Always and Forever, Lara Jean
Page 42
Peter bursts out laughing. “You’re funny, Covey.” Swimming sideways, he says, “‘It isn’t right,’” and then starts laughing again.
The lifeguard blows the whistle for adult swim, and all the kids get out, including Peter and me. We go back to the lounge chairs, and Peter pushes them closer together.
I turn on my side and, squinting up at the sun, I ask him, “How old do you think you have to be to stay in the pool for adult swim? Eighteen or twenty-one?”
“I don’t know. Twenty-one?” He’s scrolling on his phone.
“Maybe it’s eighteen. We should ask.” I put on my sunglasses and start to sing “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” from The Sound of Music. “You need someone older and wiser, telling you what to do.” I tap him on the nose for emphasis.
“Hey, I’m older than you,” he objects.
I run my hand along Peter’s cheek and sing, “I am seventeen going on eighteen, I-I-I’ll take care of you.”
“Promise?” he says.
“Sing it just once for me,” I prompt. Peter gives me a look. “Please? I love it when you sing. Your voice is so clean.”
He can’t help but smile. Peter never met a compliment he didn’t smile at. “I don’t know the words,” he protests.
“Yes you do.” I pretend to wave a wand in his face. “Imperio! Wait—do you know what that means?”
“It’s . . . an unforgivable curse?”
“Yes. Very impressive, Peter K. And what does it do?”
“It makes you do things you don’t want to do.”
“Very good, young wizard. There’s hope for you yet. Now sing!”
“You little witch.” He looks around to see if anyone is listening, and then he softly sings, “I need someone older and wiser telling me what to do. . . . You are seventeen going on eighteen . . . I’ll depend on you.”
I clap my hands in delight. Is there anything more intoxicating than making a boy bend to your will? I roll closer to him and throw my arms around his neck.
“Now you’re the one making PDAs!” he says.
“You really do have a pretty voice, Peter. You never should’ve quit chorus.”
“The only reason I ever took chorus is because all the girls were in chorus.”
“Well, then forget about joining a chorus at UVA. No a cappella groups either.” I mean it to be a joke, truly, but Peter looks bothered. “I’m kidding! Join all the a cappella groups you want! The Hullabahoos are all guys, anyway.”
“I don’t want to join an a cappella group. And I’m not planning on looking at other girls, either.”
Oh. “Of course you’ll look at other girls. You have eyes, don’t you? I swear, that’s just as silly as when people say they don’t see color. Everyone sees everyone. You can’t help but see.”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“I know, I know.” I sit up and put my French book back in my lap. “Are you really not going to study at all for your US history final on Wednesday?”
“All I need to do at this point is pass,” he reminds me.
“It must be nice, it must be nice,” I sing.
“Hey, it’s not like William and Mary is taking away your spot if you get a C in French,” Peter says.
“I’m not worried about French. I’m worried about my calculus exam on Friday.”
“Okay, well, it’s not like they’ll kick you out for getting a C in calculus, either.”
“I guess so, but I still want to finish well,” I say. The countdown is really on, now that May is nearly over. Just one more week left of school. I stretch out my arms and legs and squint up into the sun and let out a happy sigh. “Let’s come here every day next weekend.”
“I can’t. I’m going on that training weekend, remember?”
“Already?”
“Yeah. It’s weird that the season is over and we won’t be playing any more games together.”
Our school’s lacrosse team didn’t make it to state championships. They knew it was a long shot, because as Peter likes to say, “There’s only one of me.” Ha! Next weekend he is off to a training camp with his new team at UVA.
“Are you excited to meet your teammates?” I ask him.
“I already know a few of the guys, but yeah. It’ll be cool.” He reaches over and starts braiding a section of my hair. “I think I’m getting better at this.”
“You have the whole summer to practice,” I say, leaning forward so he can reach more of my hair. He doesn’t say anything.
24
THE END OF SCHOOL ALWAYS has a particular feeling to it. It’s the same every year, but this year the feeling is amplified, because there won’t be a next year. There’s an air of things closing down. Teachers wear shorts and T-shirts to class. They show movies while they clean out their desks. Nobody has the energy to care anymore. We’re all just counting down, passing time. Everyone knows where they’re going, and the right now already feels like it’s in the rearview. Suddenly life feels fast and slow at the same time. It’s like being in two places at once. Finals go well; even calculus isn’t as bad as I thought. And just like that, my high school career is coming to an end. Peter’s gone away on his training weekend. It’s only been one day and I’m already longing for him the way I long for Christmas in July. Peter is my cocoa in a cup, my red mittens, my Christmas morning feeling.
He said he’d call as soon as he gets back from the gym, so I keep my phone by my side, with the volume up. Earlier this morning he called when I was in the shower, and by the time I saw it, he was gone again. Is this what the future looks like? It’ll be different when I have classes and a schedule of my own, but for now it feels like I am standing on top of a lighthouse, waiting for my love’s ship to come in. For a romantic kind of person, it’s not an altogether unpleasant feeling, not for now, anyway. It’ll be different when it’s not so novel anymore, when not seeing him every day is the new normal, but for now, just for now, longing is its own kind of perverse delight.
Late afternoon, I go downstairs in my long white nightgown that Margot says makes me look like Little House on the Prairie and Kitty says makes me look like a ghost. I sit at the counter with one leg up and open a can of cling peaches and eat them with a fork, right out of the can. There’s something so satisfying about biting into the skin of a syrupy cling peach.
The lifeguard blows the whistle for adult swim, and all the kids get out, including Peter and me. We go back to the lounge chairs, and Peter pushes them closer together.
I turn on my side and, squinting up at the sun, I ask him, “How old do you think you have to be to stay in the pool for adult swim? Eighteen or twenty-one?”
“I don’t know. Twenty-one?” He’s scrolling on his phone.
“Maybe it’s eighteen. We should ask.” I put on my sunglasses and start to sing “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” from The Sound of Music. “You need someone older and wiser, telling you what to do.” I tap him on the nose for emphasis.
“Hey, I’m older than you,” he objects.
I run my hand along Peter’s cheek and sing, “I am seventeen going on eighteen, I-I-I’ll take care of you.”
“Promise?” he says.
“Sing it just once for me,” I prompt. Peter gives me a look. “Please? I love it when you sing. Your voice is so clean.”
He can’t help but smile. Peter never met a compliment he didn’t smile at. “I don’t know the words,” he protests.
“Yes you do.” I pretend to wave a wand in his face. “Imperio! Wait—do you know what that means?”
“It’s . . . an unforgivable curse?”
“Yes. Very impressive, Peter K. And what does it do?”
“It makes you do things you don’t want to do.”
“Very good, young wizard. There’s hope for you yet. Now sing!”
“You little witch.” He looks around to see if anyone is listening, and then he softly sings, “I need someone older and wiser telling me what to do. . . . You are seventeen going on eighteen . . . I’ll depend on you.”
I clap my hands in delight. Is there anything more intoxicating than making a boy bend to your will? I roll closer to him and throw my arms around his neck.
“Now you’re the one making PDAs!” he says.
“You really do have a pretty voice, Peter. You never should’ve quit chorus.”
“The only reason I ever took chorus is because all the girls were in chorus.”
“Well, then forget about joining a chorus at UVA. No a cappella groups either.” I mean it to be a joke, truly, but Peter looks bothered. “I’m kidding! Join all the a cappella groups you want! The Hullabahoos are all guys, anyway.”
“I don’t want to join an a cappella group. And I’m not planning on looking at other girls, either.”
Oh. “Of course you’ll look at other girls. You have eyes, don’t you? I swear, that’s just as silly as when people say they don’t see color. Everyone sees everyone. You can’t help but see.”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“I know, I know.” I sit up and put my French book back in my lap. “Are you really not going to study at all for your US history final on Wednesday?”
“All I need to do at this point is pass,” he reminds me.
“It must be nice, it must be nice,” I sing.
“Hey, it’s not like William and Mary is taking away your spot if you get a C in French,” Peter says.
“I’m not worried about French. I’m worried about my calculus exam on Friday.”
“Okay, well, it’s not like they’ll kick you out for getting a C in calculus, either.”
“I guess so, but I still want to finish well,” I say. The countdown is really on, now that May is nearly over. Just one more week left of school. I stretch out my arms and legs and squint up into the sun and let out a happy sigh. “Let’s come here every day next weekend.”
“I can’t. I’m going on that training weekend, remember?”
“Already?”
“Yeah. It’s weird that the season is over and we won’t be playing any more games together.”
Our school’s lacrosse team didn’t make it to state championships. They knew it was a long shot, because as Peter likes to say, “There’s only one of me.” Ha! Next weekend he is off to a training camp with his new team at UVA.
“Are you excited to meet your teammates?” I ask him.
“I already know a few of the guys, but yeah. It’ll be cool.” He reaches over and starts braiding a section of my hair. “I think I’m getting better at this.”
“You have the whole summer to practice,” I say, leaning forward so he can reach more of my hair. He doesn’t say anything.
24
THE END OF SCHOOL ALWAYS has a particular feeling to it. It’s the same every year, but this year the feeling is amplified, because there won’t be a next year. There’s an air of things closing down. Teachers wear shorts and T-shirts to class. They show movies while they clean out their desks. Nobody has the energy to care anymore. We’re all just counting down, passing time. Everyone knows where they’re going, and the right now already feels like it’s in the rearview. Suddenly life feels fast and slow at the same time. It’s like being in two places at once. Finals go well; even calculus isn’t as bad as I thought. And just like that, my high school career is coming to an end. Peter’s gone away on his training weekend. It’s only been one day and I’m already longing for him the way I long for Christmas in July. Peter is my cocoa in a cup, my red mittens, my Christmas morning feeling.
He said he’d call as soon as he gets back from the gym, so I keep my phone by my side, with the volume up. Earlier this morning he called when I was in the shower, and by the time I saw it, he was gone again. Is this what the future looks like? It’ll be different when I have classes and a schedule of my own, but for now it feels like I am standing on top of a lighthouse, waiting for my love’s ship to come in. For a romantic kind of person, it’s not an altogether unpleasant feeling, not for now, anyway. It’ll be different when it’s not so novel anymore, when not seeing him every day is the new normal, but for now, just for now, longing is its own kind of perverse delight.
Late afternoon, I go downstairs in my long white nightgown that Margot says makes me look like Little House on the Prairie and Kitty says makes me look like a ghost. I sit at the counter with one leg up and open a can of cling peaches and eat them with a fork, right out of the can. There’s something so satisfying about biting into the skin of a syrupy cling peach.
