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Stormy leans in close and says, “Lara Jean, just remember, the girl must always be the one to control how far things go. Boys think with their you-know-whats. It’s up to you to keep your head and protect what’s yours.”
“I don’t know, Stormy. Isn’t that kind of sexist?”
“Life is sexist. If you were to get pregnant, you’re the one whose life changes. Nothing of significance changes for the boy. You’re the one people whisper about. I’ve seen that show, Teen Moms. All those boys are worthless. Garbage!”
“Are you saying I shouldn’t have sex?” This whole time, Stormy has been telling me to stop being such a stick-in-the-mud, to live life, to love boys. And now this?
“I’m saying you should be careful. As careful as life and death, because that’s what it is.” She gives me a meaningful look. “And never trust the boy to bring the condom. A lady always brings her own.”
I cough.
“Your body is yours to protect and to enjoy.” She raises both eyebrows at me meaningfully. “Whoever you should choose to partake in that enjoyment, that is your choice, and choose wisely. Every man that ever got to touch me was afforded an honor. A privilege.” Stormy waves her hand over me. “All this? It’s a privilege to worship at this temple, do you understand my meaning? Not just any young fool can approach the throne. Remember my words, Lara Jean. You decide who, how far, and how often, if ever.”
“I had no idea you were such a feminist,” I say.
“Feminist?” Stormy makes a disgusted sound in her throat. “I’m no feminist. Really, Lara Jean!”
“Stormy, don’t get worked up about it. All it means is that you believe men and women are equal, and should have equal rights.”
“I don’t think any man is my equal. Women are far superior, and don’t you forget it. Don’t forget any of the things I just told you. In fact you should probably be writing it down for my memoirs.” She starts to hum “Stormy Weather.”
There was never a threat of things going too far when we were fake. But I see now how fast things can change without you even realizing it. It can go from a kiss to hands under my shirt in two seconds, and it’s so feverish, so frenzied. It’s like we’re on a high-speed train that’s going somewhere fast, and I like it, I do, but I also like a slow train where I can look out the window and appreciate the countryside, the buildings, the mountains. It’s like I don’t want to miss the little steps; I want it to last. And then the next second I want to grow up faster, more, now. To be as ready as everyone else is. How is everyone else so ready?
I still find it very surprising, having a boy in my personal space. I still get nervous when he puts his arm around my waist or reaches for my hand. I don’t think I know how to date in the 2010s. I’m confused by it. I don’t want what Margot and Josh had, or Peter and Genevieve. I want something different.
I guess you could call me a late bloomer, but that implies that we’re all on some predetermined blooming schedule, that there’s a right or a wrong way to be sixteen and in love with a boy.
My body is a temple not just any boy gets to worship at.
I won’t do any more than I want to do.
22
PETER AND I ARE AT Starbucks, sitting side by side, studying for our chemistry exam. Idly, he puts his arm around my chair and starts twisting my hair around his pencil and letting it unfurl like a slice of ribbon. I ignore him. He pulls my chair closer to his and plants a warm kiss on my neck, which makes me giggle. I scoot away from him. “I can’t concentrate when you do that.”
“You said you like when I play with your hair.”
“I do, but I’m trying to study.” I look around and then whisper, “Besides, we’re in public.”
“There’s hardly anybody in here!”
“There’s the barista, and that guy over there by the door.” I try to discreetly point with my pencil. Things have been quiet at school; the last thing we need is another meme flare-up.
“Lara Jean, nobody’s going to film us if that’s what you’re worried about. We’re not doing anything.”
“I told you from the start I’m not into PDAs,” I remind him.
Peter smirks. “Really? Let’s not forget who kissed who in the hallway. You literally jumped on top of me, Covey.”
I blush. “There was a purpose for that and you know it.”
“There’s a purpose now,” he pouts. “The purpose is I’m bored and I feel like kissing you. Is that a crime?”
“You’re such a baby,” I say, pinching his nose hard. “If you stay quiet and study for forty-five more minutes, I’ll let you kiss me in the privacy of your car.”
Peter’s face lights up. “Deal.” His phone buzzes, and he reaches down to check it. He frowns and texts something, his fingers lightning quick.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
He nods, but he looks distracted, and he keeps texting, even as we’re supposed to be studying. And now I’m distracted too, wondering what it could be. Or who.
23
I’M PUSHING MY GROCERY CART around, looking for condensed milk for key lime pie, when I spot Josh in the cereal aisle. I roll right up to him and bump him with my cart.
“Hey, neighbor,” I say.
“Hey, so guess what.” Josh grins a pleased, proud sort of grin. “I got into UVA early.”
I let out a high-pitched shriek and let go of my cart. “Josh! That’s amazing!” I throw my arms around him and jump up and down. I shake his shoulders. “Be more excited, you loon!”
He laughs and jumps up and down a few times too before releasing me. “I am excited. My parents are out of their heads excited because now they don’t have to pay out-of-state tuition. They haven’t fought in days.” Shyly he asks, “Will you tell Margot? I feel like I can’t call her myself, but she deserves to know. She’s the one who helped me study all that time. It’s partly because of her that this is even happening.”
“I’ll tell her. I know she’ll be really happy for you, Josh. My dad and Kitty, too.” I lift my hand for a high five, and he smacks it. I can’t believe it—Josh is going to college, and soon he won’t be my neighbor anymore. Not like before. Now that he’ll be graduating and leaving town, maybe his parents will finally get their divorce, and then they’ll sell the house and he won’t even be my sort-of neighbor. Things have been off with us for months, even before the Margot breakup, and we haven’t hung out in ages . . . but I liked knowing that he was there, right next door if I needed him. “Once a little more time has passed . . . ,” I begin. “Once we have the all clear from Margot, will you come over for di
A smile spreads across his face, that slow smile I know so well. “All right,” he says.
24
THE SONG GIRLS TAKE VALENTINE making very seriously. A valentine is humble and sweet and sincere in its old-fashionedness, and as such, homemade is best. I have plenty of raw materials from my scrapbooking, but in addition I’ve saved snippets of lace and ribbon and doilies. I have a tin with little beads and pearls and rhinestones in it; I have antiquey rubber stamps, too—a Cupid, hearts of all kinds, flowers.
Historically, Daddy gets one valentine from the three of us. This year is the first that Margot will be sending one of her own. Josh will get one too, though I let Kitty take the lead on it and merely sign my name under hers.
I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon on Peter’s. It’s a white heart, edged in white lace. In the center I’ve stitched YOU’RE MINE, PETER K in pink string. I know it will make him smile. It’s lighthearted, teasing; it doesn’t take itself too seriously, much like Peter himself. Still, it acknowledges the day and the fact that we, Peter Kavinsky and Lara Jean Song Covey, are in a relationship. I was going to make a much more extravagant card, big and beaded and lacy, but Kitty said it would be a bit much.