Always and Forever, Lara Jean
Page 39
“You’re the one who brought them up,” I start to say, but then he is kissing me, and I can’t even finish a thought, much less a sentence.
22
THE MORNING OF PROM, KITTY comes in my room as I’m painting my toes. “What do you think about this color with my dress?” I ask her. “It looks like you dipped your toenails in Pepto-Bismol.”
I peer down at my feet. It kind of does look like that. Maybe I should do a beige color instead.
The consensus is that the dress requires an updo. “To show off your collarbone,” Trina says. I’ve never thought of my collarbone as something to be shown off; in fact I’ve never thought of my collarbone at all.
After lunch Kitty goes with me to the hair salon, to supervise. She tells the stylist, “Don’t make it too done, do you know what I mean?”
The stylist gives me a nervous look in the mirror. “I think so? You want it to look natural?” She’s talking to Kitty, not me, because it’s obvious who is in charge. “Like a natural chignon?”
“But not too natural. Think Grace Kelly.” Kitty pulls up a picture on her phone and shows it to her. “See, like this, but we want the bun to the side.”
“Just please don’t use too much hairspray,” I say meekly, as the stylist coils my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck and shows Kitty.
“That’s great,” Kitty says to her. To me she says, “Lara Jean, she has to use hairspray if you want it to stay up.”
Suddenly I’m having second thoughts about an updo. “Are we sure about the updo?”
“Yes,” Kitty says. To the stylist she says, “We’re doing the updo.”
* * *
The updo is more “done” than I’m used to. My hair is in a side bun; the top is smooth like a ballerina. It’s pretty, but when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize myself. It’s an older, sophisticated version of me who’s going to the opera, or the symphony.
After all the time the woman at the salon spent putting my hair up, I end up taking it down when I get home. Kitty yells at me as she brushes my hair out, but I bear it. Tonight I want to feel like me.
“How are we doing your grand entrance?” Kitty asks me as she sweeps the brush through my hair one last time.
“Grand entrance?” I repeat.
“When Peter gets here. How are you going to enter the room?”
Trina, who is lying on my bed eating a Popsicle, pipes up with, “When I went to prom, we did a thing where the dads walked the girls down the stairs and then somebody would announce you.”
I look at them both like they are nuts. “Trina, I’m not getting married. I’m going to prom.”
“We could turn off all the lights and put on music, and then you walk out and do a pose at the top of the stairs—”
“I don’t want to do that,” I interrupt.
Her forehead creases. “What part?”
“All of it.”
“But you need a moment where everybody looks at you and only you,” Kitty says.
“It’s called a first look,” Trina explains. “Don’t worry, I’ll get the whole thing on video.”
“If we’d thought about this earlier, we could’ve really done it up, and maybe it would’ve gone viral.” Kitty shakes her head at me in a disgusted way, as if this is somehow my fault.
“The last thing I need is to go viral again,” I tell her. Pointedly I say, “Remember my hot tub video?”
She at least looks a little abashed, for a second. “Let’s not linger on the past,” she says, fluffing up my hair.
“Hey, birthday girl,” Trina says to me. “Is the plan still to go for barbecue tomorrow night?”
“Yup,” I say. With Stormy passing away and prom and the wedding and everything else, I haven’t given my birthday much thought. Trina wanted to throw me a big party, but I told her I’d rather just have a family dinner out, and cake and ice cream back at the house. Trina and Kitty are baking the cake while I’m at prom, so we’ll see how that goes!
* * *
When Peter and his mom arrive, I’m still running around doing last minute things.
“Guys, Peter and his mom are here,” my dad calls up the stairs.
“Perfume!” I screech to Kitty, who sprays me. “Where’s my clutch?”
Trina tosses it to me. “Did you pack a lipstick?”
I open it to check. “Yes! Where are my shoes?”
“Over here,” Kitty says, picking them up off the floor. “Hurry up and get strapped in. I’ll go downstairs and tell them you’re coming.”
“I’ll open up a bottle of champagne for the grown-ups,” Trina says, following her out.
I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It’s only Peter. I guess prom really is its own kind of magic. The last thing I do is put on Stormy’s ring, and I think of how she must be looking down on me right now, happy I’m wearing her ring on prom night, in honor of her and all the dances she went to.
When I come down the stairs, Peter is sitting on the couch with his mom. He is shaking his knee up and down, which is how I know he’s nervous too. As soon as he sees me, he stands up.
He raises his eyebrows. “You look—wow.” For the past week, he’s been asking for details on what my dress looks like, and I held him at bay for the surprise, which I’m glad I did, because it was worth it to see the look on his face.
“You look wow too.” His tux fits him so nicely, you’d think it was custom, but it’s not; it’s a rental from After Hours Formal Wear. I wonder if Mrs. Kavinsky made a few sly adjustments. She’s a marvel with a needle and thread. I wish guys could wear tuxedos more often, though I suppose that would take some of the thrill away.
Peter slides my corsage on my wrist; it is white ranunculus and baby’s breath, and it’s the exact corsage I would have picked for myself. I’m already thinking of how I’ll hang it over my bed so it dries just so.
Kitty is dressed up too; she has on her favorite dress, so she can be in the pictures. When Peter pins a daisy corsage on her, her face goes pink with pleasure, and he winks at me. We take a picture of me and her, one of me and Peter and her, and then she says in her bossy way, “Now just one of me and Peter,” and I’m pushed off to the side with Trina, who laughs.
22
THE MORNING OF PROM, KITTY comes in my room as I’m painting my toes. “What do you think about this color with my dress?” I ask her. “It looks like you dipped your toenails in Pepto-Bismol.”
I peer down at my feet. It kind of does look like that. Maybe I should do a beige color instead.
The consensus is that the dress requires an updo. “To show off your collarbone,” Trina says. I’ve never thought of my collarbone as something to be shown off; in fact I’ve never thought of my collarbone at all.
After lunch Kitty goes with me to the hair salon, to supervise. She tells the stylist, “Don’t make it too done, do you know what I mean?”
The stylist gives me a nervous look in the mirror. “I think so? You want it to look natural?” She’s talking to Kitty, not me, because it’s obvious who is in charge. “Like a natural chignon?”
“But not too natural. Think Grace Kelly.” Kitty pulls up a picture on her phone and shows it to her. “See, like this, but we want the bun to the side.”
“Just please don’t use too much hairspray,” I say meekly, as the stylist coils my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck and shows Kitty.
“That’s great,” Kitty says to her. To me she says, “Lara Jean, she has to use hairspray if you want it to stay up.”
Suddenly I’m having second thoughts about an updo. “Are we sure about the updo?”
“Yes,” Kitty says. To the stylist she says, “We’re doing the updo.”
* * *
The updo is more “done” than I’m used to. My hair is in a side bun; the top is smooth like a ballerina. It’s pretty, but when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize myself. It’s an older, sophisticated version of me who’s going to the opera, or the symphony.
After all the time the woman at the salon spent putting my hair up, I end up taking it down when I get home. Kitty yells at me as she brushes my hair out, but I bear it. Tonight I want to feel like me.
“How are we doing your grand entrance?” Kitty asks me as she sweeps the brush through my hair one last time.
“Grand entrance?” I repeat.
“When Peter gets here. How are you going to enter the room?”
Trina, who is lying on my bed eating a Popsicle, pipes up with, “When I went to prom, we did a thing where the dads walked the girls down the stairs and then somebody would announce you.”
I look at them both like they are nuts. “Trina, I’m not getting married. I’m going to prom.”
“We could turn off all the lights and put on music, and then you walk out and do a pose at the top of the stairs—”
“I don’t want to do that,” I interrupt.
Her forehead creases. “What part?”
“All of it.”
“But you need a moment where everybody looks at you and only you,” Kitty says.
“It’s called a first look,” Trina explains. “Don’t worry, I’ll get the whole thing on video.”
“If we’d thought about this earlier, we could’ve really done it up, and maybe it would’ve gone viral.” Kitty shakes her head at me in a disgusted way, as if this is somehow my fault.
“The last thing I need is to go viral again,” I tell her. Pointedly I say, “Remember my hot tub video?”
She at least looks a little abashed, for a second. “Let’s not linger on the past,” she says, fluffing up my hair.
“Hey, birthday girl,” Trina says to me. “Is the plan still to go for barbecue tomorrow night?”
“Yup,” I say. With Stormy passing away and prom and the wedding and everything else, I haven’t given my birthday much thought. Trina wanted to throw me a big party, but I told her I’d rather just have a family dinner out, and cake and ice cream back at the house. Trina and Kitty are baking the cake while I’m at prom, so we’ll see how that goes!
* * *
When Peter and his mom arrive, I’m still running around doing last minute things.
“Guys, Peter and his mom are here,” my dad calls up the stairs.
“Perfume!” I screech to Kitty, who sprays me. “Where’s my clutch?”
Trina tosses it to me. “Did you pack a lipstick?”
I open it to check. “Yes! Where are my shoes?”
“Over here,” Kitty says, picking them up off the floor. “Hurry up and get strapped in. I’ll go downstairs and tell them you’re coming.”
“I’ll open up a bottle of champagne for the grown-ups,” Trina says, following her out.
I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It’s only Peter. I guess prom really is its own kind of magic. The last thing I do is put on Stormy’s ring, and I think of how she must be looking down on me right now, happy I’m wearing her ring on prom night, in honor of her and all the dances she went to.
When I come down the stairs, Peter is sitting on the couch with his mom. He is shaking his knee up and down, which is how I know he’s nervous too. As soon as he sees me, he stands up.
He raises his eyebrows. “You look—wow.” For the past week, he’s been asking for details on what my dress looks like, and I held him at bay for the surprise, which I’m glad I did, because it was worth it to see the look on his face.
“You look wow too.” His tux fits him so nicely, you’d think it was custom, but it’s not; it’s a rental from After Hours Formal Wear. I wonder if Mrs. Kavinsky made a few sly adjustments. She’s a marvel with a needle and thread. I wish guys could wear tuxedos more often, though I suppose that would take some of the thrill away.
Peter slides my corsage on my wrist; it is white ranunculus and baby’s breath, and it’s the exact corsage I would have picked for myself. I’m already thinking of how I’ll hang it over my bed so it dries just so.
Kitty is dressed up too; she has on her favorite dress, so she can be in the pictures. When Peter pins a daisy corsage on her, her face goes pink with pleasure, and he winks at me. We take a picture of me and her, one of me and Peter and her, and then she says in her bossy way, “Now just one of me and Peter,” and I’m pushed off to the side with Trina, who laughs.
