Always and Forever, Lara Jean
Page 52
29
THIS IS THE LAST TIME we’ll walk up this staircase together, Peter taking the stairs two at a time, me nipping at his heels, huffing and puffing to keep up. It’s the last day of school for seniors, the last day of my high school career. When we reach the top of the staircase, I say, “I feel like taking the stairs two at a time is just bragging. Have you ever noticed that only boys ever take stairs two at a time?”
“Girls probably would if they were as tall.”
“Margot’s friend Chelsea is five eleven, and I don’t think she does it.”
“So what are you saying—boys brag more?”
“Probably. Don’t you think?”
“Probably,” he admits.
The bell rings, and people start heading for class.
“Should we just skip first period? Go get pancakes?” He raises his eyebrows at me enticingly, pulling me toward him by the dangling straps of my book bag. “Come on, you know you want to.”
“No way. It’s the last day of school. I want to say good-bye to Mr. Lopez.”
Peter groans. “Goody-goody.”
“You knew who I was when you started dating me,” I tell him.
“True,” he says.
Before we go our separate ways, I hold out my hands and wait expectantly. Peter gives me a curious look. “My yearbook!”
“Oh shit! I forgot it again.”
“Peter! It’s the last day of school! I only got half the signatures I wanted!”
“I’m sorry,” he says, rubbing his hand through his hair and making it go all messy. “Do you want me to go back home and get it? I can go right now.” He looks genuinely sorry, but I’m still annoyed.
When I don’t say anything right away, Peter starts to head back toward the stairs, but I stop him. “No, don’t. It’s fine. I’ll just pass it around at graduation.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say. We’re not even here the full school day; I don’t want him to have to run back home just for my yearbook.
Classes are pretty lax; we mostly just walk around saying good-bye to teachers, the office staff, the cafeteria ladies, the school nurse. A lot of them we’ll see at graduation, but not everyone. I pass around cookies that I baked last night. We get our final grades—all good, so no worries there.
It takes me forever to clean out my locker. I find random notes I saved from Peter, which I promptly put in my bag so I can add them to his scrapbook. An old granola bar. Dusty black hair ties, which is ironic because you can never seem to find a hair tie when you need one.
“I’m sad to throw any of this stuff away, even this old granola bar,” I say to Lucas, who is sitting on the floor keeping me company. “I’ve seen it there at the bottom of my locker every day. It’s like an old pal. Should we split it, to commemorate this day?”
“Sick,” Lucas says. “It’s probably got mold.” Matter-of-factly he says, “After graduation I probably won’t see any of these people again.”
I throw him a hurt look. “Hey! What about me?”
“Not you. You’re coming to visit me in New York.”
“Ooh! Yes, please.”
“Sarah Lawrence is so close to the city. I’ll be able to go to Broadway shows whenever I want. There’s an app for same-day student tickets.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes.
“You’re so lucky,” I say.
“I’ll take you. We’ll go to a gay bar, too. It’ll be amazing.”
“Thank you!”
“But everybody else I can take or leave.”
“We still have Beach Week,” I remind him, and he nods.
“For the rest of our lives, we’ll always have Beach Week,” he says mockingly, and I throw a hair tie at him.
Lucas can mock me for being nostalgic all he wants. I know these days are special. High school will be a time we remember the whole rest of our lives.
* * *
After school, Peter and I go to his house because mine is a disaster zone with wedding stuff, and Peter’s mom has her book club after work, and Owen has soccer, so we have the house all to ourselves. It seems the only place we’re ever truly alone is in his car, so moments like these are rare and of note. My last drive home from high school, and Peter K. is the one who’s driving me. It’s fitting, to end high school the way I spent it—riding in the passenger seat of Peter’s car.
When we go up to his room, I sit down on his bed, which is neatly made, with the comforter pulled in tight; the pillows look fluffed, even. It’s a new comforter, probably for college—a cheery red and cream and navy tartan that I’m sure his mom picked out. “Your mom makes your bed, doesn’t she?” I ask him, leaning back against the pillows.
“Yes,” he says, without an ounce of shame. He flops onto the bed, and I scoot over to make room for him.
Late afternoon light filters in through his pale curtains, and it casts the room in a dreamy kind of filter. If I were going to name it, I would call it “summer in the suburbs.” Peter looks beautiful in this light. He looks beautiful in any light, but especially this one. I take a picture of him in my mind, just like this. Any annoyance I felt over him forgetting my yearbook melts away when he snuggles closer to me, rests his head on my chest, and says, “I can feel your heart beating.”
I start playing with his hair, which I know he likes. It’s so soft for a boy. I love the smell of his detergent, his soap, everything.
He looks up at me and traces the bow of my lip. “I like this part the best,” he says. Then he moves up and brushes his lips against mine, teasing me. He bites on my bottom lip playfully. I like all his different kinds of kisses, but maybe this kind best. Then he’s kissing me with urgency, like he is utterly consumed, his hands in my hair, and I think, no, these are the best.
Between kisses he asks me, “How come you only ever want to hook up when we’re at my house?”
“I—I don’t know. I guess I never thought about it before.” It’s true we only ever make out at Peter’s house. It feels weird to be romantic in the same bed I’ve slept in since I was a little girl. But when I’m in Peter’s bed, or in his car, I forget all about that and I’m just lost in the moment.
We’re at it kissing again—Peter’s shirt is off; mine is still on—when the phone rings downstairs, and Peter says it’s probably the repairman calling about when he’s coming to fix the pipes. He puts on his shirt and runs downstairs to answer it, and that’s when I spot my yearbook on his desk.
THIS IS THE LAST TIME we’ll walk up this staircase together, Peter taking the stairs two at a time, me nipping at his heels, huffing and puffing to keep up. It’s the last day of school for seniors, the last day of my high school career. When we reach the top of the staircase, I say, “I feel like taking the stairs two at a time is just bragging. Have you ever noticed that only boys ever take stairs two at a time?”
“Girls probably would if they were as tall.”
“Margot’s friend Chelsea is five eleven, and I don’t think she does it.”
“So what are you saying—boys brag more?”
“Probably. Don’t you think?”
“Probably,” he admits.
The bell rings, and people start heading for class.
“Should we just skip first period? Go get pancakes?” He raises his eyebrows at me enticingly, pulling me toward him by the dangling straps of my book bag. “Come on, you know you want to.”
“No way. It’s the last day of school. I want to say good-bye to Mr. Lopez.”
Peter groans. “Goody-goody.”
“You knew who I was when you started dating me,” I tell him.
“True,” he says.
Before we go our separate ways, I hold out my hands and wait expectantly. Peter gives me a curious look. “My yearbook!”
“Oh shit! I forgot it again.”
“Peter! It’s the last day of school! I only got half the signatures I wanted!”
“I’m sorry,” he says, rubbing his hand through his hair and making it go all messy. “Do you want me to go back home and get it? I can go right now.” He looks genuinely sorry, but I’m still annoyed.
When I don’t say anything right away, Peter starts to head back toward the stairs, but I stop him. “No, don’t. It’s fine. I’ll just pass it around at graduation.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say. We’re not even here the full school day; I don’t want him to have to run back home just for my yearbook.
Classes are pretty lax; we mostly just walk around saying good-bye to teachers, the office staff, the cafeteria ladies, the school nurse. A lot of them we’ll see at graduation, but not everyone. I pass around cookies that I baked last night. We get our final grades—all good, so no worries there.
It takes me forever to clean out my locker. I find random notes I saved from Peter, which I promptly put in my bag so I can add them to his scrapbook. An old granola bar. Dusty black hair ties, which is ironic because you can never seem to find a hair tie when you need one.
“I’m sad to throw any of this stuff away, even this old granola bar,” I say to Lucas, who is sitting on the floor keeping me company. “I’ve seen it there at the bottom of my locker every day. It’s like an old pal. Should we split it, to commemorate this day?”
“Sick,” Lucas says. “It’s probably got mold.” Matter-of-factly he says, “After graduation I probably won’t see any of these people again.”
I throw him a hurt look. “Hey! What about me?”
“Not you. You’re coming to visit me in New York.”
“Ooh! Yes, please.”
“Sarah Lawrence is so close to the city. I’ll be able to go to Broadway shows whenever I want. There’s an app for same-day student tickets.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes.
“You’re so lucky,” I say.
“I’ll take you. We’ll go to a gay bar, too. It’ll be amazing.”
“Thank you!”
“But everybody else I can take or leave.”
“We still have Beach Week,” I remind him, and he nods.
“For the rest of our lives, we’ll always have Beach Week,” he says mockingly, and I throw a hair tie at him.
Lucas can mock me for being nostalgic all he wants. I know these days are special. High school will be a time we remember the whole rest of our lives.
* * *
After school, Peter and I go to his house because mine is a disaster zone with wedding stuff, and Peter’s mom has her book club after work, and Owen has soccer, so we have the house all to ourselves. It seems the only place we’re ever truly alone is in his car, so moments like these are rare and of note. My last drive home from high school, and Peter K. is the one who’s driving me. It’s fitting, to end high school the way I spent it—riding in the passenger seat of Peter’s car.
When we go up to his room, I sit down on his bed, which is neatly made, with the comforter pulled in tight; the pillows look fluffed, even. It’s a new comforter, probably for college—a cheery red and cream and navy tartan that I’m sure his mom picked out. “Your mom makes your bed, doesn’t she?” I ask him, leaning back against the pillows.
“Yes,” he says, without an ounce of shame. He flops onto the bed, and I scoot over to make room for him.
Late afternoon light filters in through his pale curtains, and it casts the room in a dreamy kind of filter. If I were going to name it, I would call it “summer in the suburbs.” Peter looks beautiful in this light. He looks beautiful in any light, but especially this one. I take a picture of him in my mind, just like this. Any annoyance I felt over him forgetting my yearbook melts away when he snuggles closer to me, rests his head on my chest, and says, “I can feel your heart beating.”
I start playing with his hair, which I know he likes. It’s so soft for a boy. I love the smell of his detergent, his soap, everything.
He looks up at me and traces the bow of my lip. “I like this part the best,” he says. Then he moves up and brushes his lips against mine, teasing me. He bites on my bottom lip playfully. I like all his different kinds of kisses, but maybe this kind best. Then he’s kissing me with urgency, like he is utterly consumed, his hands in my hair, and I think, no, these are the best.
Between kisses he asks me, “How come you only ever want to hook up when we’re at my house?”
“I—I don’t know. I guess I never thought about it before.” It’s true we only ever make out at Peter’s house. It feels weird to be romantic in the same bed I’ve slept in since I was a little girl. But when I’m in Peter’s bed, or in his car, I forget all about that and I’m just lost in the moment.
We’re at it kissing again—Peter’s shirt is off; mine is still on—when the phone rings downstairs, and Peter says it’s probably the repairman calling about when he’s coming to fix the pipes. He puts on his shirt and runs downstairs to answer it, and that’s when I spot my yearbook on his desk.
