Always and Forever, Lara Jean
Page 61
“McClaren was my BFF back in middle school,” Peter says. “They used to call us Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Who do you think was Butch and who do you think was the Sundance Kid, Dipti?”
She laughs. “I don’t know. I never saw that movie.”
“Butch was the main guy.” Peter points to himself. “And the Sundance Kid over there”—he points to John—“he was the sidekick.” Peter cracks up, and I’m cringing inside, but John just shakes his head in his good-natured way. Peter grabs John’s bicep. “Yo, have you been working out?” To Dipti he says, “This kid used to have spaghetti arms and read all day, but now look at him. He’s a stud.”
“Hey, I still read,” John says.
“When Peter and I first got together, I thought maybe he didn’t know how to read,” I say, and John doubles over laughing.
Peter laughs too, but not as heartily as he was a second ago.
* * *
When it gets late, Peter says I should just stay over instead of going back to my house. I say no, because I don’t have my toothbrush or any of my things, but really, I’m just annoyed with him for the way he acted in front of John.
On the walk back to my house, Peter says, “Dipti seems cool. Good for McClaren. Doubt they’ll stay together, though. They’ll probably visit each other once and be broken up by Christmas, if that.”
I stop walking. “That’s a lousy thing to say.”
“What? I’m just being honest.”
I face him, and salty beach wind whips my hair around my face. “Okay, if you’re ‘just being honest,’ then maybe I will be too.” Peter raises an eyebrow and waits for me to continue. “You acted like a jerk tonight. Insecurity is not a good look on you, Peter.”
“Me?” Peter makes a derisive sound. “Insecure? About what? McClaren? Please. Did you see how he just went into my fridge and ate my carrots?”
I start walking again, faster. “Who cares about your carrots!”
He jogs to catch up with me. “You know I’m trying to get in shape for lacrosse!”
“You’re ridiculous, do you know that?” We are now standing in front of my house. Angry walking sure gets you places in a hurry. “Good night, Peter.” I turn on my heel and start walking up the steps, and Peter doesn’t try to stop me.
34
THE NEXT MORNING, I WAKE up unsure if Peter and I are in a fight. Last night felt like a fight, only I’m not sure if he’s mad at me or if I’m supposed to be mad at him. It’s an unsettling feeling. I don’t want to be mad at him. I leave for Korea on July 1. We don’t have time to get into dumb fights over carrots and John Ambrose McClaren. Every second we have left together is precious.
I decide to make him French toast as a peace offering. His favorite breakfast food, besides donuts, is French toast. In the kitchen I find a box of sugar in the cabinet, milk, half a loaf of bread, a couple of eggs, but no cinnamon. The cinnamon is essential.
I take Pammy’s car keys and drive to the little market near our house, where I buy a shaker of cinnamon, butter, a dozen eggs, and a new loaf of white bread, because I figure I might as well make toast for Peter’s whole house while I’m at it. At the last second, I throw in a bag of carrots.
Everyone at his house is still asleep, and the place looks even worse than it did the night before. Beer bottles all over the place, empty bags of chips strewn about, bathing suit trunks drying on furniture. Dirty dishes are piled high in the sink, and I have to wash a bowl and a spatula caked in old egg in order to start cooking.
Because the bread is fresh, my first few pieces end up disintegrating in the egg mix, but I get the hang of it on the third try, dipping the bread for only a few seconds before I drop it in the frying pan.
The boys drift downstairs, and I keep frying more French toast. Every time the stack dwindles, I add more. Peter’s the last one down, and when I offer him a piece, one of the good crispy ones, he shakes his head and says he’d better not, because of his diet. He doesn’t meet my eyes as he says it. He just doesn’t want to eat something I made.
After breakfast I don’t stick around, and again Peter doesn’t try to stop me. I drive back home and wake up Chris, who is still in last night’s clothes. “I have a piece of French toast for you downstairs,” I say. I brought her the piece I saved for Peter.
* * *
There’s a cookout that night, at a house a few streets down from ours. Our house brings tubs of neon-yellow potato salad and all the wine coolers we have left. Since it’s the last night, we are emptying out the fridge.
Out on the deck, I end up in a conversation with Kaila and Emily Nussbaum, one of Genevieve’s friends. I’ve barely seen Genevieve at all this week, because she’s here with her church friends, and her house is a mix of people from other schools.
Emily asks me, “So are you and Kavinsky really going to stay together?”
Right this second? I have no idea, seeing as how we’ve barely said two words to each other all night. Of course I don’t say that. Whatever I say to Emily will get right back to Genevieve. Gen might have moved on, but she would surely still take pleasure in Peter and me being in a fight. I say, “Yes, we’re staying together. UNC and UVA aren’t that far.”
Kaila sucks up rum and Diet Coke out of her straw, giving me a sidelong look. “You know, you’re an interesting girl, Lara Jean. You seem shy and kind of babyish at first, but you’re actually very confident. That was a compliment, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I say. If someone is giving you a compliment, I don’t think they should have to tell you they’re giving you one; it should probably be obvious to the person receiving it. I take a sip of the drink Chris made me, and I nearly spit it out because she made it so strong. She called it a grown-up Shirley Temple, whatever that means.
“I can see why Kavinsky likes you,” Kaila says. “I hope it works out.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Emily puts her feet up on my chair and says, “If Blake broke up with me, I would freak out. I would be absolutely devastated.”
“Well, you guys are super intense. You’ll probably get married right after college.”
“No way,” Emily says, but she’s obviously pleased.
She laughs. “I don’t know. I never saw that movie.”
“Butch was the main guy.” Peter points to himself. “And the Sundance Kid over there”—he points to John—“he was the sidekick.” Peter cracks up, and I’m cringing inside, but John just shakes his head in his good-natured way. Peter grabs John’s bicep. “Yo, have you been working out?” To Dipti he says, “This kid used to have spaghetti arms and read all day, but now look at him. He’s a stud.”
“Hey, I still read,” John says.
“When Peter and I first got together, I thought maybe he didn’t know how to read,” I say, and John doubles over laughing.
Peter laughs too, but not as heartily as he was a second ago.
* * *
When it gets late, Peter says I should just stay over instead of going back to my house. I say no, because I don’t have my toothbrush or any of my things, but really, I’m just annoyed with him for the way he acted in front of John.
On the walk back to my house, Peter says, “Dipti seems cool. Good for McClaren. Doubt they’ll stay together, though. They’ll probably visit each other once and be broken up by Christmas, if that.”
I stop walking. “That’s a lousy thing to say.”
“What? I’m just being honest.”
I face him, and salty beach wind whips my hair around my face. “Okay, if you’re ‘just being honest,’ then maybe I will be too.” Peter raises an eyebrow and waits for me to continue. “You acted like a jerk tonight. Insecurity is not a good look on you, Peter.”
“Me?” Peter makes a derisive sound. “Insecure? About what? McClaren? Please. Did you see how he just went into my fridge and ate my carrots?”
I start walking again, faster. “Who cares about your carrots!”
He jogs to catch up with me. “You know I’m trying to get in shape for lacrosse!”
“You’re ridiculous, do you know that?” We are now standing in front of my house. Angry walking sure gets you places in a hurry. “Good night, Peter.” I turn on my heel and start walking up the steps, and Peter doesn’t try to stop me.
34
THE NEXT MORNING, I WAKE up unsure if Peter and I are in a fight. Last night felt like a fight, only I’m not sure if he’s mad at me or if I’m supposed to be mad at him. It’s an unsettling feeling. I don’t want to be mad at him. I leave for Korea on July 1. We don’t have time to get into dumb fights over carrots and John Ambrose McClaren. Every second we have left together is precious.
I decide to make him French toast as a peace offering. His favorite breakfast food, besides donuts, is French toast. In the kitchen I find a box of sugar in the cabinet, milk, half a loaf of bread, a couple of eggs, but no cinnamon. The cinnamon is essential.
I take Pammy’s car keys and drive to the little market near our house, where I buy a shaker of cinnamon, butter, a dozen eggs, and a new loaf of white bread, because I figure I might as well make toast for Peter’s whole house while I’m at it. At the last second, I throw in a bag of carrots.
Everyone at his house is still asleep, and the place looks even worse than it did the night before. Beer bottles all over the place, empty bags of chips strewn about, bathing suit trunks drying on furniture. Dirty dishes are piled high in the sink, and I have to wash a bowl and a spatula caked in old egg in order to start cooking.
Because the bread is fresh, my first few pieces end up disintegrating in the egg mix, but I get the hang of it on the third try, dipping the bread for only a few seconds before I drop it in the frying pan.
The boys drift downstairs, and I keep frying more French toast. Every time the stack dwindles, I add more. Peter’s the last one down, and when I offer him a piece, one of the good crispy ones, he shakes his head and says he’d better not, because of his diet. He doesn’t meet my eyes as he says it. He just doesn’t want to eat something I made.
After breakfast I don’t stick around, and again Peter doesn’t try to stop me. I drive back home and wake up Chris, who is still in last night’s clothes. “I have a piece of French toast for you downstairs,” I say. I brought her the piece I saved for Peter.
* * *
There’s a cookout that night, at a house a few streets down from ours. Our house brings tubs of neon-yellow potato salad and all the wine coolers we have left. Since it’s the last night, we are emptying out the fridge.
Out on the deck, I end up in a conversation with Kaila and Emily Nussbaum, one of Genevieve’s friends. I’ve barely seen Genevieve at all this week, because she’s here with her church friends, and her house is a mix of people from other schools.
Emily asks me, “So are you and Kavinsky really going to stay together?”
Right this second? I have no idea, seeing as how we’ve barely said two words to each other all night. Of course I don’t say that. Whatever I say to Emily will get right back to Genevieve. Gen might have moved on, but she would surely still take pleasure in Peter and me being in a fight. I say, “Yes, we’re staying together. UNC and UVA aren’t that far.”
Kaila sucks up rum and Diet Coke out of her straw, giving me a sidelong look. “You know, you’re an interesting girl, Lara Jean. You seem shy and kind of babyish at first, but you’re actually very confident. That was a compliment, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I say. If someone is giving you a compliment, I don’t think they should have to tell you they’re giving you one; it should probably be obvious to the person receiving it. I take a sip of the drink Chris made me, and I nearly spit it out because she made it so strong. She called it a grown-up Shirley Temple, whatever that means.
“I can see why Kavinsky likes you,” Kaila says. “I hope it works out.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Emily puts her feet up on my chair and says, “If Blake broke up with me, I would freak out. I would be absolutely devastated.”
“Well, you guys are super intense. You’ll probably get married right after college.”
“No way,” Emily says, but she’s obviously pleased.
