P.S. I Still Love You by Jenny Han
When I picked up Kitty from Shanae’s house this morning, I asked her mom what cake she was baking for the cake walk, because Mrs. Rodgers is vice president of the elementary school PTA. She heaved a sigh and said, “I’ll be baking whatever Duncan Hines I can find in my pantry. Either that or Food Lion.” Then she asked me what I was baking and I told her, and she said, “I’m voting you Teen Mom of the Year,” which made me laugh and also further spurred me to bake the best cake so everyone knows what Kitty’s working with. I never mentioned this to Daddy or Margot, but in middle school my English teacher sponsored a mother-daughter tea in honor of Mother’s Day. It was after school, an optional thing, but I really wanted to go and have the tea sandwiches and scones she said she was bringing. It was just for mothers and daughters, though. I suppose I could have asked Grandma to come—Margot did that a few times for miscellaneous events—but it wouldn’t have been the same. And I don’t think it’s the kind of thing that would bother Kitty, but it’s still something I think about.
The cake walk is in the elementary school’s music room. I’ve volunteered to be in charge of the walking music, and I’ve made a playlist with all sugar-related songs. Of course “Sugar, Sugar” by the Archies, “Sugar Shack,” “Sugar Town,” “I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch).” When I walk into the music room, Peter’s mom and another mom are setting up the cakes. I falter, unsure of what to do.
She says, “Hello, Lara Jean,” but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and it gives me a sinking feeling in my stomach. It’s a relief when she leaves.
There’s a decent crowd all day, with some people playing more than once for the cake of their dreams. I keep steering people toward my caramel cake, which is still in rotation. There’s a German chocolate cake that has people entranced, which I’m pretty sure is store-bought, but there’s no accounting for taste. I’ve never been a fan of German chocolate cake myself, because who wants wet coconut flakes? Shudder.
Kitty’s been running around with her friends, and she’s deigned to help me out at the cake walk for an hour when Peter walks in with his little brother, Owen. “Pour Some Sugar on Me” is playing. Kitty goes over to say hello, while I busy myself looking at my phone as she’s showing them the cakes. I’ve got my head down, pretend-texting, when Peter comes up beside me.
“Which cake is yours? The coconut one?”
My head snaps up. “I would never buy a grocery-store cake for this.”
“I was joking, Covey. Yours is the caramel one. I can tell by the way you frosted it so fancy.” He stops talking and shoves his hands in his pockets. “So, just so you know, I didn’t go to the nursing home with Gen to help her tag you out.”
I shrug. “For all I know you’ve already texted her and told her I’m here, so.”
“I told you, I don’t give a shit about this game. I think it’s dumb.”
“Well, I don’t. I’m still planning on winning.” I put on the next song for the cake walk, and all the kids run into position. “So are you and Genevieve back together?”
He makes a rude sound. “What do you care?”
Again I shrug. “I knew you’d be back with her eventually.”
Peter smarts at this. He turns like he’s going to leave, but then he stops. Rubbing the back of his neck, he says, “You never answered my question about McClaren. Was that a date?”
“What do you care?”
His nostrils flare. “I fucking care because you were my girlfriend up until a few weeks ago. I don’t even remember why we broke up.”
“If you can’t remember, then I don’t know what to say to you.”
“Just tell the truth. Don’t dick me around.” His voice cracks on the word “dick.” Any other time we would have laughed about it. I wish we could now. “What’s going on with you and McClaren?”
There’s a lump in my throat that’s making it hard to talk all of a sudden. “Nothing.” Just a kiss. “We’re friends. He’s been helping me with the game.”
“How convenient. First he’s writing you letters, now he’s driving you around town and hanging out with you at a nursing home.”
“You said you didn’t care about the letters.”
“Well, I guess I did.”
“Then maybe you should have said so.” Kitty’s looking over at us, her forehead pinched. “I don’t walk to talk about this anymore. I’m here to work.”
Peter eyes me. “Have you kissed him?”
Do I tell the truth? Do I have to? “Yes. Once.”
He blinks. “So you’re telling me I’ve been living the life of a celibate person ever since we started this stupid game—before, even—and meanwhile you’re fooling around with McClaren?”
“We’re broken up, Peter. Meanwhile, when we were actually together, you were with Genevieve—”
He throws his head back and yells, “I didn’t kiss her!” Some of the adults turn and look at us.
“You had your arms around her,” I whisper-yell. “You were holding her!”
“I was comforting her. God! She was crying! I told you! Did you do it to get back at me?” Peter wants me to say yes. He wants it to have been about him. But I wasn’t thinking about Peter when I kissed John. I kissed him because I wanted to.
“No.”
The muscle in his jaw twitches. “When we broke up, you said you wanted to be someone’s number one girl, but look at you. You don’t want to have a number one guy.” He gestures rudely at the cake table. “You want to have your cake and eat it too.”
His words sting just the way he intends them to. “I hate that saying. What does it even mean? Of course I want to have my cake and eat it too—otherwise what’s the point of having cake?”
He frowns at me. “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”
The song finishes then, and the kids come over to claim their cakes. Kitty and Owen, too. “Let’s go,” Owen says to Peter. He’s got my caramel cake.
Peter glances down at him and then back at me, his eyes hard. “I don’t want that one.”
“That’s the one you told me to get!”
“Well, I don’t want it anymore. Put it back and get the Funfetti down there at the end.”
“You can’t have it,” Kitty tells him. “That’s not how a cake walk works. You take the cake with the number you were standing on.”
Peter’s mouth falls open in shock. “Aw, come on, kid.”
Kitty moves closer to me. “Nope.”
After Peter and his brother leave, I hug Kitty from behind. She was on my side after all. Song girls stick together.
52
KITTY WANTED TO STAY LONGER at the fair, so it’s just me driving alone when I spot Genevieve’s car on the road. And just like that, I’m following her. It’s time to take this girl down.
She’s still daring. The way she zips through traffic lights, I almost lose her a few times. I’m not a good enough driver for this, I want to scream at her.
We finally end up at an office building, one I recognize as her dad’s. She goes inside, and I park in the same strip mall, but not too close. I turn off the engine and recline my seat back so she can’t see me.
Ten minutes pass, and nothing. I don’t even know why she’d be at her dad’s office on a weekend. Maybe she’s helping her dad’s secretary? I might be stuck here for a while. But I will wait forever if need be. I will win, no matter what. I don’t even care about the prize. I just want the win.
I’m about to doze off when two people come out of the building—her dad, in a suit and a camel coat, and a girl. I duck low in my seat. At first I think it’s Genevieve, but this girl is taller. I squint. I recognize her. She was Margot’s year; I think they were in Key Club together. Anna Hicks. They walk out to the parking lot together; he walks her to her car. She’s fumbling for her keys. He grabs her arm and turns her face to his. And then they’re kissing. Passionately. Tongue. Hands everywhere.
Oh my God. She’s Margot’s age. Just eighteen. Genevieve’s d
I feel sick inside. How could he do this to Genevieve’s mom? To Gen? Does she know? Is this the hard thing she’s been going through? If my dad ever did such a thing, I could never look at him the same way. I don’t know that I could look at my life the same way. It would be such a betrayal, not just of our family, but of himself, of who he is as a person.
I don’t want to see any more. I keep my head down until they both drive out of the parking lot, and I’m about to start my car too when Genevieve walks out, her arms crossed, shoulders bent.
Oh dear God. She’s spotted me. Her eyes are narrow; she’s heading straight for me. I want to drive away, but I can’t. She’s standing right in front of me, angrily motioning for me to roll down the window. So I do, but it’s hard to look her in the eyes.
She snaps out, “Did you see?”
Weakly I say, “No. I didn’t see anything . . .”
Genevieve’s face goes red; she knows I’m lying. For a second I am terrified she is going to cry, or hit me. I wish she would just hit me. “Go ahead,” she manages. “Tag me out. That’s what you came here for.” I shake my head, and then she grabs my hands off the steering wheel and slaps them on her collarbone. “There. You win, Lara Jean. Game over.”
And then she runs to her car.
There’s a Korean word my grandma taught me. It’s called jung. It’s the connection between two people that can’t be severed, even when love turns to hate. You still have those old feelings for them; you can’t ever completely shake them loose of you; you will always have tenderness in your heart for them. I think this must be some part of what I feel for Genevieve. Jung is why I can’t hate her. We’re tied.
And jung is why Peter can’t let her go. They’re tied too. If my dad did what her dad did, wouldn’t I reach out to the one person who never turned me away? Who was always there, who loved me more than anyone? Peter is that person for Genevieve. How can I begrudge her that?
53
WE’RE IN THE KITCHEN CLEANING up after pancake breakfast when Daddy says, “I believe another one of the Song girls has a birthday coming up.” He sings, “You are sixteen, going on seventeen . . .” I feel a strong surge of love for him, my dad who I am so lucky to have.
“What song are you singing?” Kitty interrupts.
I take Kitty’s hands and spin her around the kitchen with me. “I am sixteen, going on seventeen; I know that I’m naive. Fellows I meet may tell me I’m sweet; willingly I believe.”
Daddy throws his dish towel over his shoulder and marches in place. In a deep voice he baritones, “You need someone older and wiser telling you what to do . . .”
“This song is sexist,” Kitty says as I dip her.
“Indeed it is,” Daddy agrees, swatting her with the towel. “And the boy in question was not, in fact, older and wiser. He was a Nazi in training.”
Kitty skitters away from both of us. “What are you guys even talking about?”
“It’s from The Sound of Music,” I say.
“You mean that movie about the nun? Never seen it.”
“How have you seen The Sopranos but not The Sound of Music?”
Alarmed, Daddy says, “Kitty’s been watching The Sopranos?”
“Just the commercials,” Kitty quickly says.
I go on singing to myself, spinning in a circle like Liesl at the gazebo. “I am sixteen going on seventeen, innocent as a rose. . . . Fellows I meet may tell me I’m sweet, and willingly I believe. . . .”
“Why would you just willingly believe some random fellows you don’t even know?”
“It’s the song, Kitty, not me! God!” I stop spinning. “Liesl was kind of a ninny, though. I mean, it was basically her fault they almost got captured by the Nazis.”
“I would venture to say it was Captain von Trapp’s fault,” Daddy says. “Rolfe was a kid himself—he was going to let them go, but then Georg had to antagonize him.” He shakes his head. “Georg von Trapp, he had quite the ego. Hey, we should do a Sound of Music night!”
“Sure,” I say.
“This movie sounds terrible,” Kitty says. “What kind of name is Georg?”
We ignore her. Daddy says, “Tonight? I’ll make tacos al pastor!”
“I can’t,” I say. “I’m going over to Belleview.”
“What about you, Kitty?” Daddy asks.
“Sophie’s mom is teaching us how to make latke cakes,” Kitty says. “Did you know that you put applesauce on top of them and it’s delicious?”
Daddy’s shoulders slump. “Yes, I did know that. I’m going to have to start booking you guys a month in advance.”
“Or you could invite Ms. Rothschild over,” Kitty suggests. “Her weekends are pretty lonely too.”
He gives her a funny look. “I’m sure she has plenty she’d rather do than watch The Sound of Music with her neighbor.”
Brightly I say, “Don’t forget the tacos al pastor! Those are a draw, too. And you, of course. You’re a draw.”
“You’re definitely a draw,” Kitty pipes up.
“Guys,” Daddy begins.
“Wait,” I say. “Let me just say one thing. You should be going on some dates, Daddy.”
“I go on dates!”
“You’ve gone on, like, two dates ever,” I say, and he falls silent. “Why not ask Ms. Rothschild out? She’s cute, she has a good job, Kitty loves her. And she lives really close by.”
“See, that’s exactly why I shouldn’t ask her out,” Daddy says. “You should never date a neighbor or a coworker, because then you’ll have to keep seeing them if things don’t work out.”
Kitty asks, “You mean like that quote ‘Don’t shit where you eat’?” When Daddy frowns, Kitty quickly corrects herself. “I mean ‘Don’t poop where you eat.’ That’s what you mean, right, Daddy?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean, but Kitty, I don’t like you using cuss words.”
Contritely she says, “I’m sorry. But I still think you should give Ms. Rothschild a chance. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out.”
“Well, I’d hate to see you get your hopes up,” Daddy says.
“That’s life,” Kitty says. “Things don’t always work out. Look at Lara Jean and Peter.”
I give her a dirty look. “Gee, thanks a lot.”
“I’m just trying to make a point,” she says. Kitty goes over to Daddy and puts her arms around his waist. This kid is really pulling out all the stops. “Just think about it, Daddy. Tacos. Nuns. Nazis. And Ms. Rothschild.”
He sighs. “I’m sure she has plans.”
“She told me if you asked her out, she’d say yes,” I blurt out.
Daddy startles. “She did? Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Well . . . then maybe I will ask her out. For a coffee, or a drink. The Sound of Music is a bit long for a first date.”
Kitty and I both whoop and high-five each other.
54
BIRTHDAY BREAKFAST AT THE DINER was a bit of a tradition with Margot and Josh and me. If my birthday was on a weekday, we’d wake up early and go before school. I’d order blueberry pancakes, and Margot would put a candle in them, and they’d sing.
The day of my seventeenth birthday, Josh sends me a Happy Bday text, but I get that we won’t be going to the diner. He has a girlfriend now, and it would be weird, especially with no Margot. The text is enough.
For breakfast Daddy makes chorizo scrambled eggs, and Kitty’s made me a big card with pictures of Jamie pasted all over it. Margot video-chats me to wish me happy birthday and to tell me my present should be arriving that afternoon or the next.
At school Chris and Lucas put a candle in the donuts they got out of the vending machine and they sing me “Happy Birthday” in the hallway. Chris gives me a new lipstick: red for when I want to be bad, she says. Peter doesn’t say anything to me in chemistry class; I doubt he knows it’s my birthday, and
But then, as I’m leaving school, I see John parked out front. He’s standing in front of his car; he hasn’t seen me yet. In this bright afternoon light, the sun warms John’s blond head like a halo, and suddenly I’m struck with the visceral memory of loving him from afar, studiously, ardently. I so admired his slender hands, the slope of his cheekbones. Once upon a time I knew his face by heart. I had him memorized.
My steps quicken. “Hi!” I say, waving. “How are you here right now? Don’t have you school today?”
“I left early,” he says.
“You? John Ambrose McClaren cut school?”
He laughs. “I brought you something.” John pulls a box out of his coat pocket and thrusts it at me. “Here.”
I take it from him, it’s heavy and substantial in my palm. “Should I . . . should I open it right now?”
“If you want.”
I can feel his eyes on me as I rip off the paper, open the white box. He’s anxious. I ready a smile on my face so he’ll know I like it, no matter what it is. Just the fact that he thought to buy me a present is so . . . dear.
Nestled in white tissue paper is a snow globe the size of an orange, with a brass bottom. A boy and girl are ice-skating inside. She’s wearing a red sweater; she has on earmuffs. She’s making a figure eight, and he’s admiring her. It’s a moment caught in amber. One perfect moment, preserved under glass. Just like that night it snowed in April.
“I love it,” I say, and I do, so much. Only a person who really knew me could give me this gift. To feel so known, so understood. It’s such a wonderful feeling, I could cry. It’s something I’ll keep forever. This moment, and this snow globe.
I get on my tiptoes and hug him, and he wraps his arms around me tight and then tighter. “Happy birthday, Lara Jean.”
I’m about to get into his car when I see Peter striding over to us. “Hold up a second,” he says, a pleasant half smile on his face.