Always and Forever, Lara Jean
Page 40
“The boys her age are in for it,” she says to me and Peter’s mom, who is smiling too.
“Why am I not in any of these pictures?” Daddy wonders, so of course we do a round with him too, and a few with Trina and Mrs. Kavinsky.
Then we take pictures outside, by the dogwood tree, by Peter’s car, on the front steps, until Peter says, “Enough pictures! We’re going to miss the whole thing.” When we go to his car, he opens the door for me gallantly.
On the way over, he keeps looking at me. I keep my eyes trained straight ahead, but I can see him in my periphery. I’ve never felt so admired. This must be how Stormy felt all the time.
* * *
As soon as we get to prom, I tell Peter we have to get in line to take our official prom picture with the professional photographer. He says we should just wait till the line dies down, but I insist. I want a good one for my scrapbook, before my hair goes flat. We do the requisite prom pose, with Peter standing behind me, his hands on my hips. The photographer lets us take a look at our picture, and Peter insists on taking another one because he doesn’t like the way his hair looks.
After we take our picture, we find all of our friends on the dance floor. Darrell has matched his tie to Pammy’s dress—lavender. Chris is wearing a tight black bandage dress—not unlike the one Kitty picked out for me to wear when she and Margot and I went shopping. Lucas looks like an English dandy in his suit, which is tailored to his body just beautifully. I finally convinced the two of them to come, by suggesting they just “stop by.” Chris said she was still going clubbing with her work friends, but from the looks of it, she isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. She’s getting so much attention in her bandage dress.
“Style” comes on and we all go crazy, screaming in each other’s faces and jumping up and down. Peter goes craziest of all. He keeps asking me if I’m having fun. He only asks out loud once, but with his eyes he asks me again and again. They are bright and hopeful, alight with expectation. With my eyes I tell him, Yes yes yes I am having fun.
We’re starting to get the hang of slow dancing, too. Maybe we should take a ballroom-dancing class when I get to UVA so we can actually get good at it.
I tell him this, and fondly he says, “You always want to take things to the next level. Next-level chocolate chip cookies.”
“I gave up on those.”
“Next-level Halloween costumes.”
“I like for things to feel special.” At this, Peter smiles down at me and I say, “It’s just too bad we’ll never dance cheek to cheek.”
“Maybe we could order you some dancing stilts.”
“Oh, you mean high heels?”
He snickers. “I don’t think there’s such a thing as ten-inch heels.”
I ignore him. “And it’s too bad your noodle arms aren’t strong enough to pick me up.”
Peter lets out a roar like an injured lion and swoops me up and swings me around, just like I knew he would. It’s a rare thing, to know someone so well, whether they’ll pivot left or right. Outside of my family, I think he might be the person I know best of all.
* * *
Of course Peter wins prom king. Prom queen is Ashanti Dickson. I’m just relieved it isn’t Genevieve up there, slow dancing with him with a tiara on her head. Ashanti is nearly Peter’s height, so the two of them actually can dance cheek to cheek, though they don’t. Peter looks out at me and winks. I’m standing off to the side with Marshawn Hopkins, Ashanti’s date. He leans over to me and says, “When they come back, we should ignore them and just dance away,” which makes me laugh.
I’m proud of Peter out there, at how he dances so tall, with his back so straight. At a pivotal moment in the song, Peter dips Ashanti, and everyone hoots and hollers and stomps their feet, and I’m proud of that, too. People are so sincere in their affection for him; they can all celebrate Peter because he is nice, and he makes everyone feel good. He just gives the night a little extra shine, and they are glad for it, and so am I. I’m happy he gets this send-off.
* * *
One last dance.
We’re both quiet. It’s not over yet. We still have the whole summer ahead. But high school, the two of us here together, Lara Jean and Peter as we are today, that part is done. We’ll never be here exactly like this again.
I’m wondering if he’s feeling sad too, and then he whispers, “Check out Gabe over there trying to casually rest his hand on Keisha’s butt.”
He turns me slightly so I can see. Gabe’s hand is indeed hovering at Keisha Wood’s lower back/butt area, like an indecisive butterfly looking for a landing spot. I giggle. This is why I like Peter so much. He sees things I don’t see.
“I know what our song should be,” he says.
“What?”
And then, like magic, Al Green’s voice fills the hotel ballroom. “Let’s Stay Together.”
“You made them play this,” I accuse. I’m tearing up a little bit.
He grins. “It’s fate.”
Whatever you want to do . . . is all right with me-ee-ee.
Peter takes my hand and puts it on his heart. “Let’s, let’s stay together,” he sings. His voice is clear and true, everything I love about him.
* * *
On the way to after-prom, Peter says he’s hungry, and can we stop at the diner first.
“I think there’s going to be pizza at after-prom,” I say. “Why don’t we just eat there?”
“But I want pancakes,” he whines.
We pull into the diner parking lot, and after we park, he gets out of the car and runs around to the passenger side to open my door. “So gentlemanly tonight,” I say, which makes him grin.
We walk up to the diner, and he opens the door for me grandly.
“I could get used to this royal treatment,” I say.
“Hey, I open doors for you,” he protests.
We walk inside, and I stop short. Our booth, the one we always sit in, has pale pink balloons tied around it. There’s a round cake in the center of the table, tons of candles, pink frosting with sprinkles and Happy Birthday, Lara Jean scrawled in white frosting. Suddenly I see people’s heads pop up from under the booths and from behind menus—all of our friends, still in their prom finery: Lucas, Gabe, Gabe’s date Keisha, Darrell, Pammy, Chris. “Surprise!” everyone screams.
“Why am I not in any of these pictures?” Daddy wonders, so of course we do a round with him too, and a few with Trina and Mrs. Kavinsky.
Then we take pictures outside, by the dogwood tree, by Peter’s car, on the front steps, until Peter says, “Enough pictures! We’re going to miss the whole thing.” When we go to his car, he opens the door for me gallantly.
On the way over, he keeps looking at me. I keep my eyes trained straight ahead, but I can see him in my periphery. I’ve never felt so admired. This must be how Stormy felt all the time.
* * *
As soon as we get to prom, I tell Peter we have to get in line to take our official prom picture with the professional photographer. He says we should just wait till the line dies down, but I insist. I want a good one for my scrapbook, before my hair goes flat. We do the requisite prom pose, with Peter standing behind me, his hands on my hips. The photographer lets us take a look at our picture, and Peter insists on taking another one because he doesn’t like the way his hair looks.
After we take our picture, we find all of our friends on the dance floor. Darrell has matched his tie to Pammy’s dress—lavender. Chris is wearing a tight black bandage dress—not unlike the one Kitty picked out for me to wear when she and Margot and I went shopping. Lucas looks like an English dandy in his suit, which is tailored to his body just beautifully. I finally convinced the two of them to come, by suggesting they just “stop by.” Chris said she was still going clubbing with her work friends, but from the looks of it, she isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. She’s getting so much attention in her bandage dress.
“Style” comes on and we all go crazy, screaming in each other’s faces and jumping up and down. Peter goes craziest of all. He keeps asking me if I’m having fun. He only asks out loud once, but with his eyes he asks me again and again. They are bright and hopeful, alight with expectation. With my eyes I tell him, Yes yes yes I am having fun.
We’re starting to get the hang of slow dancing, too. Maybe we should take a ballroom-dancing class when I get to UVA so we can actually get good at it.
I tell him this, and fondly he says, “You always want to take things to the next level. Next-level chocolate chip cookies.”
“I gave up on those.”
“Next-level Halloween costumes.”
“I like for things to feel special.” At this, Peter smiles down at me and I say, “It’s just too bad we’ll never dance cheek to cheek.”
“Maybe we could order you some dancing stilts.”
“Oh, you mean high heels?”
He snickers. “I don’t think there’s such a thing as ten-inch heels.”
I ignore him. “And it’s too bad your noodle arms aren’t strong enough to pick me up.”
Peter lets out a roar like an injured lion and swoops me up and swings me around, just like I knew he would. It’s a rare thing, to know someone so well, whether they’ll pivot left or right. Outside of my family, I think he might be the person I know best of all.
* * *
Of course Peter wins prom king. Prom queen is Ashanti Dickson. I’m just relieved it isn’t Genevieve up there, slow dancing with him with a tiara on her head. Ashanti is nearly Peter’s height, so the two of them actually can dance cheek to cheek, though they don’t. Peter looks out at me and winks. I’m standing off to the side with Marshawn Hopkins, Ashanti’s date. He leans over to me and says, “When they come back, we should ignore them and just dance away,” which makes me laugh.
I’m proud of Peter out there, at how he dances so tall, with his back so straight. At a pivotal moment in the song, Peter dips Ashanti, and everyone hoots and hollers and stomps their feet, and I’m proud of that, too. People are so sincere in their affection for him; they can all celebrate Peter because he is nice, and he makes everyone feel good. He just gives the night a little extra shine, and they are glad for it, and so am I. I’m happy he gets this send-off.
* * *
One last dance.
We’re both quiet. It’s not over yet. We still have the whole summer ahead. But high school, the two of us here together, Lara Jean and Peter as we are today, that part is done. We’ll never be here exactly like this again.
I’m wondering if he’s feeling sad too, and then he whispers, “Check out Gabe over there trying to casually rest his hand on Keisha’s butt.”
He turns me slightly so I can see. Gabe’s hand is indeed hovering at Keisha Wood’s lower back/butt area, like an indecisive butterfly looking for a landing spot. I giggle. This is why I like Peter so much. He sees things I don’t see.
“I know what our song should be,” he says.
“What?”
And then, like magic, Al Green’s voice fills the hotel ballroom. “Let’s Stay Together.”
“You made them play this,” I accuse. I’m tearing up a little bit.
He grins. “It’s fate.”
Whatever you want to do . . . is all right with me-ee-ee.
Peter takes my hand and puts it on his heart. “Let’s, let’s stay together,” he sings. His voice is clear and true, everything I love about him.
* * *
On the way to after-prom, Peter says he’s hungry, and can we stop at the diner first.
“I think there’s going to be pizza at after-prom,” I say. “Why don’t we just eat there?”
“But I want pancakes,” he whines.
We pull into the diner parking lot, and after we park, he gets out of the car and runs around to the passenger side to open my door. “So gentlemanly tonight,” I say, which makes him grin.
We walk up to the diner, and he opens the door for me grandly.
“I could get used to this royal treatment,” I say.
“Hey, I open doors for you,” he protests.
We walk inside, and I stop short. Our booth, the one we always sit in, has pale pink balloons tied around it. There’s a round cake in the center of the table, tons of candles, pink frosting with sprinkles and Happy Birthday, Lara Jean scrawled in white frosting. Suddenly I see people’s heads pop up from under the booths and from behind menus—all of our friends, still in their prom finery: Lucas, Gabe, Gabe’s date Keisha, Darrell, Pammy, Chris. “Surprise!” everyone screams.
