To All the Boys I've Loved Before by Jenny Han
I giggle, trying to picture Josh with eyeliner and a long braid and no shirt. It’s a funny picture. I wouldn’t exactly call Josh scrawny, but . . .
“Hey, quit laughing so hard,” he objects. “It wasn’t that funny.” He jingles his keys. “So do you need a ride, Cho?”
I look at my phone. Peter’s five minutes late as usual. Not that I can really complain, because it’s a free ride to school, and I could be taking the bus. But if I go with Josh, I won’t have to rush to class, I can go by my locker, I can go pee, I can get a juice at the vending machine. But he’s probably already nearly here. “Thanks, but I’m waiting for Peter.”
Josh nods. “Oh, yeah . . . right.” He starts to climb into his car.
I shout out, “Expelliarmus!” and Josh spins around and calls back, “Finite!” Then we grin at each other like goofs.
He drives off and I hug my knees to my chest. Josh and I read Harry Potter around the same time, when I was in sixth and he was in seventh. Margot had already read them. Neither of us can read as fast as she does. It drove her crazy waiting for us to get to the third book so we could discuss.
The longer I sit waiting for Peter, the more prickly I feel. I take off my robe and put it back on a few times. It’s polyester, and polyester doesn’t breathe or feel nice against your skin. When he drives up, I run to his car and get in without saying hello. I spread my robe over my lap like a blanket, because my kilt is short.
His eyes are big. “You look hot,” he says, sounding surprised. “What are you? An anime character?”
“No,” I say, or more like snap. “I’m Cho Chang.” Peter still has a blank look on his face, so I add, “From Harry Potter.”
“Oh yeah. Cool.”
I look over at him. He’s wearing a regular button-down and jeans. “Where’s your costume?”
“Me and my boys are going to change right before the assembly. It’s a better effect if we unveil at the same time.”
I know he wants me to ask what his costume is, but I don’t feel like talking to him, so I sit there, not saying anything and looking out the window. I keep waiting for him to ask me what’s wrong, but he doesn’t. He’s so oblivious; I don’t even think he notices I’m mad.
Abruptly I say, “I wish you weren’t always late.”
Peter frowns. “Geez, sorry. I was trying to get my costume together.”
“Today you were trying to get your costume together. But you’re late all the time.”
“I’m not late all the time!”
“You were late today, and yesterday, and last Thursday.” I stare out the window. The autumn leaves are already falling. “If you’re not going to be on time, I don’t want you giving me rides anymore.”
I don’t have to look; I can feel him glaring at me. “Fine. That means I get five extra minutes of sleep, so, works for me.”
“Good.”
* * *
During the judging, Chris and I are sitting in the balcony of the theater. Chris is dressed up as Courtney Love. She’s wearing a pink slip and holey knee socks and lots of smudgy eye makeup. “You should go down there too,” I say. “I bet you’d win something.”
“People at this school wouldn’t even know who she is,” Chris sneers. But I can tell she kind of wants to.
The guys in Peter’s group are all superheroes. There’s Batman, Superman, Iron Man, the Incredible Hulk, all to varying degrees of effort. Peter went all out. He is, of course, Peter Parker. Who else would Kavinsky go as? His Spider-Man costume is super authentic, with yellow Mylar eyes and gloved hands and bootied feet. He is a total ham up onstage. All the guys run around, capes flapping, pretend fighting each other. Peter tries to climb up a column, but Mr. Yelznik stops him before he can get far. I cheer when his group wins for best group costume.
Genevieve is Catwoman. She’s wearing pleather leggings and a bustier and black cat ears. I wonder if she was in on the superhero theme, if Peter told her, or if she came up with that on her own. Every guy in the auditorium goes wild when she goes onstage for best junior costume. “What a ho,” Chris says. She sounds almost wistful.
Genevieve wins, of course. I sneak a look at Peter, and he’s whistling and stomping his feet with all his friends.
After the assembly I’m getting my chem book out of my locker when Peter comes over and leans his back against the locker next to mine. Through his mask he says, “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say. And then he doesn’t say anything else; he just stands there. I close my locker door and spin the combination lock. “Congratulations on winning best group costume.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
Huh? “What else am I supposed to say?”
Just then Josh walks by with Jersey Mike, who’s dressed up as a hobbit, hairy feet and all. Walking backward, Josh points his wand at me and says, “Expelliarmus!”
Automatically I point my wand back at him and say, “Avada Kedavra!”
Josh clutches his chest like I’ve shot him. “Way harsh!” he calls out, and he disappears down the hallway.
“Uh . . . don’t you think it’s weird for my supposed girlfriend to wear a couples costume with another guy?” Peter asks me.
I roll my eyes. I’m still mad at him from this morning. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk to you when you look like this. How am I supposed to have a conversation with a person in head-to-toe latex?”
Peter pushes his mask up. “I’m serious! How do you think it makes me look?”
“First of all, it wasn’t planned. Second of all, nobody cares what my costume is! Who would even notice something like that?”
“People notice,” Peter huffs. “I noticed.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I’m very sorry that a coincidence like this would ever occur.”
“I really doubt it was a coincidence,” Peter mutters.
“What do you want me to do? Do you want me to pop over to the Halloween store during lunch and buy a red wig and be Mary Jane?”
Smoothly Peter says, “Could you? That’d be great.”
“No, I could not. You know why? Because I’m Asian, and people will just think I’m in a manga costume.” I hand him my wand. “Hold this.” I lean down and lift the hem of my robe so I can adjust my knee socks.
Frowning, he says, “I could have been someone from the book if you’d told me in advance.”
“Yes, well, today you’d make a really great Moaning Myrtle.”
Peter gives me a blank look, and disbelieving, I say, “Wait a minute . . . have you never read Harry Potter?”
“I’ve read the first two.”
“Then you should know who Moaning Myrtle is!”
“It was a really long time ago,” Peter says. “Was she one of those people in the paintings?”
“No! And how could you stop after Chamber of Secrets? The third one’s the best out of the whole series. I mean, that’s literally crazy to me.” I peer at his face. “Do you not have a soul?”
“Sorry if I haven’t read every single Harry Potter book! Sorry I have a life and I’m not in the Final Fantasy club or whatever that geek club is called—”
I snatch my wand back from him and wave it in his face. “Silencio!”
Peter crosses his arms. Smirking, he says, “Whatever spell you just tried to cast on me, it didn’t work, so I think you need to go back to Hogwarts.” He’s so proud of himself for the Hogwarts reference, it’s kind of endearing.
Quick like a cat I pull down his mask, and then I put one hand over his mouth. With my other hand I wave my wand again. “Silencio!” Peter tries to say something, but I press my hand harder. “What? What was that? I can’t hear you, Peter Parker.”
Peter reaches out and tickles me, and I laugh so hard I almost drop my wand. I dart away from him but he pounces after me, pretend shooting webs at my feet. Giggling, I run away from him, further down the hall, dodging groups of people. He gives chase all the way to chem class. A teacher screams at us to slow down, and we do, but a
I’m breathless by the time I’m in my seat. He turns around and shoots a web in my direction, and I explode into giggles again and Mr. Meyers glares at me. “Settle down,” he says, and I nod obediently. As soon as his back is turned, I giggle into my robe. I want to still be mad at Peter, but it’s just no use.
Halfway through class he sends me a note. He’s drawn spiderwebs around the edges. It says, I’ll be on time tomorrow. I smile as I read it. Then I put it in my backpack, in my French textbook so the page won’t crease or crumble. I want to keep it so when this is over, I can have something to look at and remember what it was like to be Peter Kavinsky’s girlfriend. Even if it was all just pretend.
44
WHEN WE PULL UP IN my driveway, Kitty runs out of the house and over to the car. “Spider-Man!” she shrieks. She’s still in her ninja costume, though she’s taken the mask off. “Are you coming inside?”
I glance at Peter. “He can’t. He has to go condition.” Peter spends an hour a day conditioning for lacrosse. He’s very dedicated to it.
“Condition?” Kitty repeats, and I know she’s imagining Peter washing his hair.
“I can hang out for a little bit,” Peter says, turning the engine off.
* * *
“Let’s show him the dance!”
“Kitty, no.” The dance is something Margot and I made up when we were bored one night a few summers ago at the beach. Let’s just say neither of us is particularly talented at choreography.
Peter’s eyes light up. He’ll take any opportunity for a laugh, especially at my expense. “I wanna see the dance!”
“Forget about it,” I tell him. We’re in the living room; each of us has our own couch or armchair. I poured us iced teas and put out a bowl of potato chips, which we’ve already finished.
“Come on,” he pouts. “Show me the dance. Please, please show me the dance.”
“That’s not going to work on me, Peter.”
“What’s not going to work?”
I wave my hand in his Handsome Boy face. “That. I’m immune to your charms, remember?”
Peter lifts his eyebrows like I’ve dared him. “Is that a challenge? ’Cause I’m warning you, you do not want to step into the ring with me. I’ll crush you, Covey.” He doesn’t take his eyes off mine for several long seconds, and I can feel my smile fade and my cheeks heat up.
“Come on, Lara Jean!”
I blink. Kitty. I’d forgotten she was still in the room. I scramble to my feet. “Cue up the music. Peter just challenged us to a dance-off.”
Kitty squeals and runs to turn on the speakers. I push back the coffee table. We take our places in front of the fireplace, backs turned, heads down, hands clasped behind our backs.
When the bass kicks in, we jump and turn around. Hip thrust, swivel, then move into our knee slides. Then the running man, then this move Margot made up called the treadmill. The music stops, and Kitty and I freeze in our crunking positions—and then it starts up again, and we’re doing the butterfly, then back into the knee slides. I forget what the next move is so I sneak a peek at Kitty, who’s shimmying and clapping her hands. Oh yeah.
Our big finish is splits, with our arms crossed for emphasis.
Peter’s bowled over, laughing his head off. He claps and claps and stomps his feet.
When it’s over, I try to catch my breath and manage to say, “Okay, you’re up, Kavinsky.”
“I can’t,” Peter gasps. “How do I follow a performance like that? Kitty, will you teach me that pop-and-lock move?”
Kitty gets shy all of a sudden. She sits on her hands and looks at him through her lashes and shakes her head.
“Please, please?” he asks.
Kitty finally caves in—I think she just wanted to make him work for it. I watch them dance all afternoon, my little sister the ninja and my pretend boyfriend Spider-Man. First I laugh, but then a worrying thought comes out of nowhere—I can’t let Kitty get too attached to Peter. This is temporary. The way Kitty looks at him, so adoringly, like he’s her hero. . . .
When Peter has to leave, I walk him out to his car. Before he gets in, I say, “I don’t think you should come over anymore. It’s confusing to Kitty.”
Frowning, he says, “How is it confusing to Kitty?”
“Because . . . because when our . . . our thing is over, she’s going to miss you.”
“I’ll still see the kid around.” Peter pokes me in the stomach. “I want joint custody.”
All I can think of is how patient he was with her, how sweet. Impulsively I get up on my tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek, and he jerks back in surprise.
“What was that for?”
My cheeks feel scalded. I say, “For being so nice to Kitty.” Then I wave good-bye and I run into the house.
45
IF I DON’T BUY GROCERIES today, it’s scrambled eggs for dinner tonight. Again.
Margot’s car is fixed and sitting in the driveway, where it’s been sitting for the past few weeks. I could go to the store if I wanted to. I do want to. But I don’t want to drive. If I was a nervous driver before, the accident has only made me worse. What business do I have behind the wheel of a car? What if I hurt someone? What if I hurt Kitty? They shouldn’t just give out driver’s licenses so easily. I mean, a car is a really dangerous thing. It’s practically a weapon.
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
“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.
46
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.