To All the Boys I've Loved Before Page 7

  I didn’t think this thing through, obviously. That’s what Margot would say, including and especially the “obviously.” If I had thought it through, I would have made up a boyfriend and not picked an actual person. More specifically, I would not have picked Peter K. He is literally the worst person I could have picked, because everybody knows him. He’s Peter Kavinsky, for Pete’s sake. Kavinsky of Gen and Kavinsky. It doesn’t matter that they’re broken up. They’re an institution at this institution.

  I spend the rest of the day hiding out. I even eat my lunch in the girls’ bathroom.

  My last class of the day is gym. With Peter. Coach White gives us a reintroduction to the weight room, and we have to practice using the machines. Peter and his friends already know how to use them, so they separate off from the group and have a free-throw contest, and I don’t get a chance to talk to him. At one point he catches me looking at him and he winks, which makes me want to shrivel up and die.

  After class is over, I wait for Peter outside the boys’ locker room, planning out what I’m going to say, how I’m going to explain it. I’ll start out with, “So about this morning . . . ,” and then I’ll give a little laugh, like how hilarious was that!

  Peter’s the last one to come out. His hair is wet from a shower. It’s weird that boys take showers at school, since girls never do. I wonder if they have stalls in there, or just a bunch of shower heads and no privacy.

  “Hey,” he says when he sees me, but he doesn’t stop.

  To his back I hurriedly say, “So about this morning . . .” I laugh, and Peter turns around and just looks at me.

  “Oh yeah. What was that all about?”

  “It was a dumb joke,” I begin.

  Peter crosses his arms and leans against the lockers. “Did it have anything to do with that letter you sent me?”

  “No. I mean, yes. Tangentially.”

  “Look,” he says kindly. “I think you’re cute. In a quirky way. But Gen and I just broke up, and I’m not in a place right now where I want be somebody’s boyfriend. So . . .”

  My mouth drops. Peter Kavinsky is giving me the brush-off! I don’t even like him, and he’s giving me the brush-off. Also, “quirky”? How am I “quirky”? “Cute in a quirky way” is an insult. A total insult!

  He’s still talking, still giving me the kind eyes. “I mean, I’m definitely flattered. That you would like me all this time—it’s flattering, you know?”

  That’s enough. That’s plenty enough. “I don’t like you,” I say, loudly. “So there’s no reason you should feel flattered.”

  Now it’s Peter’s turn to look taken aback. He quickly looks around to see if anyone heard. He leans forward and whispers, “Then why did you kiss me?”

  “I kissed you because I don’t like you,” I explain, like this should be obvious. “See, my letters got sent out by someone. Not me.”

  “Wait a minute. ‘Letters’? How many of us are there?”

  “Five. And the guy I do like got one too—”

  Peter frowns. “Who?”

  Why should I tell him anything? “That’s . . . personal.”

  “Hey, I think I have a right to know, since you pulled me into this little drama,” Peter says with a pointed look. I suck in my top lip and shake my head and he adds, “If there even really is a guy.”

  “There is so a guy! It’s Josh Sanderson.”

  “Doesn’t he go out with your sister?”

  I nod. I’m surprised he even knows this. I didn’t think Josh and Margot would be on his radar. “They’re broken up now. But I don’t want him to know I have feelings for him . . . for obvious reasons. So . . . I told him you were my boyfriend.”

  “So you used me to save face?”

  “I mean, basically.” Basically exactly.

  “You’re a funny girl.”

  First I’m cute in a quirky way; now I’m a funny girl. I know what that means. “Anyway, thanks for going along with it, Peter.” I flash him what I hope is a winning smile and turn on my heel to go. “See ya!”

  Peter reaches out and grabs me by the backpack. “Wait—so Sanderson thinks I’m your boyfriend now, right? So what are you going to tell him?”

  I try to shrug him loose, but he won’t let go. “I haven’t figured that part out yet. But I will.” I lift my chin. “I’m quirky like that.”

  Peter laughs out loud, his mouth open wide. “You really are funny, Lara Jean.”

  21

  MY PHONE VIBRATES NEXT TO me. It’s chris.

  “Is it true?” I can hear her puffing on her cigarette.

  “Is what true?”

  I’m lying on my bed, on my stomach. My mom told me that if my stomach hurt, I should lie on my stomach and it would warm up and feel better. I don’t think it’s helping, though. My stomach’s been in knots all day.

  “Did you run up to Kavinsky and kiss him like a maniac?”

  I close my eyes and whimper. I wish I could say no, because I’m not the kind of person to do that. But I did do it, so I guess I am. But my reasons were really good! I want to tell Chris the truth, but the whole thing is just so embarrassing. “Yeah. I went up to Peter Kavinsky and kissed him. Like a maniac.”

  Chris exhales. “Damn!”

  “I know.”

  “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “Honestly? I don’t even know. I just . . . did it.”

  “Shit. I didn’t know you had it in you. I’m kind of impressed.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But you know Gen’s gonna come after you, right? They may be broken up, but she still thinks she owns his ass.”

  My stomach lurches. “Yeah. I know. I’m scared, Chris.”

  “I’ll do my best to protect you from her, but you know how she is. You better watch your back.” Chris hangs up.

  I feel even worse than before. If Margot was here, she’d probably say that writing those letters was pointless in the first place, and she’d get on me about telling such a big lie. Then she’d help me figure out a solution. But Margot’s not here, she’s in Scotland—and even bigger than that, she’s the one person I can’t talk to. She can never-never-never know how I felt about Josh.

  * * *

  After a while I get out of bed and wander into Kitty’s room. She’s on the floor rifling through her bottom drawer. Without looking up, she says, “Have you seen my pajamas with the hearts?”

  “I washed them yesterday, so they’re probably in the dryer. Tonight do you wanna watch a movie and play Uno?” I could use a cheer-up night.

  Kitty scrambles up. “Can’t. I’m going to Alicia Bernard’s birthday. It’s in the schedule notebook.”

  “Who’s Alicia Bernard?” I plop down on Kitty’s unmade bed.

  “She’s the new girl. She invited all the girls in our class. Her mom’s making us crepes for breakfast. Do you know what a crepe is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever had one? I heard they can be salty or sweet.”

  “Yes, I had one with Nutella and strawberries once.” Josh and Margot and I drove down to Richmond because Margot wanted to go to the Edgar Allan Poe museum. We ate lunch at a café downtown and that’s what I had.

  Kitty’s eyes go big and greedy. “I hope that’s the kind her mom makes.” Then she dashes off, I guess to find her pajamas in the laundry room downstairs.

  I pick up Kitty’s stuffed pig and cuddle it in my arms. So even my nine-year-old sister has plans on a Friday night. If Margot was here, we’d be going to the movies with Josh, or stopping by the cocktail hour at the Belleview retirement home. If my dad was home, I could maybe get up the courage to take his car or have him drop me off, but I can’t even do that.

  After Kitty gets picked up, I go back to my room and organize my shoe collection. It’s a little early in the season to switch out my sandals for my winter shoes, but I go ahead and do it because I’m in the mood. I think about doing my clothes too, but that’s no small undertaking. Instead I sit down and write Margot
a letter on stationery my grandma bought me in Korea. It’s pale blue with a border of fluffy white lambs. I talk about school, and Kitty’s new teacher, and a lavender skirt I ordered from a Japanese website that I’m sure she’ll want to borrow, but I don’t tell her any of the real things.

  I miss her so much. Nothing’s the same without her. I’m realizing now that the year is going to be a lonely one, because I don’t have Margot, and I don’t have Josh, and it’s just me alone. I have Chris, but not really. I wish I’d made more friends. If I had more friends, maybe I wouldn’t have done something as stupid as kiss Peter K. in the hallway and tell Josh he’s my boyfriend.

  22

  I WAKE UP TO THE sound of the lawn mower.

  It’s Saturday morning and I can’t fall back to sleep, so now I’m lying in my bed staring at my walls, at all the pictures and things I’ve saved. I’m thinking I want to shake things up. I’m thinking maybe I should paint my room. The only question is, what color? Lavender? Cotton-candy pink? Something bold, like turquoise? Maybe just an accent wall? Maybe one marigold wall, one salmon pink. It’s a lot to consider. I should probably wait for Margot to come home before I make such a momentous decision. Plus I’ve never painted a room before, and Margot has, with Habitat for Humanity. She’ll know what to do.

  On Saturdays we usually have something good for breakfast, like pancakes or frittata with frozen shredded potato and broccoli. But since there’s no Kitty and no Margot, I just eat cereal instead. Who ever heard of making pancakes or frittata for just one person? My dad’s been awake for hours; he’s outside mowing the lawn. I don’t want to get roped into helping him do yard work, so I make myself busy in the house and clean the downstairs. I Swiffer and DustBust and wipe the tables down, and all the while my wheels are turning about how I’m going to get myself out of this Peter K. situation with even a sliver of dignity. The wheels turn and turn, but no good solutions come to mind.

  * * *

  When Kitty gets dropped off, I’m folding laundry. She plops down on the couch on her belly and asks me, “What’d you do last night?”

  “Nothing. I just stayed home.”

  “And?”

  “I organized my closet.” It’s humiliating to say that out loud. Hastily I change the subject. “So did Alicia’s mom make sweet crepes or salty ones?”

  “She made both. First we had ham and cheese and then we had Nutella. How come we never have any Nutella?”

  “I think maybe because hazelnuts make Margot’s throat itch.”

  “Can we get some next time?”

  “Sure,” I say. “We’ll just have to eat the whole jar before Margot comes home.”

  “No problem,” Kitty says.

  “On a scale of one to ten, how badly do you miss Gogo?” I ask her.

  Kitty thinks this over. “A six point five,” she says at last.

  “Only a six point five?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been really busy,” she says, rolling over and kicking her legs up in the air. “I’ve hardly had time to miss Margot. You know, if you got out more, maybe you wouldn’t miss her so much.”

  I boomerang a sock at her head and Kitty explodes into a giggle fit. I’m tickling her armpits when Daddy comes in from outside with a stack of mail. “Something came back return to sender for you, Lara Jean,” he says, handing me an envelope.

  It’s got my handwriting! I scramble up and snatch it out of his hands. It’s my letter to Kenny from camp. It came back to me!

  “Who’s Kenny?” Daddy wants to know.

  “Just a boy I met at church camp a long time ago,” I say, tearing the envelope open.

  Dear Kenny,

  It’s the last day of camp and possibly the last time I will ever see you because we live so far apart. Remember on the second day, I was scared to do archery and you made a joke about minnows and it was so funny I nearly peed my pants?

  I stop reading. A joke about minnows? How funny could it have been?

  I was really homesick but you made me feel better. I think I might’ve left camp early if it hadn’t been for you, Kenny. So, thank you. Also you’re a really amazing swimmer and I like your laugh. I wish it had been me you kissed at the bonfire last night and not Blaire H.

  Take care, Kenny. Have a really good rest of the summer and a really good life.

  Love, Lara Jean

  I clutch the letter to my chest.

  This is the first love letter I ever wrote. I’m glad it came back to me. Though, I suppose it wouldn’t have been so bad if Kenny Donati got to know that he helped two people at camp that summer—the kid who almost drowned in the lake and twelve-year-old Lara Jean Song Covey.

  23

  WHEN MY DAD HAS A day off, he cooks Korean food. It’s not exactly authentic, and sometimes he just goes to the Korean market and buys ready-made side dishes and marinated meat, but sometimes he’ll call our grandma for a recipe and he’ll try. That’s the thing: Daddy tries. He doesn’t say so, but I know it’s because he doesn’t want us to lose our connection to our Korean side, and food is the only way he knows how to contribute. After Mommy died, he used to try to make us have play dates with other Korean kids, but it always felt awkward and forced. Except I did have a crush on Edward Kim for a minute there. Thank God the crush never escalated into full-on love—or else I’d have written him a letter too, and that’d be just one more person I’d have to avoid.

  My dad’s made bo ssam, which is pork shoulder you slice up and then wrap in lettuce. He brined it last night in sugar and salt and it’s been roasting in the oven all day. Kitty and I keep checking on it; it smells so good.

  When it’s finally time to eat, my dad has everything laid out on the dining room table so pretty. A silver bowl of butter-lettuce leaves, just washed, with the water beads still clinging to the surface; a cut-glass bowl of kimchi he bought from Whole Foods; a little bowl of pepper paste; soy sauce with scallions and ginger.

  My dad’s taking arty pictures of the table. “I’m sending a pic to Margot so she can see,” he says.

  “What time is it over there?” I ask him. It’s a cozy day: it’s nearly six o’clock, and I’m still in my pj’s. I’m hugging my knees to me, sitting in the big dining-room chair with the armrests.

  “It’s eleven. I’m sure she’s still up,” my dad says, snapping away. “Why don’t you invite Josh over? We’re going to need help finishing all this food.”

  “He’s probably busy,” I say quickly. I still haven’t figured out what I’m going to say to him about me and Peter, much less me and him.

  “Just try him. He loves Korean food.” Daddy moves the pork shoulder so it’s more centered. “Hurry, before my bo ssam gets cold!”

  I pretend to text him on my phone. I feel a tiny bit guilty for lying, but Daddy would understand if he knew all the facts.

  “I don’t understand why you kids text when you could just call. You’d get an answer right away instead of waiting for one.”

  “You’re so old, Daddy,” I say. I look down at my phone. “Josh can’t come over. Let’s just eat. Kitty! Dinner bell!”

  “Co-ming!” Kitty screams from upstairs.

  “Well, maybe he’ll come over later and take some leftovers,” Daddy says.

  “Daddy, Josh has his own life now. Why would he come over when Margot’s not here? Besides, they’re not even together anymore, remember?”

  My dad makes a confused face. “What? They’re not?”

  I guess Margot didn’t tell him after all. Though you’d have thought he could have sussed it out for himself when Josh didn’t come with us to the airport to drop Margot off. Why don’t dads know anything? Does he not have eyes and ears? “No, they’re not. And by the way, Margot is at college in Scotland. And my name is Lara Jean.”

  “All right, all right, your dad is clueless,” Daddy says. “I get it. No need to rub it in.” He scratches his chin. “Geez, I could have sworn Margot never mentioned anything. . . .”

  Kitty comes crashing into the dining roo
m. “Yum yum yum.” She slams into her chair and starts spearing pork onto her plate.

  “Kitty, we have to pray first,” my dad says, settling into his chair.

  We only ever pray before we eat when we eat in the dining room, and we only ever eat in the dining room when Daddy cooks Korean or on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Mommy used to take us to church when we were little, and after she died, Daddy tried to keep it going, but he has Sunday shifts sometimes and it became less and less.

  “Thank you, God, for this food you have blessed us with. Thank you for my beautiful daughters, and please watch over our Margot. In Jesus’s name we pray, amen.”

  “Amen,” we echo.

  “Looks pretty great, right, girls?” My dad is grinning as he assembles a lettuce leaf with pork and rice and kimchi. “Kitty, you know how to do it, right? It’s like a little taco.”

  Kitty nods and copies him.

  I make my own lettuce-leaf taco and nearly spit it out. The pork is really really salty. So salty I could cry. But I keep chewing, and across the table Kitty’s making a horrible face at me, but I give her a shush look. Daddy hasn’t tried his yet; he’s taking a picture of his plate.

  “So good, Daddy,” I say. “It tastes like at the restaurant.”

  “Thanks, Lara Jean. It came out just like the picture. I can’t believe how beautiful and crispy the top looks.” My dad finally takes a bite, and then he frowns. “Is this salty to you?”

  “Not really,” I say.

  He takes another bite. “This tastes really salty to me. Kitty, what do you think?”

  Kitty’s chugging water. “No, it tastes good, Daddy.”

  I give her a secret thumbs-up.

  “Hmm, no, it definitely tastes salty.” He swallows. “I followed the recipe exactly . . . maybe I used the wrong kind of salt for the brine? Lara Jean, taste it again.”

  I take a teeny-tiny bite, which I try to hide by putting the lettuce in front of my face. “Mmm.”

  “Maybe if I cut more from the center . . .”

  My phone buzzes on the table. It’s a text from Josh. Was coming back from a run and saw the light on in the dining room. A totally normal text, as if yesterday never happened.