Страница 31 из 57
Peter snorts. “With who? Josh Sanderson? That tool?”
“He’s not a tool,” I say, frowning at him. “You don’t even know him to say that.”
“Anybody with one eye and half a brain could tell what a tool that guy is.”
“Are you saying my sister’s blind and brainless?” I demand. If he says one bad word about my sister, that’s it. This whole thing is off. I don’t need him that badly.
Peter laughs. “No. I’m saying you are!”
“You know what? I changed my mind. You’ve obviously never loved anyone but yourself.” I try to jerk the passenger door open, but it’s locked.
“Lara Jean, I was just kidding. Come on.”
“See you on Monday.”
“Wait, wait. First tell me something.” Peter leans back in his seat. “How come you never dated anybody?”
I shrug. “I don’t know . . . because nobody ever asked?”
“Bullshit. I know for a fact that Martinez asked you to homecoming and you said no.”
I’m surprised he knows about that. “What is it with you guys all calling each other by your last name?” I ask him. “It’s so—” I struggle to find the right word. “Effected? Affected?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I guess I said no because I was scared.” I stare out the window and run my finger along the glass, making an M for Martinez.
“Of Tommy?”
“No. I like Tommy. It’s not that. It’s scary when it’s real. When it’s not just thinking about a person, but, like, having a real live person in front of you, with, like, expectations. And wants.” I finally look at Peter, and I’m surprised by how hard he’s paying attention; his eyes are intent and focused on me like he’s actually interested in what I’m saying. “Even when I liked a boy so much, loved him even, I would always rather be with my sisters, because that’s where I belong.”
“Wait. What about right now?”
“Right now? Well, I don’t like you that way so . . .”
“Good,” Peter says. “Don’t go falling for me again, okay? I can’t have any more girls in love with me. It’s exhausting.”
I laugh out loud. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“I’m kidding,” he protests, but he’s not. “What did you ever see in me anyway?” He grins at me then, cocky again and so sure of his charm.
“Honestly? I really couldn’t tell you.”
The grin falters and then rights itself, but now it’s not so certain. “You said it was because I make people feel special. You . . . you said it was because I was a good dancer and I was science partners with Jeffrey Suttleman!”
“Wow, you really memorized every single word of that letter, huh?” I tease. It gives me a small, mean surge of satisfaction to see Peter’s grin fade completely. That surge is immediately followed by remorse, because now I’ve hurt his feelings for no good reason. What is it in me that wants to hurt Peter Kavinsky’s feelings? To make it better, I quickly add, “No, it’s true—you really did have something about you then.”
I guess I made it worse, because he flinches.
I don’t know what else to say, so I open the car door and climb out. “Thanks for the ride, Peter.”
When I get inside the house, I go look in the kitchen first to check on the cupcakes. They’re packed away in Tupperware and my cupcake carrier. The frosting’s a little messy and the sprinkles are haphazard, but overall they look pretty good. That’s a relief. Kitty won’t be shamed at the PTA bake sale on my account, at least!
From: Margot Covey [email protected] /* */
To: Lara Jean Covey [email protected] /* */
How’s school going so far? Have you joined any new clubs? I think you should consider Lit Mag or Model UN. Also don’t forget it’s Korean Thanksgiving this week and you have to call Grandma or she’ll be mad! Miss you guys.
PS Please send Oreos! I miss our dunk contests.
Love, M
From: Lara Jean Covey [email protected] /* */
To: Margot Covey [email protected] /* */
School is good. No new clubs yet, but we’ll see. I already have it down in my pla
xx
39
PETER’S MOM OWNS AN ANTIQUE store called Linden & White in the cobblestoney part of downtown. She sells furniture mostly, but she has jewelry cases too, arranged by decades. My favorite decade is the aughts, which means the 1900s. There’s this one gold heart locket with a tiny diamond chip in the center; it looks like a starburst. It costs four hundred dollars. The store is right next to McCalls bookstore, so I go in sometimes and visit with it. I always expect it to be gone, but then it never is.
We once bought our mom a gold clover pin from the 1940s for Mother’s Day. Margot and I ran a lemonade stand every Saturday for a month, and we were able to chip in sixteen dollars for it. I remember how proud we were when we presented Daddy with the money, we had it nice and neat in a ziplock bag. At the time I thought we were paying the lion’s share and my dad was only helping out a little. I realize now that the pin cost a lot more than sixteen dollars. I should ask Daddy how much it really cost. But then maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe it’s nicer not knowing. We buried her with it because it was her favorite.
I’m standing over the case, touching my finger to the glass, when Peter comes out from around back. “Hey,” he says, surprised.
“Hey,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
Peter gives me a look like I’m a dummy. “My mom owns the place, remember?”
“Well, duh. I’ve just never seen you here before,” I say. “Do you work here?”
“Nah, I had to drop something off for my mom. Now she’s saying I have to go pick up a set of chairs in Huntsburgh tomorrow,” Peter says in a grumbly voice. “It’s two hours there and back. A
I nod companionably and lean away from the case. I pretend to look at a pink-and-black globe. Actually, Margot would like this. It could be a nice Christmas present for her. I give it a little spin. “How much is this globe?”
“Whatever it says on the sticker.” Peter rests his elbows on the case and leans forward. “You should come.”
I look up at him. “Come where?”
“To pick up the chairs with me.”
“You just complained about how a
“Yeah, alone. If you go, it might be slightly less a
“Gee, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
I roll my eyes. Peter says “you’re welcome” to everything! It’s like, No, Peter, that was not a genuine thank-you, so you do not need to say you’re welcome.
“So are you coming or what?”
“Or what.”
“Come on! I’m picking the chairs up from an estate sale. The owner was some kind of shut-in. Stuff has just been sitting there for like fifty years. I bet there’ll be stuff you can look at. You like old stuff, right?”
“Yes,” I say, surprised that he knows this about me. “Actually, I’ve kind of always wanted to go to an estate sale. How did the owner die? Like, how long was it before someone found him?”
“God, you’re morbid.” He shudders. “Didn’t know you had that side to you.”
“I have lots of sides to me,” I tell him. I lean forward. “So? How did he die?”
“He isn’t dead, you weirdo. He’s just old. His family’s sending him to a nursing home.” Peter raises an eyebrow at me. “So I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.”
“Seven? You never said anything about leaving at seven in the morning on a Saturday!”
“Sorry,” he says contritely. “We have to go early before all the good stuff gets snatched up.”
* * *
That night I pack lunches for Peter and me. I make roast beef sandwiches with cheese and tomato, mayo
Kitty zooms into the kitchen and tries to grab a sandwich half. I smack her hand away. “That’s not for you.”
“Then who’s it for?”