights are Belleview and my internship at the library last summer. My SAT score is higher than the UVA average. Margot got in with just forty more than me. I got a five on the AP US history exam. I've known people to get into UVA with less than that. Hopefully my essay gave me a bit of shine. I wrote about my mom and my sisters, and all the ways she's shaped us—when she was alive and after she wasn't. Mrs. Duvall said it was the best she'd read in years, but Mrs. Duvall has always had a soft spot for the Song girls, so who knows. I toss and turn for another few minutes, and finally I just throw off my covers and get out of bed. Then I go downstairs and start measuring out ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. 5 IT'S THURSDAY, CHARACTERS DAY, THE day I've been looking forward to all week. Peter and I spent hours going back and forth over this. I made a strong case for Alexander Hamilton and Eliza Schuyler, but had to back down when I realized how expensive it would be to rent Colonial costumes on such short notice. I think couples costumes might be my favorite part of being in a couple. Besides the kissing, and the free rides, and Peter himself. He wanted to go as Spider-Man and have me wear a red wig and be Mary Jane Watson, mostly because he already had the costume—and because he's really fit from lacrosse, and why not give the people what they want? His words, not mine. In the end we decided to go as Tyler Durden and Marla Singer from Fight Club. It was actually my best friend Chris's idea. She and Kitty and I were watching it at my house, and Chris said, you and Kavinsky should go as those psychos. She said it would be good for the shock value—for me, anyway. At first I balked because Marla isn't Asian and I have my only-Asian-people-costumes policy, but then Peter's mom found him a red leather jacket at an estate sale, and it just came together. As for my costume, Ms. Rothschild is loaning me clothes from her own wardrobe, because she was young in the nineties. This morning, Ms. Rothschild comes over before work to help me get ready. I'm sitting at the kitchen table in her black slip dress and a fake mohair jacket and a wig, which Kitty delights in messing up to get that crazy bedhead look. I keep swatting her moussed-up hands away, and she keeps saying, "But this is the look." "You're lucky I'm a pack rat," Ms. Rothschild says, sipping coffee from her thermos. She reaches into her bag and tosses me a pair of high, high black platform heels. "When I was in my twenties, Halloween was my thing. I was the queen of dressing up. It's your turn to take the crown now, Lara Jean." "You can still be the queen," I tell her. "No, dressing up in costumes is a young person's game. If I wore a sexy Sherlock Holmes costume now, I'd just look desperate." She fluffs up my wig. "It's all right. My time has passed." To Kitty she says, "What do you think? A little more gunmetal eye shadow, right?" "Let's not take it too far," I say. "This is still school." "The whole point of wearing a costume is taking it too far," Ms. Rothschild says airily. "Take lots of pictures when you get to school. Text them to me so I can show my work friends. They'll get a kick out of it. . . . God, speaking of work, what time is it?" Ms. Rothschild is always running late, something that drives Daddy crazy because he's always ten minutes early. And yet! When Peter comes to pick me up, I run outside and open the passenger-side door and scream when I see him. His hair is blond! "Oh my God!" I shriek, touching his hair. "Did you bleach it?" He grins a self-satisfied kind of grin. "It's spray. My mom found it for me. I can use it again when we do Romeo and Juliet for Halloween." He's eyeing me in my getup. "I like those shoes. You look sexy." I can feel my cheeks warm up. "Be quiet." As he backs out of my driveway, he glances at me again and says, "It's the truth, though." I give him a shove. "All I'm saying is, people better know who I am." "I've got you covered," he assures me. And he does. When we walk down the senior hallway, Peter cues up the Pixies' "Where Is My Mind?" on his phone, loud, and people actually clap for us. Not one person asks if I'm a manga character. * * * After school, Peter and I are lying on the couch; his feet are hanging off the end. He's still in his costume, but I've changed into my regular clothes. "You always have the cutest socks," he says, lifting up my right foot. These ones are gray with white polka dots and yellow bear faces. Proudly I say, "My great-aunt sends them from Korea. Korea has the cutest stuff, you know." "Can you ask her to send me some too? Not bears, but maybe, like, tigers. Tigers are cool." "Your feet are too big for socks as cute as these. Your toes would pop right out. You know what, I bet I could find you some socks that fit at . . . um, the zoo." Peter sits up and starts tickling me. I gasp out, "I bet the—pandas or gorillas have to—keep their feet warm somehow . . . in the winter. Maybe they have some kind of deodorized sock technology as well." I burst into giggles. "Stop . . . stop tickling me!" "Then stop being mean about my feet!" I've got my hand burrowed under his arm, and I am tickling him ferociously. But by doing so, I have opened myself up to more attacks. I yell, "Okay, okay, truce!" He stops, and I pretend to stop, but sneak a tickle under his arm, and he lets out a high-pitched un-Peter-like shriek. "You said truce!" he accuses. We both nod and lie back down, out of breath. "Do you really think my feet smell?" I don't. I love the way he smells after a lacrosse game—like sweat and grass and him. But I love to tease, to see that unsure look cross his face for just half a beat. "Well, I mean, on game days . . . ," I say. Then Peter attacks me again, and we're wrestling around, laughing, when Kitty walks in, balancing a tray with a cheese sandwich and a glass of orange juice. "Take it upstairs," she says, sitting down on the floor. "This is a public area." Disentangling myself, I give her a glare. "We aren't doing anything private, Katherine." "Your sister says my feet stink," Peter says, pointing his foot in her direction. "She's lying, isn't she?" She deflects it with a pop of her elbow. "I'm not smelling your foot." She shudders. "You guys are kinky." I yelp and throw a pillow at her. She gasps. "You're lucky you didn't knock over my juice! Daddy will kill you if you mess up the rug again." Pointedly she says, "Remember the nail-polish-remover incident?" Peter ruffles my hair. "Clumsy Lara Jean." I shove him away from me. "I'm not clumsy. You're the one who tripped over his own feet trying to get to the pizza the other night at Gabe's." Kitty bursts into giggles and Peter throws a pillow at her. "You guys need to stop ganging up on me!" he yells. "Are you staying for dinner?" she asks when her giggles subside. "I can't. My mom's making chicken fried steak." Kitty's eyes bulge. "Lucky. Lara Jean, what are we having?" "I'm defrosting some chicken breasts as we speak," I say. She makes a face, and I say, "If you don't like it, maybe you could learn to cook. I won't be around to cook your dinners anymore when I'm at college, you know." "Yeah, right. You'll probably be here every night." She turns to Peter. "Can I come to your house for dinner?" "Sure," he says. "You can both come." Kitty starts to cheer, and I shush her. "We can't, because then Daddy will have to eat alone. Ms. Rothschild has SoulCycle tonight." She takes a bite of her cheese sandwich. "I'm making myself another sandwich, then. I don't want to eat old freezer-burn chicken." I sit up suddenly. "Kitty, I'll make something else if you'll braid my hair tomorrow morning. I want to do something special for New York." I've never been to New York before in my life. For our last family vacation, we took a vote, and I picked New York, but I was voted down in favor of Mexico. Kitty wanted to eat fish tacos and swim in the ocean, and Margot wanted to see Mayan ruins and have a chance to work on her Spanish. In the end, I was happy to be outvoted. Before Mexico, Kitty and I had never even left the country. I've never seen water so blue. "I'll braid your hair only if I have time left over after I do mine," Kitty says, which is the best I can hope for, I suppose. She's just so good at doing hair. "Who will braid my hair when I'm at college?" I muse. "I will," Peter says, all confidence. "You don't know how," I scoff. "The kid will teach me. Won't you, kid?" "For a price," Kitty says. They negotiate back and forth before finally settling on Peter taking Kitty and her friends to the movies one Saturday afternoon. Which is how I come to be sitting cross-legged on the floor while Peter and Kitty sit on the couch above me, Kitty demonstrating a French braid and Peter recording it on his phone. "Now you try it," she says. He keeps losing a piece and getting frustrated. "You have a lot of hair, Lara Jean." "If you can't get the French, I'll teach you something more basic," Kitty says, and there is no mistaking the contempt in her voice. Peter hears it too. "No, I'm gonna get it. Just give me a second. I'm gonna master it just like I mastered the other kind of French." He winks at me. Kitty and I both scream at him for that. "Don't talk like that in front of my sister!" I yell, shoving him in the chest. "I was kidding!" "Also, you're not that good at French kissing." Even though, yeah, he is. Peter gives me a Who are you kidding? look, and I shrug, because who am I kidding? * * * Later, I'm walking Peter to his car when he stops in front of the passenger-side door and asks, "Hey, how many guys have you kissed?" "Just three. You, John Ambrose McClaren—" I say his name fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid, but Peter still has enough time to scowl. "And Allie Feldman's cousin." "The kid with the lazy eye?" "Yeah. His name was Ross. I thought he was cute. It happened at a sleepover at Allie's; I kissed him on a dare. But I wanted to." He gives me a speculative look. "So me, John, and Allie's cousin." "Uh-huh." "You're forgetting one person, Covey." "Who?" "Sanderson!" I wave my hand. "Oh, that doesn't really count." "Allie Feldman's cousin Ross who you kissed on a dare counts, but not Josh, who you technically cheated on me with?" Peter wags his finger at me. "Nuh-uh. I don't think so." I shove him. "We weren't actually together then and you know it!" "A technicality, but okay." He gives me a sidelong look. "Your number's higher than mine, you know. I've only ever kissed Gen, Jamila, and you." "What about the girl you met at Myrtle Beach with your cousins? Angelina?" A funny look crosses over his face. "Oh yeah. How'd you know about that?" "You bragged about it to everyone!" It was the summer before seventh grade. I remember it drove Genevieve crazy, that some other girl had kissed Peter before she did. We tried to find Angelina online, but we didn't have much to go on. Just her name. "So that makes it four girls you've kissed, and you did a lot more with them than kiss, Peter." "Fine!" I'm on a roll now. "You're the only boy I've ever kissed kissed. And you were the first. First kiss, first boyfriend, first everything! You got so many of my firsts, and I didn't get any from you." Sheepishly he says, "Actually that's not entirely true." I narrow my eyes. "What do you mean?" "There was never any girl at the beach. I made the whole thing up." "There was no Angelina with big boobs?" "I never said she had big boobs!" "Yes you did. You told Trevor that." "Okay, fine! Geez. You're missing the whole point, by the way." "What's the whole point, Peter?" He clears his throat. "That day in McClaren's basement. You were my first kiss too." Abruptly I stop laughing. "I was?" "Yeah." I stare at him. "Why didn't you ever tell me?" "I don't know. I guess I forgot. Also it's embarrassing that I made up a girl. Don't tell anybody!" I'm filled with a glowy kind of wonder. So I was Peter Kavinsky's first kiss. How perfectly wonderful! I throw my arms around him and lift my chin expectantly, waiting for my good-night kiss. He nuzzles his face against mine, and I feel gladness for the fact that he has smooth cheeks and barely even needs to shave. I close my eyes, breathe him in, wait for my kiss. And he plants a chaste peck on my forehead. "Good night, Covey." My eyes fly open. "That's all I get?" Smugly he says, "You said earlier that I'm not that good at kissing, remember?" "I was kidding!" He winks at me as he hops in his car. I watch him drive away. Even after a whole year of being together, it can still feel so new. To love a boy, to have him love you back. It feels miraculous. I don't go inside right away. Just in case he comes back. Hands on my hips, I wait a full twenty seconds before I turn toward the front steps, which is when his car comes peeling back down our street and stops right in front of our house. Peter sticks his head out the window. "All right then," he calls out. "Let's practice." I run back to his car, I pull him toward me by his shirt, and angle my face against his—and then I push him away and run backward, laughing, my hair whipping around my face. "Covey!" he yells. "That's what you get!" I call back gleefully. "See you on the bus tomorrow!" * * * That night, when we're in the bathroom brushing our teeth, I ask Kitty, "On a scale of one to ten, how much will you miss me when I go to college? Be honest." "It's too early for this kind of talk," she says, rinsing her toothbrush. "Just answer." "A four." "A four! You said you missed Margot a six point five!" Kitty shakes her head at me. "Lara Jean, why do you have to remember every little thing? It's not healthy." "The least you can do is pretend you'll miss me!" I burst out. "It's the decent thing to do." "Margot was going all the way across the world. You're only going fifteen minutes away, so I won't even have a chance to miss you." "Still." She clasps her hands to her heart. "Okay. How's this? I'm going to miss you so much I'll cry every night!" I smile. "That's more like it." "I'll miss you so much, I'll want to slit my wrists!" She cackles wildly. "Katherine. Don't talk like that!" "Then quit fishing for compliments," she says, and she goes off to bed, while I stay behind and pack up my toiletries for the New York trip tomorrow. If I get into UVA, I'll probably just keep a set of my makeup and creams and combs here at home, so I won't have to pack every time. Margot had to be so careful about what she brought with her to Saint Andrews, because Scotland is so far away and she isn't able to make the trip back home very often. I'll probably only pack for fall and winter and leave all my summer things at home, and then just switch them out when the seasons change. 6 IN THE MORNING, DADDY DRIVES me to school to catch the charter bus. "Call me as soon as you're settled in your room," he says as we wait at the traffic light by school. "I will." "Did you pack the emergency twenty?" "Yes." Last night, Daddy gave me a twenty-dollar bill to put in the secret pocket of my jacket, just in case. I have his credit card, too, for spending money. Ms. Rothschild loaned me her tiny umbrella and her portable cell phone charger. Daddy gives me a sidelong look and a sigh. "It's all happening so fast now. First your senior trip, then prom, then graduation. Only a matter of time before you're out of the house too." "You'll still have Kitty," I say. "Though it's true that she isn't exactly the ray of sunshine that I am." He laughs. "If I get into UVA, I'll be around all the time, so don't you worry about a thing." I sing it the way he does, like Stevie Wonder. * * * On the bus I sit next to Peter; Chris sits with Lucas. I thought it might be a tough sell to get Chris to come on the senior trip, and it would have been, if Disney World had won out. But she's never been to New York before either, so it ended up being easy peasy. We're on the road for an hour before Peter engages everybody in a game of Never Have I Ever, which I pretend to be asleep for, because I have not done much of anything, drugs-wise or sex-wise, and that's all anybody cares about. Mercifully, the game dies down pretty fast, I suppose because it's a lot less exciting when there are no red Solo cups involved. Just as I'm opening my eyes and stretching my arms and "waking up," Gabe suggests Truth or Dare, and my stomach takes a nosedive. Ever since Peter's and my hot tub video scandal last year, I've felt self-conscious about what people might be thinking about what we do or don't do. Sex-wise, I mean. And Truth or Dare is miles worse than Never Have I Ever! How many people have you had sex with? Have you ever been in a threeway? How many times a day do you jerk off? Those are the kinds of questions people ask each other, and if anybody ever asked them of me, I would have to say that I'm a virgin, and in some ways, that's even more subversive than any other answer. Usually, I slip away to the kitchen or another room when this game gets started at other parties. But there's nowhere for me to slip away to today, for we are on a bus, and I am well and truly trapped. Peter gives me an amused look. He knows what I'm thinking. He says he doesn't care what people think, but I know that's not true. Historically, Peter cares very much what other people think of him. "Truth or dare," Gabe says to Lucas. Lucas takes a swig of his Vitaminwater. "Truth." "Have you ever had sex with a dude?" My whole body goes tight. Lucas is gay, and he's out, but he isn't out out. He doesn't want to deal with having to explain himself to people all the time, and why should he have to? It's not like it's anybody else's business. There's a quick beat before Lucas says, "No. Is that an offer?" Everybody laughs, and Lucas has a slight smile on his face as he takes another swig of Vitaminwater, but I can see the tension in his neck, his shoulders. It must take a toll, having to be on guard for these kinds of questions, ready to deflect, to smile, to laugh it off. My virginity question is tiny in comparison. But I still don't want to answer. I pray that Lucas picks me next, because I know he'll go easy on me. But Lucas must not notice the pleading glances I am throwing his way, because instead of picking me, he chooses Genevieve, who is sitting a few rows back, looking at her phone. She's been dating a guy from her church and he goes to a different school, so no one sees her around as much. I heard from Chris that her parents got divorced, and that her dad moved into a new condo with his girlfriend. Chris said Genevieve's mom had a breakdown and had to be hospitalized for a few days, but things are better now, which I'm glad for. Peter sent daffodils to her mom when she came back home, and we labored over what the card should say—we finally decided on just Be well, Wendy. Love, Peter. The flowers were my idea, and I chipped in, but of course I didn't put my name on the card. I've just always liked Wendy; she's been nice to me since I was little. I still get that nervous dip in my stomach when I see Genevieve, but not as bad as it used to be. I know we'll never be friends again, and I've made my peace with it. "Truth or dare, Gen," Lucas calls out. She looks up. Automatically she says, "Dare." Of course Genevieve picks dare; she's a lot of things, but she's no coward. I'd rather do anything than answer a sex question, so I'll likely be picking dare too. Lucas dares Genevieve to go sit next to Mr. Jain and put her head on his shoulder. "Make it believable," Lucas says. Everyone howls with laughter. I can tell she really doesn't want to do it, but again, she's not a coward. We all watch as she makes her way up the aisle and then stops at Mr. Jain's row. Mr. Jain is new this year; he teaches biology. He's on the younger side, handsome; he wears skinny jeans with button-downs to school. Genevieve slides into the seat next to him, and all I can see is the back of her head as she talks. He's smiling. Then she snuggles closer to him and drops her head on his shoulder, and he jumps like a scared cat. Everyone is laughing, and Mr. Jain turns around and shakes his head at us, looking relieved it was a joke. Genevieve returns to us, triumphant. She takes her seat and looks around the group; our eyes meet for a moment, and my stomach dips. Then she looks away. "Truth or dare, Chrissy." "This game is so lame," Chris says. Gen just stares at her, eyebrows raised in challenge, and Chris finally rolls her eyes and says, "Whatever. Truth." When they go head-to-head like this, it's impossible not to notice that they are related—first cousins, on their moms' side. Genevieve takes her time thinking up her question. Then she lands the whammy. "Did you or did you not play doctor with our cousin Alex when we were in third grade? And don't lie." Everyone is whooping and hollering, and Chris's face has gone bright red. I give her a sympathetic look. I know the answer to this one. "True," she mutters, and everyone howls. Luckily for me, this is about when Mr. Jain gets up and puts a DVD in the DVD player, so the game dissolves and my turn never comes. Chris turns around and says to me in a low voice, "You got off so easy." "Don't I know it," I whisper back, and Peter chuckles. He can chuckle all he wants, but I'm sure he's a little relieved too. Not that he's ever said so, but it's not like he'd want the whole senior class to know that he and his girlfriend of a year—longer, if you count our fake relationship—have never had sex before. * * * Hardly anybody in our class has been to New York City, so we're all just a little wide-eyed about it. I don't think I've ever been in a place so alive. It's a city that has its own heartbeat. I just can't believe how many people there are, how crowded it is, how sophisticated everyone looks. They all look like—like city people. Except for the tourists like us, of course. Chris tries to act bored and unfazed by it all, but when we get on the subway to go to the Empire State Building, she doesn't hold on to the pole and nearly falls over when we come to a sudden stop. "It's different than in DC," she mutters. That's for sure. DC is the closest big city to Charlottesville, but it's still a sleepy little town compared to New York. There's so much to see, so many stores I wish we could stop in. Everyone is in a hurry; they all have plans and places to be. Peter gets screamed at by an old lady for walking and looking at his cell phone, which makes everyone laugh, and for once, Peter is embarrassed. It's all so overwhelming. When we get to the Empire State Building, I make Peter take a selfie with me at the elevators. At the top, I feel light-headed, we're so high up. Ms. Davenport tells me to sit with my head between my knees for a minute, which helps. When the nausea passes, I get up and go looking for Peter, who has disappeared during my time of need. As I turn the corner, I hear Peter calling out, "Wait! Wait! Sir!" He's following a security guard who is approaching a red backpack on the floor. The security guard bends down and picks it up. "Is this yours?" he demands. "Uh, yeah—" "Why did you leave it on the ground?" He unzips the backpack and pulls out a teddy bear. Peter's eyes dart around. "Can you put that back inside? It's for a promposal for my girlfriend. It's supposed to be a surprise." The security guard is shaking his head. He mutters to himself and starts looking in the backpack again. "Sir, please just squeeze the bear." "I'm not squeezing the bear," the security guard tells him. Peter reaches out and squeezes the teddy bear and the bear squeaks out, "Will you go to prom with me, Lara Jean?" I clap my hands to my mouth in delight. Sternly the security guard says, "You're in New York City, kid. You can't just leave a backpack on the ground for your proposal." "It's actually called a promposal," Peter corrects, and the security guard gives him a look. "Sorry. Can I just have the bear back?" He spots me then. "Tell him Sleepless in Seattle is your favorite movie, Lara Jean!" I rush over. "Sir, it's my favorite movie. Please don't kick him out." The security guard is trying not to smile. "I wasn't going to kick him out," he says to me. To Peter he says, "Just be more aware next time. In New York, we're vigilant. If we see something, we say something, do you feel me? This is not whatever little country town you guys are from. This is New York City. We do not play around here." Both Peter and I nod, and the security guard walks away. As soon as he's gone, Peter and I look at each other and break out into giddy laughter. "Somebody reported my book bag!" he says. "My promposal got fucked." I take the teddy bear out of his bag and hug it to my chest. I'm so happy I don't even tell him not to cuss. "I love it." "You were going to turn the corner, and see the book bag right here by the telescopes. Then you were going to pick up the bear, and squeeze it, and—" "How was I going to know to squeeze it?" I ask. Peter pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of the bag. It says, Squeeze Me. "It fell off when the security guard was manhandling it. See? I thought of everything." Everything except the ramifications of leaving an unattended bag in a public place in New York City, but still! It's the thought that counts, and the thought is the sweetest. I squeeze the bear, and again he says, "Will you go to prom with me, Lara Jean?" "Yes, I will, Howard." Howard is, of course, the name of the bear from Sleepless in Seattle. "Why are you saying yes to him and not to me?" Peter demands. "Because he asked." I raise my eyebrows at him and wait. Rolling his eyes, Peter mumbles, "Lara Jean, will you go to prom with me? God, you really do ask for a lot." I hold the bear out to him. "I will, but first kiss Howard." "Covey. No. Hell, no." "Please!" I give him a pleading look. "It's in the movie, Peter." And grumbling, he does it, in front of everybody, which is how I know he is utterly and completely mine. * * * On the bus to our hotel in New Jersey, Peter whispers to me, "What do you think—should we sneak out after bed checks and come back to the city?" He's mostly joking. He knows I'm not the type to sneak out on a school trip. His eyes go wide when I say, "How would we even get to the city? Do taxis go from New Jersey to New York?" I can't even believe I am considering it. It's so unlike me. Hastily I say, "No, no, never mind. We can't. We'd get lost, or mugged, and then we'd get sent home, and then I'd be so mad we missed out on Central Park and everything." Peter gives me a skeptical look. "Do you really think Jain and Davenport would send us home?" "Maybe not, but they might make us stay at the hotel all day long as punishment, which is even worse. Let's not risk it." Then: "What would we do?" I'm playing pretend now, not really planning, but Peter plays along. "We could go hear some live music, or go to a comedy show. Sometimes famous comedians do surprise sets." "I wish we could see Hamilton." When we drove through Times Square, Lucas and I craned our heads to see if we could get a glimpse of the Hamilton marquee, but no such luck. "Tomorrow I want to get a New York bagel and see how it stacks up against Bodo's." Bodo's Bagels are legendary in Charlottesville; we're very proud of those bagels. Putting my head on his shoulder, I yawn and say, "I wish we could go to Levain Bakery so I could try their cookie. It's supposed to be like no chocolate chip cookie you've had before. I want to go to Jacques Torres's chocolate shop too. His chocolate chip cookie is the definitive chocolate chip cookie, you know. It's truly legendary. . . ." My eyes drift closed, and Peter pats my hair. I'm starting to fall asleep when I realize he's unraveling the milkmaid braids Kitty pinned on the crown of my head. My eyes fly back open. "Peter!" "Shh, go back to sleep. I want to practice something." "You'll never get it back to how she had it." "Just let me try," he says, collecting bobby pins in the palm of his hand. When we get to the hotel in New Jersey, despite his best efforts, my braids are lumpy and loose and won't stay pinned. "I'm sending a picture of this to Kitty so she'll see what a bad student you are," I say as I gather up my things. "No, don't," Peter quickly says, which makes me smile. * * * The next day is surprisingly springlike for March. The sun is shining and flowers are just beginning to bud. It feels like I'm in You've Got Mail, when Kathleen Kelly goes to meet Joe Fox in Riverside Park. I would love to see the exact garden where they kiss at the end of the movie, but our tour guide brings us to Central Park instead. Chris and I are taking pictures of the Imagine mosaic in Strawberry Fields when I realize Peter is nowhere in sight. I ask Gabe and Darrell, but no one's seen him. I text him, but he doesn't reply. We're about to move on to Sheep Meadow for a picnic, and I'm starting to panic, because what if Mr. Jain or Ms. Davenport notices he's not here? He comes jogging up just as we're about to go. He's not even out of breath or the least bit concerned he almost got left behind. "Where were you?" I demand. "We almost left!" Triumphantly he holds up a brown paper bag. "Open it and see." I grab the bag from him and look inside. It's a Levain chocolate chip cookie, still warm. "Oh my God, Peter! You're so thoughtful." I get on my tiptoes and hug him, and then turn to Chris. "Isn't he so thoughtful, Chris?" Peter's sweet, but he's never this sweet. This is two romantic things in a row, so I figure I should praise him accordingly, because the boy responds well to positive reinforcement. She's already got her hand inside the bag, and she stuffs a piece of cookie in her mouth. "Very thoughtful." She reaches for another piece, but Peter snatches the bag away from her. "Damn, Chris! Let Covey have a bite before you eat the whole thing." "Well, why'd you only get one?" "Because it's huge! And it cost, like, five bucks for one." "I can't believe you ran and got this for me," I say. "You weren't nervous you'd get lost?" "Nah," he says, all proud. "I just looked at Google Maps and ran for it. I got a little turned around when I got back in the park, but somebody gave me directions. New Yorkers are really friendly. All that stuff about them being rude must be bullshit." "That's true. Everyone we've met has been really nice. Except for that old lady who screamed at you for walking and looking at your phone," Chris says, snickering at Peter, who scowls at her. I take a big bite of the cookie. The Levain cookie is more like a scone, really dense and doughy. Heavy, too. It really is like no chocolate chip cookie I've ever tasted. "So?" Peter asks me. "What's the verdict?" "It's unique. It's in a class of its own." I'm taking another bite when Ms. Davenport comes up and hustles us along, eyeing the cookie in my hand. Our tour guide has a pointer that looks like the Statue of Liberty's torch, and he holds it up in the air to shepherd us through the park. It's actually pretty embarrassing, and I wish we could just go off by ourselves and explore the city, but no. He has a ponytail and he wears a khaki vest, and I think he's kind of corny, but Ms. Davenport seems to be into him. After Central Park we take the subway downtown and get off to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. While everyone else is in line for ice cream at Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, Peter and I run over to Jacques Torres's chocolate shop. It's Peter's idea. Of course I ask Ms. Davenport for permission first. She's busy talking to the tour guide, so she waves us off. I feel so grown up, walking through the streets of New York without any adults. When we get to the store, I'm so excited, I'm shaking. Finally I get to try Jacques's famous chocolate chip cookie. I bite into it. This cookie is flat, chewy, dense. Chocolate has pooled on top and hardened! The butter and sugar taste almost caramelized. It's heaven. "Yours are better," Peter says, his mouth rudely full, and I shush him, looking around to make sure the girl at the register didn't hear. "Stop lying," I say. "I'm not!" He is. "I just don't know why mine aren't like his," I say. "It must be the industrial ovens." It seems I'll just have to accept my not-quite-perfect chocolate chip cookie and be content with good enough. As we step out the door, I notice a bakery across the street called Almondine and another one on the opposite corner called One Girl Cookies. New York is truly a city of baked goods. Peter and I walk back to the ice cream shop holding hands. Everyone is out on the pier, sitting on benches, eating their ice cream, and taking selfies with the Manhattan skyline behind them. New York keeps surprising me with how pretty it is. Peter must be thinking the same thing, because he squeezes my hand and says, "This city is awesome." "It really is." * * * I'm sound asleep when there is a knock at the door. I wake up with a start. It's still dark outside. In the bed across the room, Chris doesn't stir. Then I hear Peter's voice on the other side of the door. "Covey, it's me. Want to go watch the sunrise on the roof?" I get out of bed and open the door, and there is Peter, in a UVA hoodie, holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a cup with a tea bag hanging out the side. "What time is it?" "Five thirty. Hurry, go get your coat." "Okay, give me two minutes," I whisper. I run to our bathroom and brush my teeth and then I fumble around in the darkness for my jacket. "I can't find my jacket!" "You can wear my hoodie," Peter offers from the doorway. From under her blanket Chris growls, "If you guys don't shut up, I swear to God." "Sorry," I whisper. "Do you want to watch the sunrise with us?" Peter shoots me a pouty look, but Chris's head is still under her blanket, so she doesn't see. "No. Just leave!" "Sorry, sorry," I say, and I scurry out the door. We take the elevator to the top, and it's still dark outside, but it's beginning to get light. The city is just waking up. Right away Peter shrugs out of his hoodie, and I put my arms up and he slips it over my head. It's warm and smells like the detergent his mother uses. Peter leans over the edge, looking across the water to the city. "Can't you picture us living here after college? We could live in a skyscraper. With a doorman. And a gym." "I don't want to live in a skyscraper. I want to live in a brownstone in the West Village. Near a bookstore." "We'll figure it out," he says. I lean over the edge too. I never would have pictured myself living in New York City. Before I came here, it seemed like such an intimidating place, for tough people who aren't afraid to get into a fight with someone on the subway, or men in suits who work on Wall Street, or artists who live in SoHo lofts. But now that I'm here, it's not so scary, not with Peter by my side. I steal a look at him. Is this how it goes? You fall in love, and nothing seems truly scary anymore, and life is one big possibility? 7 It's a six-hour trip back to Virginia, and I'm asleep for most of it. It's dark out by the time we pull into the school parking lot, and I see Daddy's car parked up front. We've all had our own cars and been driving ourselves around for so long, but pulling into the school parking lot and seeing all the parents waiting there for us feels like being in elementary school again, like coming back from a field trip. It's a nice feeling. On the way home, we pick up a pizza and Ms. Rothschild comes over and she and Daddy and Kitty and I eat it in front of the TV. After, I unpack, do the bit of homework I have left, talk to Peter on the phone, and then get ready for bed. But I end up tossing and turning for what feels like eternity. Maybe it's all the sleep I got on the bus, or maybe it's the fact that any day now, I'll hear from UVA. Either way, I can't sleep, so I creep downstairs and start opening drawers. What could I bake this time of night that wouldn't involve waiting for butter to soften? It's a perpetual question in my life. Ms. Rothschild says we should just leave butter out in a dish like she does, but we aren't a leave-the-butter-out family, we are a butter-in-the-refrigerator family. Besides, it messes with the chemistry if the butter is too soft, and in Virginia in the spring and summertime, butter melts quick. I suppose I could finally try baking the cinnamon roll brownies I've been playing around with in my head. Katharine Hepburn's brownie recipe plus a dash of cinnamon plus cinnamon cream cheese swirl on top. I'm melting chocolate in a double boiler and already regretting starting this project so late when Daddy pads into the kitchen in the tartan robe Margot gave him for Christmas this past year. "You can't sleep either, huh?" he says. "I'm trying out a new recipe. I think I might call them cinnabrownies. Or sin brownies." "Good luck waking up tomorrow," Daddy says, rubbing the back of his neck. I yawn. "You know, I was thinking maybe you'd call in for me and I'd sleep in a little and then you and I could have a nice, relaxing father-daughter breakfast together. I could make mushroom omelets." He laughs. "Nice try." He nudges me toward the stairs. "I'll finish up the sin brownies or whatever they're called. You go to bed." I yawn again. "Can I trust you to do a cream cheese swirl?" Daddy looks alarmed and I say, "Forget it. I'll finish making the batter and bake them tomorrow." "I'll help," he says. "I'm pretty much done." "I don't mind." "Okay then. Can you measure me out a quarter cup of flour?" Daddy nods and gets out the measuring cup. "That's the liquid measuring cup. We need the dry measuring cups so you can level off the flour." He goes back to the cupboard, and switches them out. I watch as he scoops flour and then carefully takes a butter knife to the top. "Very good." "I learn from the best," he says. I cock my head at him. "Why are you still awake, Daddy?" "Ah. I guess I have a lot on my mind." He puts the top back on the flour canister and then stops and hesitates before asking, "How do you feel about Trina? You like her, right?" I take the pot of chocolate off the heat. "I like her a lot. I think I might even love her. Do you love her?" This time Daddy doesn't hesitate at all. "I do." "Well, good," I say. "I'm glad." He looks relieved. "Good," he says back. Then he says it again. "Good." Things must be pretty serious if he's asking me such a question. I wonder if he's thinking of asking her to move in. Before I can ask, he says, "No one will ever take the place of your mom. You know that, don't you?" "Of course I do." I lick the chocolate spoon with the tip of my tongue. It's hot, too hot. It's good that he should love again, that he should have someone, a real partner. He's been alone so long it felt like the normal thing, but this is a better thing. And he's happy, anyone can see it. Now that Ms. Rothschild's here, I can't picture her not here. "I'm glad for you, Daddy." 8 All morning long I've been checking my phone, just like pretty much every senior at my school has been doing all week. Monday came and went with no word from UVA, then Tuesday, then Wednesday. Today is Thursday, and still nothing. The UVA admissions office always send out acceptances before April first, and last year, notices went out the third week of March, so it really could be any day now. The way it goes is, they put the word out on social media to check the Student Info System, and then you log in to the system and learn your fate. Colleges used to send acceptance letters in the mail. Mrs. Duvall says that sometimes parents would call the school when the mailman came, and the kid would jump in their car and drive home as fast as they could. There's something romantic about waiting for a letter in the mail, waiting for your destiny. I'm sitting in French class, my last class of the day, when someone shrieks, "UVA just tweeted! Decisions are out!" Madame Hunt says, "Calmez-vous, calmez-vous," but everyone's getting up and grabbing their phones, not paying attention to her. This is it. My hands tremble as I log in to the system; my heart is going a million miles a minute waiting for the website to load. The University of Virginia received over 30,000 applications this year. The Committee on Admission has examined your application and carefully considered your academic, personal, and extracurricular credentials, and while your application was very strong, we are sorry to inform you . . . This can't be real. I'm in a nightmare and any moment I'm going to wake up. Wake up wake up wake up. Dimly, I can hear people talking all around me; I hear a scream of joy down the hallway. Then the bell rings, and people are jumping out of their seats and running out the door. Madame Hunt murmurs, "They usually don't send out the notices until after school." I look up, and she's looking at me with sad, sympathetic eyes. Mom eyes. Her eyes are what undo me. Everything is ruined. My chest hurts; it's hard to breathe. All of my plans, everything I was counting on, none of it will come true now. Me coming home for Sunday night dinner, doing laundry on weeknights with Kitty, Peter walking me to class, studying all night at Clemons Library. It's all gone. Nothing will go like we planned now. I look back down at my phone, read the words again. We are sorry to inform you . . . My eyes start to blur. Then I read it again, from the beginning. I didn't even get wait-listed. I don't even have that. I stand up, get my bag, and walk out the door. I feel a stillness inside of me, but at the same time this acute awareness of my heart pumping, my ears pounding. It's like all the parts are moving and continuing to function as they do, but I've gone completely numb. I didn't get in. I'm not going to UVA; they don't want me. I'm walking to my locker, still in a daze, when I nearly run right into Peter, who is turning the corner. He grabs me. "So?" His eyes are bright and eager and expectant. My voice comes out sounding very far away. "I didn't get in." His mouth drops. "Wait—what?" I can feel the lump rising in my throat. "Yeah." "Not even wait-listed?" I shake my head. "Fuck." The word is one long exhale. Peter looks stunned. He lets go of my arm. I can tell he doesn't know what to say. "I have to go," I say, turning away from him. "Wait—I'll come with you!" "No, don't. You have an away game today. You can't miss that." "Covey, I don't give a shit about that." "No, I'd rather you didn't. Just—I'll call you later." He reaches for me and I sidestep away from him and hurry down the hallway, and he calls out my name, but I don't stop. I just have to make it to my car, and then I can cry. Not yet. Just a hundred more steps, and then a hundred more than that. I make it to the parking lot before the tears come. I cry the whole drive home. I cry so hard I can barely see, and I have to pull over at a McDonald's to sit in the parking lot and cry some more. It's starting to sink in, that this isn't a nightmare, this is real, and this fall I won't be going to UVA with Peter. Everyone will be so disappointed. They were all expecting I'd get in. We all thought it was going to happen. I never should have made such a big deal about wanting to go there. I should've just kept it to myself, not let anyone see how much I wanted it. Now they'll all be worried for me, and it'll be worse than Madame Hunt's sad mom eyes. When I get home, I take my phone and go upstairs to my room. I take off my school clothes, put on my pajamas, and crawl into bed and look at my phone. I've got missed calls from Daddy, from Margot, from Peter. I go on Instagram, and my feed is all people posting their reaction shots to getting into UVA. My cousin Haven got in; she posted a screen grab of her acceptance letter. She won't be going there, though. She's going to Wellesley, her first choice. She doesn't even care about UVA; it was her safety school. I'm sure she'll feign sympathy for me when she finds out I didn't get in, but inside she'll feel secretly superior. Emily Nussbaum got in. She posted a picture of herself in a UVA sweatshirt and baseball cap. Gosh, did everyone get in? I thought my grades were better than hers. I guess not. A little while later, I hear the front door open and Kitty's footsteps come running up the stairs. She throws open my bedroom door, but I am on my side, eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. "Lara Jean?" she whispers. I don't reply. I need a little while longer before I have to face her and Daddy and tell them I didn't make it. I make my breathing go heavy and natural, and then I hear Kitty retreat and close the door quietly behind her. Before long, I fall asleep for real. * * * When I wake up, it's dark outside. It always feels so bleak to fall asleep when it's still light out and then wake up to darkness. My eyes feel swollen and sore. Downstairs, I hear water running in the kitchen sink and the clink of silverware against dishes. I go down the staircase and stop before I make it to the bottom. "I didn't get into UVA," I say. Daddy turns around; his sleeves are rolled up, his arms soapy, his eyes even sadder than Madame Hunt's. Dad eyes. He turns off the faucet and comes over to the staircase, hoists me up, and draws me into his arms for a hug. His arms are still wet. "I'm so sorry, honey," he says. We're almost the same height, because I am still standing on the stairs. I'm focusing on not crying, but when he finally releases me, he tips up my chin and examines my face worriedly, and it's all I can do to keep it together. "I know how badly you wanted this." I keep swallowing to keep down the tears. "It still doesn't feel real." He smooths the hair out of my eyes. "Everything is going to work out. I promise it will." "I just—I just really didn't want to leave you guys," I cry, and I can't help it, tears are rolling down my face. Daddy's wiping them away as fast as they can fall. He looks like he's going to cry too, which makes me feel worse, because I had planned to put on a brave face, and now look. Putting his arm around me, he admits, "Selfishly, I was looking forward to having you so close to home. But Lara Jean, you're still going to get into a great school." "But it won't be UVA," I whisper. Daddy hugs me to him. "I'm so sorry," he says again. He's sitting next to me on the staircase, his arm still around me, when Kitty comes back inside from walking Jamie Fox-Pickle. She looks from me to Daddy, and she drops Jamie's leash. "Did you not get in?" I wipe my face and try to shrug. "No. It's okay. It wasn't meant to be, I guess." "Sorry you didn't get in," she says, her voice tiny, her eyes sorrowful. "Come give me a hug at least," I say, and she does. The three of us sit like that on the staircase for quite some time, Daddy's arm around my shoulder, Kitty's hand on my knee. * * * Daddy makes me a turkey sandwich, which I eat, and then I go back upstairs and get back in bed to look at my phone again, when there's a knock at my window. It's Peter, still in his lacrosse uniform. I jump out of bed and open the window for him. He climbs inside, searches my face, and then says, "Hey, rabbit eyes," which is what he calls me when I've been crying. It makes me laugh, and it feels good to laugh. I reach out to hug him and he says, "You don't want to hug me right now. I didn't shower after the game. I came straight here." I hug him anyway, and he doesn't smell bad to me at all. "Why didn't you ring the doorbell?" I ask, looking up at him, hooking my arms around his waist. "I thought your dad might not like me coming over so late. Are you okay?" "Kind of." I let go of him and sit down on my bed, and he sits at my desk. "Not really." "Yeah, me too." There's a long pause, and then Peter says, "I feel like I didn't say the right things earlier. I was just bummed. I didn't think this was going to happen." I stare down at my bedspread. "I know. Me either." "It just sucks so much. Your grades are way better than mine. Cary got in, and you're better than him!" "Well, I'm not a lacrosse player or a golfer." I try not to sound bitter-hearted, but it's an effort. A very traitorous, very small thought worms its way into my head—it's not fair that Peter's going and I'm not, when I deserve it more. I worked harder. I got better grades, higher SAT scores. "Fuck them." "Peter." "Sorry. Screw them." He exhales. "This is insane." Automatically I say, "Well, it's not insane. UVA's a really competitive school. I'm not mad at them. I just wish I was going there." He nods. "Yeah, me too." Suddenly, we hear the toilet flush from the hallway, and we both freeze. "You'd better go," I whisper. Peter gives me one more hug before climbing back out my window. I stand there and watch him run down the street to where he parked his car. After he drives away, I check my phone, and there are two missed calls from Margot and then a text from her that says, I'm so sorry. And that's when I start to cry again, because that's when it finally feels real. 9 WHEN I WAKE UP IN the morning, it's the first thing I think of. How I'm not going to UVA, how I don't even know where I'm going. My whole life I've never had to worry about that. I've always known where my place is, where I belong. Home. As I lie there in bed, I start a mental tally of all the things I'm going to miss out on, not going to a college just around the corner from home. The moments. Kitty's first period. My dad's an OB, so it's not like he doesn't have it covered, but I've been waiting for this moment, to give Kitty a speech about womanhood that she'll hate. It might not happen for another year or two. But I got mine when I was twelve and Margot got hers when she was eleven, so who knows? When I got my first period, Margot explained all about tampons and what kind to use for what days, and to sleep on your belly when your cramps are particularly bad. She made me feel like I was joining some secret club, a woman's club. Because of my big sister, the grief I felt about growing up was less acute. Kitty likely won't have either of her big sisters here, but she does have Ms. Rothschild, and she's only just across the street. She's grown so attached to Ms. Rothschild that she'll probably prefer a period talk from her anyway, truth be told. Even if in the future Daddy and Ms. Rothschild were to break up, I know Ms. Rothschild would never turn her back on Kitty. They're cemented. I'll miss Kitty's birthday, too. I've never not been at home for her birthday. I'll have to remind Daddy to carry on our birthday-sign tradition. For the first time ever, all of the Song girls will be living truly apart. We three probably won't ever live in the same house together again. We'll come home for holidays and school breaks, but it won't be the same. It won't be what it was. But I suppose it hasn't been, not since Margot left for college. The thing is, you get used to it. Before you even realize it's happening, you get used to things being different, and it will be that way for Kitty too. At breakfast I keep stealing glances at her, memorizing every little thing. Her gangly legs, her knobby knees, the way she watches TV with a half smile on her face. She'll only be as young as this for a little while longer. Before I leave, I should do more special things with her, just the two of us. At the commercial break she eyes me. "Why are you staring at me?" "No reason. I'm just going to miss you is all." Kitty slurps the rest of her cereal milk. "Can I have your room?" "What? No!" "Yeah, but you won't be living here. Why should your room just sit there and go to waste?" "Why do you want my room and not Margot's? Hers is bigger." Practically, she says, "Yours is closer to the bathroom and it's got better light." I dread change, and Kitty steps right into it. She leans in extra hard. It's her way of coping. "You'll miss me when I'm gone, I know it, so quit pretending you won't," I say. "I've always wondered what it would be like to be an only child," she says in a singsong voice. When I frown, she hurries to say, "Only kidding!" I know Kitty's just being Kitty, but I can't help but feel a tiny stab of hurt. Why would anyone want to be an only child? What's so great about having no one to warm your feet up against on a cold winter night? "You'll miss me," I say, more to myself than to her. She doesn't hear me anyway; her show is back on. * * * When I get to school, I go straight to Mrs. Duvall's office to tell her the news. As soon as Mrs. Duvall sees the look on my face, she says, "Come sit down," and she gets up from behind her desk and closes the door behind me. She sits in the chair next to mine. "Tell me." I take a deep breath. "I didn't get into UVA." Now that I've said it a few times, you'd think it would be easier to get the words out, but it's not—it's worse. She heaves a sigh. "I'm surprised. I'm very, very surprised. Your application was strong, Lara Jean. You're a wonderful student. I did hear that they got a few thousand more applicants this year than in years past. Still, I would've thought you'd be wait-listed at the very least." All I can do is give her a small shrug in response, because I don't trust my voice right now. She leans forward and hugs me. "I heard from a source in the admissions department that William and Mary will be sending out their decisions today, so buck up for that. And there's still UNC, and U of R. Where else did you apply? Tech?" I shake my head. "JMU." "All great schools. You'll be fine, Lara Jean. I'm not the least bit worried about you." I don't say what I'm thinking, which is that we both thought I'd get into UVA, too; instead I just offer a weak smile. * * * When I walk out, I see Chris at the lockers. I tell her the news about UVA, and she says, "You should come with me and work on a farm in Costa Rica." Stunned, I lean back against the wall and say, "Wait—what?" "I told you about this." "No, I don't think you did." I've known Chris wasn't going away to college, that she was going to go to community college first and then see. She doesn't have the grades, or much inclination, really. But she never said anything about Costa Rica. "I'm going to take a year off and go work on farms. You work for like five hours, and they give you room and board. It's amazing." "But what do you know about farming?" "Nothing! It doesn't matter. You just have to be willing to work; they'll teach you. I could also work at a surfing school in New Zealand, or learn how to make wine in Italy. Basically, I could go anywhere. Doesn't that sound amazing?" "It does. . . ." I try to smile but my face feels tight. "Is your mom okay with it?" Chris picks at her thumbnail. "Whatever, I'm eighteen. She doesn't