To All the Boys I've Loved Before (22 page)

But the store is less than ten minutes away. It’s not like I’d be getting on the highway. And I really really don’t want to eat scrambled eggs for dinner tonight. Besides . . . if Peter and Genevieve are getting back together, he won’t be giving me rides anymore. I’ve got to learn how to do for myself. I can’t depend on other people to help me.

“We’re going to the store, Kitty,” I say.

She’s lying down in front of the TV, propped up on her elbows. Her body looks so long; it’s getting longer every day. Pretty soon she’ll be taller than me. Kitty doesn’t look away from the TV. “I don’t want to come. I want to watch my shows.”

“If you come, I’ll let you pick out an ice cream.”

Kitty gets to her feet.

On the drive there, I’m going so slow that Kitty keeps telling me the speed limit. “They give tickets for going under the limit too, you know.”

“Who told you that?”

“No one. I just know it. I bet I’m going to be a better driver than you, Lara Jean.”

I grip the steering wheel tighter. “I bet you are.”
Brat
. I bet when Kitty starts driving, she’s going to be a speed demon without the slightest concern for those around her. But she’ll still probably be better at it than me. A reckless driver is better than a scared one; ask anybody.

“I’m not scared of things like you are.”

I adjust my rearview mirror. “You sure are proud of yourself.”

“I’m just
saying
.”

“Is there a car coming? Can I switch lanes?”

Kitty turns her head. “You can go, but hurry.”

“Like how much time do I have?”

“It’s already too late. Wait . . . now you can go. Go!”

I jerk into the left lane and look in my rearview. “Good job, Kitty. You just keep being my second pair of eyes.”

As we push the cart around the store, I’m thinking about the drive home and having to get behind the wheel again. My heart still races even as I’m trying to decide if we should have zucchini or green beans with dinner. By the time we’re
in the dairy aisle, Kitty’s whining. “Can you hurry? I don’t want to miss my next show!”

To appease her, I say, “Go pick out an ice cream,” and Kitty heads off toward the frozen-food aisle.

* * *

The way home, I stay in the right lane for blocks and blocks so I don’t have to switch lanes. The car in front of me is an old lady, and she’s moving at a snail’s pace, which suits me just fine. Kitty begs me to switch lanes, but I just ignore her and keep doing what I’m doing, nice and easy. My hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles are white.

“The ice cream’s going to be all melted by the time we get home,” Kitty gripes. “And I’ve missed every single one of my shows. Can you please go to the fast lane?”

“Kitty!” I screech. “Will you just let me drive?”

“Then drive already!”

I lean across the console to cuff her upside the head, and she scoots closer to the window so I can’t reach her. “Can’t touch me,” she says gleefully.

“Quit playing around and be my eyes,” I say.

A car is coming up on my right, zooming off a highway exit. He’s going to have to merge into my lane soon. Lightning fast I look over my shoulder for my blind spot, to see if I can switch lanes. Every time I have to take my eyes away from the road, even for a second, I feel so much panic in my chest. But I don’t have a choice, I just hold my breath and I switch over to the left lane. Nothing bad happens. I exhale.

My heart races the whole way home. But we make it, no accidents and nobody honking their horn at me, and that’s the important thing. And the ice cream is fine, only a little melted on top. It will get easier each time, I think. I hope. I just have to keep trying.

I can’t stand the thought of Kitty being scornful of me. I’m her big sister. I have to be someone she looks up to, the way I look up to Margot. How can Kitty look up to me if I’m weak?

That night I pack Kitty’s and my lunches. I make what Mommy used to make us sometimes when we went on picnics at the winery in Keswick. I dice up a carrot and an onion and fry it with sesame oil and a little vinegar; then I mix in sushi rice. When it’s cooked, I scoop pats of rice into tofu skins. They’re like rice balls in little purses. I don’t have an exact recipe to follow, but it tastes right enough. When I’m finished, I get on a ladder and search for the bento boxes Mommy used to put them in. I finally find them in the back of the Tupperware cabinet.

I don’t know if Kitty will remember eating these rice balls, but I hope that her heart will.

AT THE LUNCH TABLE PETER
and his friends can’t get enough of the rice balls. I only get to eat three. “These are so good,” Peter keeps saying. When he reaches for the last one, he stops short and quickly looks up at me to see if I noticed.

“You can have it,” I say. I know what he’s thinking of. The last piece of pizza.

“No, it’s all right, I’m good.”

“Have it.”

“I don’t want it!”

I pick up the rice ball with my fingers and put it in his face. “Say ‘ah.’ ”

Stubbornly he says, “No. I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of being right.”

Darrell hoots with laughter. “I’m jealous of you, Kavinsky. I wish I had a girl to feed me my lunch. Lara Jean, if he doesn’t take it, I will.” He leans forward and opens his mouth for me.

Peter shoves him to the side and says, “Step off, it’s mine!” He opens his mouth and I pop it in like he’s a seal at Sea World. With his mouth full of rice and his eyes closed, he says, “Yum yum yum.”

I smile, because it’s so cute. And for a second, just for a second, I forget. I forget that this isn’t real.

Peter swallows the food in his mouth and says, “What’s wrong? Why do you look sad?”

“I’m not sad. I’m hungry because you guys ate my lunch.” I cross my eyes at him to show him I’m joking.

Immediately Peter pushes out his chair and stands up. “I’m gonna get you a sandwich.”

I grab his sleeve. “Don’t. I’m just kidding.”

“Are you sure?” I nod, and he sits back down. “If you’re hungry later, we can stop somewhere on the way home.”

“About that,” I say. “My car’s fixed now, so I won’t be needing you to give me rides anymore.”

“Oh, really?” Peter leans back in his chair. “I don’t mind picking you up, though. I know you hate to drive.”

“The only way I’ll get better is if I practice,” I say, feeling like Margot. Margot the Good. “Besides, now you’ll get back your extra five minutes of sleep.”

Peter grins. “True.”

VIRTUAL SUNDAY NIGHT DINNER WAS
an idea I thought up.

I’ve got my laptop propped up on a stack of books in the center of the table. Daddy and Kitty and I are all sitting in front of it with our slices of pizza. It’s our lunchtime and Margot’s dinnertime. Margot’s sitting at her desk with a salad. She’s already in her flannel pj’s.

“You guys are eating pizza again?” Margot gives me and Daddy a disapproving look. “Kitty’s going to stay tiny if you don’t feed her any green food.”

“Relax, Gogo, there’s peppers on this pizza,” I say, holding up my slice, and everybody laughs.

“There’ll be spinach salad with dinner tonight,” Daddy offers.

“Can you make my spinach portion into a green juice instead?” Kitty asks. “That’s the healthiest way to eat spinach.”

“How do you know that?” Margot asks.

“From Peter.”

The pizza slice that was halfway to my mouth freezes in midair.

“Peter who?”

“Lara Jean’s boyfriend.”

“Wait a minute . . . Lara Jean’s dating who?” On the computer screen Margot’s eyes are huge and incredulous.

“Peter Kavinsky,” Kitty chirps.

I whip my head around and give her a dirty look. With my eyes I say,
Thanks for spilling the beans, Kitty.
With her eyes she says,
What? You should have told her yourself ages ago.

Margot looks from Kitty to me. “What in the world? How did that happen?”

Lamely I say, “It just sort of . . . happened.”

“Are you serious? Why would you ever be interested in someone like Peter Kavinsky? He’s such a . . .” Margot shakes her head in disbelief. “I mean, did you know Josh caught him cheating on a test once?”

“Peter cheats at school?” Daddy repeats, alarmed.

I quickly look at him and say, “Once, in seventh grade! Seventh grade doesn’t even count anymore it’s so long ago. And it wasn’t a test, it was a quiz.”

“I definitely don’t think he’s a good guy for you. All of those lacrosse guys are so douchey.”

“Well, Peter’s not like those other guys.” I don’t understand why Margot can’t just be happy for me. I was at least pretend happy for her when she started dating Josh. She could be pretend happy for me too. And it makes me mad, the way she’s saying all of this stuff in front of Daddy and Kitty. “If you talk to him, if you just give him a chance, you’ll see, Margot.” I don’t know why I’m bothering trying to convince her of Peter when it will be over soon anyway. But I want her to know that he is a good guy, because he is.

Margot makes a face like
Yeah, okay, sure
and I know she doesn’t believe me. “What about Genevieve?”

“They broke up months ago.”

Daddy looks confused and says, “Peter and Genevieve were an item?”

“Never mind, Daddy,” I say.

Margot is quiet, chewing on her salad, so I think she’s done, but then she says, “He’s not very smart, though, is he? I mean, at school?”

“Not everybody can be a National Merit Scholar! And there are different kinds of intelligence, you know. He has a high emotional IQ.” Margot’s disapproval makes me feel prickly all over. More than prickly. Mad. What right does she have to weigh in when she doesn’t even live here anymore? Kitty has more of a right than she does. “Kitty, do you like Peter?” I ask her. I know she’ll say yes.

Kitty perks up, and I can tell she is pleased to be included in the big-girl talk. “Yes.”

Surprised, Margot says, “Kitty, you’ve hung out with him too?”

“Sure. He comes over all the time. He gives us rides.”

“In his two-seater?” Margot shoots a look at me.

Kitty pipes up. “No, in his mom’s van!” With innocent eyes she says, “I want to go for a ride in his convertible. I’ve never been in a convertible.”

“So he doesn’t drive around his Audi anymore?” Margot asks me.

“Not when Kitty’s riding with us,” I say.

“Hmm” is all Margot says, and the skeptical look on her face makes me want to x her right off the screen.

AFTER SCHOOL I GET A
text from josh.

You, me, and the diner like old times.

Except old times would have included Margot. Now it’s new times, I suppose. Maybe that’s not altogether a bad thing. New can be good.

OK but I’m getting my own grilled cheese because you always hog more than your fair share.

Deal.

We’re sitting in our booth by the jukebox.

I wonder what Margot’s doing right now. It’s nighttime in Scotland. Maybe she’s getting ready to go out to the pub with her hallmates. Margot says pubs are really big over there; they have what they call pub crawls, where they go from pub to pub and drink and drink. Margot’s not some big drinker, I’ve never even seen her drunk. I hope she’s learned how to by now.

I hold my hand out for quarters. Another Lara
Jean–and-Josh tradition. Josh always gives me quarters for the jukebox. It’s because he keeps mounds of them in his car for the tollbooth, and I never have quarters because I hate change.

I can’t decide if I want doo-wop or folksy guitar, but then at the last second I put in “Video Killed the Radio Star,” for Margot. So in a way it’s like she
is
here.

Josh smiles when it comes on. “I knew you’d pick that.”

“No you didn’t, because I didn’t know I was going to until I did.” I pick up my menu and study it like I haven’t seen it a million times.

Josh is still smiling. “Why bother looking at the menu when we already know what you’re going to get?”

“I could change my mind at the last second,” I say. “There’s a chance I could order a tuna melt or a turkey burger or a chef salad. I can be adventurous too, you know.”

“Sure,” Josh agrees, and I know he’s just humoring me.

The server comes over to take our order and Josh says, “I’ll have a grilled cheese and a tomato soup and a chocolate milkshake.” He looks at me expectantly. There’s a smile coming up on the corners of his lips.

“Ah . . . um . . .” I scan the menu as fast as I can, but I don’t actually want a tuna melt or a turkey burger or a chef salad. I give up. I like what I like. “A grilled cheese, please. And a black-cherry soda.” As soon as the server is gone, I say, “Don’t say a word.”

“Oh, I wasn’t going to.”

And then, because there’s a silence, we both speak at the same time. I say, “Have you talked to Margot lately?” and he says, “How are things going with Kavinsky?”

Josh’s easy smile fades and he looks away. “Yeah, we chat online sometimes. I think . . . I think she’s kind of homesick.”

I give him a funny look. “I just talked to her last night and she didn’t seem homesick at all. She seemed like the same old Margot. She was telling us about Raisin Weekend. It makes me want to go to Saint Andrews too.”

“What’s Raisin Weekend?”

“I’m not a hundred percent sure . . . it sounds like it was a mix between drinking a lot and Latin. I guess it’s a Scottish thing.”

“Would you do that?” Josh asks. “Would you go somewhere far away?”

I sigh. “No, probably not. That’s Margot, not me. It’d be nice to visit, though. Maybe my dad will let me go during spring break.”

“I think she’d like that a lot. I guess our Paris trip isn’t happening anymore, huh?” He laughs awkwardly, and then he clears his throat. “So wait, how are things going with Kavinsky?”

Before I can answer, the server comes back with our food. Josh pushes the bowl of soup so it’s in the middle of the table. “First sip?” he asks, holding up the milkshake.

Eagerly I nod and lean across the table. Josh holds the glass and I take a long sip. “Ahhh,” I say, sitting back down.