Always and Forever, Lara Jean
Page 57
“Very lucky,” Grandma says. “If you change your nose, you’ll change your luck. So never do it.”
I touch my own nose. Grandma’s never said anything about my nose being lucky.
“Margot, you can get new eyeglasses in Korea,” Grandma says. “It’s very cheap to buy eyeglasses in Korea. All the newest fashions.”
“Ooh,” Margot says, dunking a piece of tuna in her soy sauce. “I’ve always wanted red frames.”
Grandma turns to me and asks, “What about you, Lara Jean? Are you excited about the cooking class?”
“So excited,” I say brightly. Underneath the table I text Peter.
Are you okay?
We’re almost done at lunch.
Come over anytime.
The ride home from the restaurant is just Daddy and me, because Trina, Margot, and Kitty are driving Grandma back home. When Margot said she’d ride with us, Grandma insisted that Margot come along with them. She knows Margot isn’t crazy about Trina; I know she’s just trying to matchmake them a bit. Grandma doesn’t miss a beat. On the drive home, Daddy looks over at me from the driver’s seat with misty eyes and says, “Your mom would’ve been so proud of you today, Lara Jean. You know how much she cared about your education. She wanted you to have every opportunity.”
Fingering the tassel on my graduation cap in my lap, I ask him, “Do you think Mommy was sad she never got to get her master’s? I mean, not that she ever regretted having Kitty or anything. Just, do you think she wished things happened differently?”
He’s taken aback. Glancing at me, he says, “Well, no. Kitty really was a happy surprise. I’m not just saying that. We always wanted a big family. And she planned on going back after Kitty was in preschool full-time. She never gave up that plan.”
“She didn’t?”
“No way. She was going to get her master’s. In fact she was going to take a class that fall. She just . . . ran out of time.” Daddy’s voice chokes a little. “We only had eighteen years together. We had as many years as you’ve been alive, Lara Jean.”
A lump gathers in my throat. When you think about it, eighteen years with the person you love isn’t much time at all. “Daddy, can we stop by the drugstore? I want to get some photo paper.” Peter and I took a picture together in our caps and gowns this morning, before the ceremony. It’ll be the last page of his scrapbook, our last high school chapter.
32
PETER COMES OVER AFTER HAVING dinner with his mom and Owen. When he rings the bell, I run to the front door and the first thing I do is ask if he’s spoken to his dad, but he brushes me off, the very picture of nonchalance. “It’s fine,” he says, taking off his shoes. “I didn’t even want him to come in the first place.” This stings, because it feels like maybe he’s blaming me, and maybe he should—after all, I was the one who kept pushing him to invite his dad. I should’ve listened to him when he said no.
Peter and I go upstairs to my room, and I hear my dad jokingly call out, “Keep the door open!” the way he always does, which makes Peter wince.
I sit down on the bed, and he sits far away from me at my desk. I go over to him and put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. This is my fault. I never should have pushed you to invite him. If you’re mad at me, I don’t blame you one bit.”
“Why would I be mad at you? It’s not your fault he sucks.” When I don’t say anything, he softens. “Look, I’m really not sad. I’m not anything. You’ll meet him another time, okay?”
I hesitate before saying, “I’ve actually already met him before.”
He stares at me in disbelief. “When?”
I swallow. “I accidentally met him at one of your lacrosse games. He asked me not to mention it—he didn’t want you to know he was there. He just wanted to watch you play. He said he missed it.” The muscle in Peter’s jaw jumps. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s like I said, I don’t give a shit what he does.” I start to say something in return, but he interrupts before I can. “Can we just not talk about him anymore? Please?”
I nod. It’s killing me to see the hurt in his eyes that he’s trying so hard to hide, but I feel like if I keep pressing him, it’ll make things worse. I just want to make him feel better. Which is when I remember his gift. “I have something for you!”
Relief washes over his face, the tension in his shoulders loosens. “Aw, you got me a graduation gift? I didn’t get you anything, though.”
“That’s okay, I didn’t expect anything.” I jump up and get his scrapbook out of my hatbox. As I present the scrapbook to him, I find my heart is jumping all over the place. With excitement, and with nervousness. This will cheer him up, I know it will. “Hurry up and open it!”
Slowly he does. The first page is a picture I found in a shoe box when Kitty and I were cleaning out the attic to make room for Trina’s boxes. It’s one of the few from our middle school days in the neighborhood. It’s the first day of school; we’re waiting for the bus. Peter’s arms are slung around John McClaren and Trevor Pike. Genevieve and I have our arms linked; she is whispering a secret to me, probably about Peter. I am turned toward her and not looking at the camera. I’m wearing a heather-gray camisole of Margot’s and a jean skirt, and I remember feeling very grown-up in it, like a teenager. My hair is long and straight down my back, and it looks pretty much the same as it does now. Genevieve tried to convince me to cut it short for middle school, but I said no. We all look so young. John with his rosy cheeks, Trevor with his chubby ones, Peter with his skinny legs.
Underneath the picture I wrote, THE BEGINNING. “Aww,” he says tenderly. “Baby Lara Jean and Baby Peter. Where’d you find this?”
“In a shoe box.”
He flicks John’s smiling face. “Punk.”
“Peter!”
“Just kidding,” he says.
There’s our homecoming picture. Last Halloween, when I dressed up as Mulan and Peter wore a dragon costume. There’s a receipt from Tart and Tangy. One of his notes to me, from before. If you make Josh’s dumb white-chocolate cranberry cookies and not my fruitcake ones, it’s over. Pictures of us from Senior Week. Prom. Dried rose petals from my corsage. The Sixteen Candles picture.
I touch my own nose. Grandma’s never said anything about my nose being lucky.
“Margot, you can get new eyeglasses in Korea,” Grandma says. “It’s very cheap to buy eyeglasses in Korea. All the newest fashions.”
“Ooh,” Margot says, dunking a piece of tuna in her soy sauce. “I’ve always wanted red frames.”
Grandma turns to me and asks, “What about you, Lara Jean? Are you excited about the cooking class?”
“So excited,” I say brightly. Underneath the table I text Peter.
Are you okay?
We’re almost done at lunch.
Come over anytime.
The ride home from the restaurant is just Daddy and me, because Trina, Margot, and Kitty are driving Grandma back home. When Margot said she’d ride with us, Grandma insisted that Margot come along with them. She knows Margot isn’t crazy about Trina; I know she’s just trying to matchmake them a bit. Grandma doesn’t miss a beat. On the drive home, Daddy looks over at me from the driver’s seat with misty eyes and says, “Your mom would’ve been so proud of you today, Lara Jean. You know how much she cared about your education. She wanted you to have every opportunity.”
Fingering the tassel on my graduation cap in my lap, I ask him, “Do you think Mommy was sad she never got to get her master’s? I mean, not that she ever regretted having Kitty or anything. Just, do you think she wished things happened differently?”
He’s taken aback. Glancing at me, he says, “Well, no. Kitty really was a happy surprise. I’m not just saying that. We always wanted a big family. And she planned on going back after Kitty was in preschool full-time. She never gave up that plan.”
“She didn’t?”
“No way. She was going to get her master’s. In fact she was going to take a class that fall. She just . . . ran out of time.” Daddy’s voice chokes a little. “We only had eighteen years together. We had as many years as you’ve been alive, Lara Jean.”
A lump gathers in my throat. When you think about it, eighteen years with the person you love isn’t much time at all. “Daddy, can we stop by the drugstore? I want to get some photo paper.” Peter and I took a picture together in our caps and gowns this morning, before the ceremony. It’ll be the last page of his scrapbook, our last high school chapter.
32
PETER COMES OVER AFTER HAVING dinner with his mom and Owen. When he rings the bell, I run to the front door and the first thing I do is ask if he’s spoken to his dad, but he brushes me off, the very picture of nonchalance. “It’s fine,” he says, taking off his shoes. “I didn’t even want him to come in the first place.” This stings, because it feels like maybe he’s blaming me, and maybe he should—after all, I was the one who kept pushing him to invite his dad. I should’ve listened to him when he said no.
Peter and I go upstairs to my room, and I hear my dad jokingly call out, “Keep the door open!” the way he always does, which makes Peter wince.
I sit down on the bed, and he sits far away from me at my desk. I go over to him and put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. This is my fault. I never should have pushed you to invite him. If you’re mad at me, I don’t blame you one bit.”
“Why would I be mad at you? It’s not your fault he sucks.” When I don’t say anything, he softens. “Look, I’m really not sad. I’m not anything. You’ll meet him another time, okay?”
I hesitate before saying, “I’ve actually already met him before.”
He stares at me in disbelief. “When?”
I swallow. “I accidentally met him at one of your lacrosse games. He asked me not to mention it—he didn’t want you to know he was there. He just wanted to watch you play. He said he missed it.” The muscle in Peter’s jaw jumps. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s like I said, I don’t give a shit what he does.” I start to say something in return, but he interrupts before I can. “Can we just not talk about him anymore? Please?”
I nod. It’s killing me to see the hurt in his eyes that he’s trying so hard to hide, but I feel like if I keep pressing him, it’ll make things worse. I just want to make him feel better. Which is when I remember his gift. “I have something for you!”
Relief washes over his face, the tension in his shoulders loosens. “Aw, you got me a graduation gift? I didn’t get you anything, though.”
“That’s okay, I didn’t expect anything.” I jump up and get his scrapbook out of my hatbox. As I present the scrapbook to him, I find my heart is jumping all over the place. With excitement, and with nervousness. This will cheer him up, I know it will. “Hurry up and open it!”
Slowly he does. The first page is a picture I found in a shoe box when Kitty and I were cleaning out the attic to make room for Trina’s boxes. It’s one of the few from our middle school days in the neighborhood. It’s the first day of school; we’re waiting for the bus. Peter’s arms are slung around John McClaren and Trevor Pike. Genevieve and I have our arms linked; she is whispering a secret to me, probably about Peter. I am turned toward her and not looking at the camera. I’m wearing a heather-gray camisole of Margot’s and a jean skirt, and I remember feeling very grown-up in it, like a teenager. My hair is long and straight down my back, and it looks pretty much the same as it does now. Genevieve tried to convince me to cut it short for middle school, but I said no. We all look so young. John with his rosy cheeks, Trevor with his chubby ones, Peter with his skinny legs.
Underneath the picture I wrote, THE BEGINNING. “Aww,” he says tenderly. “Baby Lara Jean and Baby Peter. Where’d you find this?”
“In a shoe box.”
He flicks John’s smiling face. “Punk.”
“Peter!”
“Just kidding,” he says.
There’s our homecoming picture. Last Halloween, when I dressed up as Mulan and Peter wore a dragon costume. There’s a receipt from Tart and Tangy. One of his notes to me, from before. If you make Josh’s dumb white-chocolate cranberry cookies and not my fruitcake ones, it’s over. Pictures of us from Senior Week. Prom. Dried rose petals from my corsage. The Sixteen Candles picture.
