P.S. I Still Love You (22 page)

I laugh. “No, I’m saying that when I think about you, which isn’t very often, that’s how I think of you. On the first day of school, I always have to explain to teachers that Lara Jean is my first name and not just Lara. And then, do you remember how Mr. Chudney started calling you John Ambrose because of that? ‘Mr. John Ambrose.’”

In a fake hoity-toity English accent, John says, “Mr. John Ambrose McClaren the Third, madam.”

I giggle. I’ve never met a third before. “Are you really?”

“Yeah. It’s annoying. My dad’s a junior, so he’s JJ, but my extended family still calls me Little John.” He grimaces. “I’d much rather be John Ambrose than Little John. Sounds like a rapper or that guy from
Robin Hood
.”

“Your family’s so fancy.” I only ever saw John’s mom when she was picking him up. She looked younger than the other mothers, she had John’s same milky skin, and her hair was longer than the other moms’, straw-colored.

“No. My family isn’t fancy at all. My mom made Jell-O salad last night for dessert. And, like, my dad only has steak cooked well-done. We only ever take vacations we can drive to.”

“I thought your family was kind of . . . well, rich.” I feel immediate shame for saying “rich.” It’s tacky to talk about other people’s money.

“My dad’s really cheap. His construction company is pretty successful, but he prides himself on being a self-made man. He didn’t go to college; neither did my grandparents. My sisters were the first in our family.”

“I didn’t know that about you,” I say. All these new things I’m learning about John Ambrose McClaren!

“Now it’s your turn to tell me something I don’t know about you,” John says.

I laugh. “You already know more than most people. My love letter made sure of that.”

The next morning, I sneeze as I’m putting on my coat, and Stormy raises one pencil-drawn eyebrow at me. “Catch a cold playing in the snow last night with Johnny?”

I squirm. I’d hoped she wouldn’t bring it up. The last thing I want to do is discuss her midnight rendezvous with Mr. Morales! We watched Stormy go back to her apartment and then waited half an hour before John went back to Mr. Morales’s. Weakly, I say, “Sorry we snuck out. It was so early, and we couldn’t fall asleep, so we thought we’d play in the snow.”

Stormy waves a hand. “It’s exactly what I hoped would happen.” She winks at me. “That’s why I made Johnny stay with Mr. Morales, of course. What’s the fun in anything if there aren’t a few roadblocks to spice things up?”

In awe, I say, “You’re so crafty!”

“Thank you, darling.” She’s quite pleased with herself. “You know, he’d make a great first husband, my Johnny. So, did you French him, at least?”

My face burns. “No!”

“You can tell me, honey.”

“Stormy, we didn’t kiss, and even if we had, I wouldn’t discuss it with you.”

Stormy’s nose goes thin and haughty. “Well, isn’t that so very selfish of you!”

“I have to go, Stormy. My dad’s waiting for me out front. See you!”

As I hurry out the door, she calls out, “Don’t you worry, I’ll get it out of Johnny! See you both at the party, Lara Jean!”

When I step outside, the sun is shining bright and much of the snow has already melted away. It’s almost like last night was a dream.

48

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE USO
party, I call Chris on speakerphone as I’m rolling a log of shortbread dough in sage sugar. “Chris, can I borrow your Rosie the Riveter poster?”

“You can have it but what do you want it for?”

“For the 1940s USO party I’m throwing at Belleview tomorrow—”

“Stop, I’m bored. God, all you ever talk about is Belleview!”

“It’s my job!”

“Ooh, should I get a job?”

I roll my eyes. Every conversation we have turns back to Chris and the concerns of Chris. “Hey, speaking of fun jobs for you, what do you think about being a cigar girl for the party? You could wear a cute outfit with a little hat.”

“Real cigars?”

“No, chocolate ones. Cigars are bad for old people.”

“Will there be booze?”

I’m about to say yes, but only for the residents, but I think better of it. “I don’t think so. It could be a dangerous combination with their medications and their walkers.”

“When is it again?”

“Tomorrow!”

“Oh, sorry. I can’t give up a Friday night for this. Something better will definitely come up on a Friday. A Tuesday, maybe. Can you change it to next Tuesday?”

“No! Can you just please bring the poster to school tomorrow?”

“Yeah, but you have to text me with a reminder.”

“’Kay.” I blow my hair out of my face and start slicing the cookie roll. I still have to chop carrots and celery for the crudités and also pipe my meringues. I’m doing red-white-and-blue-striped meringue kisses, and I’m nervous about the colors blending together. Oh well. If they do, then people will just have to live with purple meringue kisses. There are worse things. Speaking of worse things . . . “Have you heard anything from Gen? I’ve been so careful, but it seems like she’s barely playing.” There’s silence on the other end.

“She’s probably too busy doing sex voodoo on Peter,” I say, half-hoping Chris will chime in. She’s always the first in line to rip on Gen.

But she doesn’t. All she says is “I’ve gotta go—my mom’s bitching at me to take out the dog.”

“Don’t forget the poster!”

49

AFTER SCHOOL KITTY AND I
set up camp in the kitchen, where there’s the best light. I bring down my speakers and play the Andrews Sisters to get us in the right spirit. Kitty puts down a towel and lays out all my makeup, bobby pins, hair spray.

I hold up a packet of individual false eyelashes. “Where’d you get these from?”

“Brielle stole them from her sister and she gave me a pack.”

“Kitty!”

“She won’t notice. She has tons!”

“You can’t just take people’s stuff.”

“I didn’t take it—Brielle did. Anyway, I can’t give it back now. Do you want me to put them on you or not?”

I hesitate. “Do you even know how?”

“Yeah, I’ve watched her sister put them on plenty of times.” Kitty takes the eyelashes out of my hand. “If you don’t want me to use them on you, fine. I’ll save them for myself.”

“Well . . . all right then. But no more stealing.” I frown. “Hey, do you guys ever take my stuff?” Come to think of it, I haven’t seen my cat-ears knit beanie in months.

“Shh, no more talking,” she says.

The hair is what takes the longest. Kitty and I have watched countless hair tutorials to figure out the logistics of the victory rolls. There’s a lot of teasing and hair spray and hair rollers involved. And bobby pins. Lots of bobby pins.

I stare at myself in the mirror. “Don’t you think my hair looks a little . . . severe?”

“What do you mean, ‘severe’?”

“It kind of looks like I have a cinnamon bun on top of my head.”

Kitty thrusts the iPad in my face. “Yeah, so does this girl’s. That’s the look. It’s got to be authentic. If we water down the look, it won’t be true to the theme, and nobody will know what you’re supposed to be.” I’m nodding slowly; she has a point. “Besides, I’m going over to Ms. Rothschild’s for a Jamie training session. I don’t have time to start all over again.”

For my lipstick, we achieve the perfect shade of cherry red by blending two different reds—one brick and one fire engine—with a hot pink powder to set it. I look like I kissed a cherry pie.

I’m blotting my lips when Kitty asks, “Is that pretty boy John Amber McAndrews picking you up, or are you meeting him at the nursing home?”

I wave my tissue in her face warningly. “He’s picking me up, and you’d better be nice. Also he’s not a pretty boy.”

“He’s a pretty boy compared to Peter,” Kitty says.

“Let’s be honest. They’re both pretty. It’s not like Peter has a tattoo or huge muscles. In fact he’s very vain.” We never passed a window or a glass door Peter didn’t check himself out in.

“Well, is John vain?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Hmph.”

“Kitty, stop making this a competition of John versus Peter. It doesn’t matter who’s prettier.”

Kitty keeps going like she didn’t hear me. “Peter has a much nicer car. What does Johnny boy drive, a boring SUV? Who cares about an SUV? All they do is guzzle gas.”

“To be fair, I think it’s a hybrid.”

“You sure like to defend him.”

“He’s my friend!”

“Well, Peter’s mine,” she says.

Getting dressed is an intricate process, and I enjoy each step. It’s all about anticipation, hope for the night. Slowly I put on the seamed stockings so I don’t get a run in them. It takes me forever to get the seams straight down the backs of my legs. Then the dress—navy with white sprigs and little holly berries and floaty cap sleeves. Last the shoes. Clunky red heels with a bow at the toe and an ankle strap.

Put all together, it goes great, and I have to admit that Kitty was right about the victory roll on top of my head. Anything less wouldn’t be enough.

On my way out Daddy makes a big fuss over how great I look, and he takes about a million photos, which he promptly texts Margot. She immediately video-chats us so she can see for herself. “Make sure you get a picture of you and Stormy together,” Margot says. “I want to see what sexy getup she’s wearing.”

“It’s actually not that sexy,” I say. “She sewed it herself, off a 1940s dress pattern.”

“I’m sure she’ll find a way to bring the sexy,” Margot says. “What’s John McClaren wearing?”

“I have no idea. He says it’s a surprise.”

“Hmm,” she says. It’s a very suggestive
hmm
, which I ignore.

Daddy’s taking one last shot of me on the front porch when Ms. Rothschild comes over. “You look amazing, Lara Jean,” she says.

“She does, doesn’t she?” Daddy says fondly.

“God, I love the forties,” she says.

“Have you seen the Ken Burns documentary
The War
?” Daddy asks her. “If you have any interest in World War Two, it’s a must-see.”

“You should watch it together,” Kitty pipes up, and Ms. Rothschild shoots her a warning look.

“Do you have it on DVD?” she asks Daddy. Kitty is aglow with excitement.

“Sure, you can borrow it anytime,” Daddy says, oblivious as ever, and Kitty scowls, and then her mouth falls open.

I turn to see what she’s looking at, and it’s a red convertible Mustang driving down our street, top down—with John McClaren at the wheel.

My jaw drops at the sight of him. He is in full uniform: tan dress shirt with tan tie, tan slacks, tan belt and hat. His hair is parted to the side. He looks dashing, like a real soldier. He grins at me and waves. “Whoa,” I breathe.

“Whoa is right,” Ms. Rothschild says, googly-eyed beside me. Daddy and his Ken Burns DVD are forgotten; we are all staring at John in this uniform, in this car. It’s like I dreamed him up. He parks the car in front of the house, and all of us rush up to it.

“Whose car is this?” Kitty demands.

“It’s my dad’s,” John says. “I borrowed it. I had to promise to park really far away from any other car, though, so I hope your shoes are comfortable, Lara Jean—” He breaks off and looks me up and down. “Wow. You look amazing.” He gestures at my cinnamon bun. “I mean, your hair looks so . . . real.”

“It is real!” I touch it gingerly, I’m suddenly feeling self-conscious about my cinnamon-bun head and red lipstick.

“I know—I mean, it looks authentic.”

“So do you,” I say.

“Can I sit in it?” Kitty butts in, her hand on the passenger-side door.

“Sure,” John says. He climbs out of the car. “But don’t you want to get in the driver’s seat?”

Kitty nods quickly. Ms. Rothschild gets in too, and Daddy takes a picture of them together. Kitty poses with one arm casually draped over the steering wheel.

John and I stand off to the side, and I ask him, “Where did you ever get that uniform?”

“I ordered it off of eBay.” He frowns. “Am I wearing the hat right? Do you think it’s too small for my head?”

“No way. I think it looks exactly the way it’s supposed to look.” I’m touched that he went to the trouble of ordering a uniform for this. I can’t think of many boys who would do that. “Stormy is going to flip out when she sees you.”

He studies my face. “What about you? Do you like it?”

I flush. “I do. I think you look . . . super.”

It turns out that Margot is, as ever, right. Stormy has shortened the hem on the dress; it’s well above the knee. “I’ve still got the gams,” she gloats, twirling. “My best feature, from all the horseback riding I did as a girl.” She’s showing a little cleavage, too.

A silver-haired man who rode over in the van from Ferncliff is making appreciative eyes at her, and Stormy is pretending not to notice, all the while batting her lashes and preening with one hand on her hip. He must be the handsome man Stormy mentioned to me.

I take a picture of her at the piano and send it directly to Margot, who texts back a smiling emoji and two thumbs up.

I’m setting up the American flag centerpiece, watching John lug a table closer to the center of the room at Stormy’s direction, when Alicia sidles up beside me, and then we’re both watching him. “You should date him.”

“Alicia, I told you, I just got out of a relationship,” I whisper back. I can’t take my eyes off him in that uniform with that side part.

“Well, get into a new one. Life is short.” For once, Alicia and Stormy are on the same page.

Stormy is now straightening John’s tie, his little hat. She even licks her finger and tries to smooth his hair, but he ducks away. Our eyes meet, and he makes a frantic face like,
Help me.

“Save him,” Alicia says. “I’ll finish the table. My internment camp display is already done.” She’s set that up by the doors, so it’s the first thing you see when you walk in.

I hurry over to John and Stormy. Stormy beams at me. “Doesn’t she look like an absolute
doll
?” She swans off.

With a straight face John says, “Lara Jean, you’re an absolute
doll
.”

I giggle and touch the top of my head. “A cinnamon roll–headed doll.”

People are starting to mill in, even though it isn’t seven yet. I’ve observed that old people, as a rule, tend to show up early for things. I still have to set up the music. Stormy says that when hosting a party, music is absolutely the first order of business, because it sets the mood the second your guest walks in. I can feel my nerves starting to pulse. There’s still so much to do. “I’d better finish setting up.”

“Tell me what you need done,” John says. “I’m your second-in-command at this shindig. Did people say ‘shindig’ in the forties?”

I laugh. “Probably!” In a rush I say, “Okay, can you set up my speakers and iPod? They’re in the bag by the refreshments table. And can you pick up Mrs. Taylor in 5A? I promised her an escort.”

John gives me a salute and runs off. Tingles go up and down my spine like soda water. Tonight will be a night to remember!

We’re an hour and a half in, and Crystal Clemons, a lady from Stormy’s floor, is leading everyone in a swing-dancing lesson. Of course Stormy is up front, rock-stepping for all she’s worth. I’m following along from the refreshments table: one-two, three-four, five-six. Early on I danced with Mr. Morales, but only once, because the women were cutting their eyes at me for taking an eligible, able-bodied man off the circuit. Men are in short supply at old-age homes, so there aren’t enough male dance partners, not enough by half. I’ve heard a few of the women whispering how rude it is for a gentleman not to dance when there are ladies without partners—and looking pointedly at poor John.

John is standing at the other end of the table, drinking Coke and nodding his head to the beat. I’ve been so busy running around, we’ve hardly had a chance to talk. I lean over the table and call out, “Having fun?”

He nods. Then, quite suddenly, he bangs his glass down on the table, so hard the table shakes and I jump. “All right,” he says. “It’s do or die. D-day.”

“What?”

“Let’s dance,” John says.

Shyly I say, “We don’t have to if you don’t want to, John.”

“No, I want to. I didn’t take swing-dancing lessons from Stormy for nothing.”

I widen my eyes. “When did you take swing dance lessons from Stormy?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just dance with me.”

“Well . . . do you have any war bonds left?” I joke.

John fishes one out of his pants pocket and slaps it on the refreshments table. Then he grabs my hand and marches me to the center of the dance floor, like a soldier heading off to the battlefield. He’s all grim concentration. He signals to Mr. Morales, who is manning the music because he’s the only one who can figure out my phone. Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” comes blaring out of the speakers.