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“Hold up.” I can hear Chris moving rooms, because it gets quieter. “Can you hear me now?”
“Yes, much better.”
“Guess who broke up.”
I’ve moved on to a mod pink color that looks like Wite-Out with a drop of red in it. “Who?”
“Gen and Kavinsky! She dumped his ass.”
My eyes go huge. “Whoa! Why?”
“Apparently, she met some UVA guy at that hostessing job she had. I guarantee you she was cheating on Kavinsky the whole summer.” A guy calls Chris’s name, and Chris says, “I gotta go. It’s my turn at bocce.” Chris hangs up without saying good-bye, which is her way.
I actually met Chris through Genevieve. They’re cousins: their moms are sisters. Chris used to come over sometimes when we were little, but she and Gen didn’t get along even back then. They’d argue over whose Barbie had dibs on Ken, because there was only one Ken. I didn’t even try to fight for Ken, even though he was technically mine. Well, Margot’s. At school some people don’t even know Gen and Chris are cousins. They don’t look alike, like at all: Gen is petite with fit arms and su
Chris was pretty wild our freshman year. She went to every party, got drunk, hooked up with older boys. That year a junior guy from the lacrosse team told everyone that Chris had sex with him in the boys’ locker room, and it wasn’t even true. Genevieve made Peter threaten to kick his ass if he didn’t tell everybody the truth. I thought it was a really nice thing Genevieve did for Chris, but Chris insisted that Gen had only done it so people wouldn’t think she was related to a slut. After that Chris stopped hanging out and pretty much did her own thing, with people from another school.
She still has that freshman-year reputation though. She acts like she doesn’t care, but I know she does, at least a little.
11
ON SUNDAY, DADDY MAKES LASAGNA. He does that thing where he puts black-bean salsa in it to jazz it up, and it sounds gross but it’s actually good and you don’t notice the beans. Josh comes over too, and he has three helpings, which Daddy loves. When Margot’s name comes up over di
Since Daddy cooked, us kids have kitchen duty. He uses every pot in the kitchen when he makes lasagna, so it’s the worst cleanup, but worth it.
After, the three of us are relaxing in the TV room. It’s Sunday night, but there’s not that Sunday night feeling in the air, because tomorrow is Labor Day and we have one last day before school starts. Kitty’s working on her dog collage, quelle surprise.
“What kind do you want most of all?” Josh asks her.
Kitty answers back lightning fast. “An Akita.”
“Boy or girl?”
Again her answer is prompt. “Boy.”
“What’ll you name him?”
Kitty hesitates, and I know why. I roll over and tickle Kitty’s bare foot. “I know what you’ll name him,” I say in a singsong voice.
“Be quiet, Lara Jean!” she screeches.
I have Josh’s full attention now. “Come on, tell us,” Josh begs.
I look at Kitty and she is giving me evil glowy red eyes. “Never mind,” I say, feeling nervous all of a sudden. Kitty might be the baby of the family, but she is not someone to trifle with.
Then Josh tugs on my ponytail and says, “Aw, come on, Lara Jean! Don’t leave us in suspense.”
I prop myself up on my elbows, and Kitty tries to put her hand over my mouth. Giggling, I say, “It’s after a boy she likes.”
“Shut up, Lara Jean, shut up!”
Kitty kicks me, and in doing so she accidentally rips one of her dog pictures. She lets out a cry and drops to her knees and examines it. Her face is red with the effort of not crying. I feel like such a jerk. I sit up and try to give her an I’m sorry hug, but she twists away from me and kicks at my legs, so hard I yelp. I pick the picture up and try to tape it back, but before I can, Kitty snatches it out of my hands and gives it to Josh. “Josh, fix it,” she says. “Lara Jean ruined it.”
“Kitty, I was only teasing,” I say lamely. I wasn’t going to say the name of the boy. I would never ever have said it.
She ignores me, and Josh smooths the paper back out with a coaster, and with the concentration of a surgeon he tapes the two pieces together. He wipes his brow. “Phew. I think this one will make it.”
I clap, and I try to catch Kitty’s eye, but she won’t look at me. I know I deserve it. The boy Kitty has a crush on—it’s Josh.
Kitty whisks her collage away from Josh. Stiffly she says, “I’m going upstairs to work on this. Good night, Josh.”
“Night, Kitty,” Josh says.
Meekly, I say, “Good night, Kitty,” but she’s already ru
When we hear the sound of her bedroom door closing, Josh turns to me and says, “You’re in so much trouble.”
“I know,” I say. I’ve got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Why did I do that? Even as I was doing it, I knew it was wrong. Margot would never have done that to me. That’s not how big sisters are supposed to treat their little sisters, especially not when I’m so much older than Kitty.
“Who’s this kid she likes?”
“Just a boy from school.”
Josh sighs. “Is she really old enough to have crushes on boys? I feel like she’s too young for all that.”
“I had crushes on boys when I was nine,” I tell him. I’m still thinking about Kitty. I wonder how I can make it so she isn’t mad at me anymore. Somehow I don’t think snickerdoodles will cut it this time.
“Who?” Josh asks me.
“Who what?” Maybe if I can somehow convince Daddy to buy her a puppy . . .
“Who was your first crush?”
“Hmm. My first real crush?” I had kindergarten and first- and second-grade crushes aplenty, but they don’t really count. “Like the first one that really mattered?”
“Sure.”
“Well . . . I guess Peter Kavinsky.”
Josh practically gags. “Kavinsky? Are you kidding me? He’s so obvious. I thought you’d be into someone more . . . I don’t know, subtle. Peter Kavinsky’s such a cliché. He’s like a cardboard cutout of a ‘cool guy’ in a movie about high school.”
I shrug. “You asked.”
“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “Just . . . wow.”
“He used to be different. I mean, he was still very Peter, but less so.” When Josh looks unconvinced, I say, “You’re a boy, so you can’t understand what I’m talking about.”
“You’re right. I don’t understand!”
“Hey, you’re the one who had a crush on Ms. Rothschild!”
Josh turns red. “She was really pretty back then!”
“Uh-huh.” I give him a knowing look. “She was really ‘pretty.’ ” Our across-the-street neighbor Ms. Rothschild used to mow her lawn in terry-cloth short shorts and a string bikini top. The neighborhood boys would conveniently come and play in Josh’s yard on those days.
“Anyway, Ms. Rothschild wasn’t my first crush.”
“She wasn’t?”
“No. You were.”
It takes me a few seconds to process this. Even then, all I can manage is, “Huh?”
“When I first moved here, before I knew your true personality.” I kick him in the shin for that, and he yelps. “I was twelve and you were eleven. I let you ride my scooter, remember? That scooter was my pride and joy. I saved up for it for two birthdays. And I let you take it for a ride.”
“I thought you were just being generous.”
“You crashed it and you got a big scratch on the side,” he continues. “Remember that?”
“Yeah, I remember you cried.”
“I didn’t cry. I was justifiably upset. And that was the end of my little crush.” Josh gets up to go and we walk to the foyer.