Always and Forever, Lara Jean (18 page)

“I’ll open up a bottle of champagne for the grown-ups,” Trina says, following her out.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It’s only Peter. I guess prom really is its own kind of magic. The last thing I do is put on Stormy’s ring, and I think of how she must be looking down on me right now, happy I’m wearing her ring on prom night, in honor of her and all the dances she went to.

When I come down the stairs, Peter is sitting on the couch with his mom. He is shaking his knee up and down, which is how I know he’s nervous too. As soon as he sees me, he stands up.

He raises his eyebrows. “You look—wow.” For the past week, he’s been asking for details on what my dress looks like, and I held him at bay for the surprise, which I’m glad I did, because it was worth it to see the look on his face.

“You look wow too.” His tux fits him so nicely, you’d think it was custom, but it’s not; it’s a rental from After Hours Formal Wear. I wonder if Mrs. Kavinsky made a few sly adjustments. She’s a marvel with a needle and thread. I
wish guys could wear tuxedos more often, though I suppose that would take some of the thrill away.

Peter slides my corsage on my wrist; it is white ranunculus and baby’s breath, and it’s the exact corsage I would have picked for myself. I’m already thinking of how I’ll hang it over my bed so it dries just so.

Kitty is dressed up too; she has on her favorite dress, so she can be in the pictures. When Peter pins a daisy corsage on her, her face goes pink with pleasure, and he winks at me. We take a picture of me and her, one of me and Peter and her, and then she says in her bossy way, “Now just one of me and Peter,” and I’m pushed off to the side with Trina, who laughs.

“The boys her age are in for it,” she says to me and Peter’s mom, who is smiling too.

“Why am I not in any of these pictures?” Daddy wonders, so of course we do a round with him too, and a few with Trina and Mrs. Kavinsky.

Then we take pictures outside, by the dogwood tree, by Peter’s car, on the front steps, until Peter says, “Enough pictures! We’re going to miss the whole thing.” When we go to his car, he opens the door for me gallantly.

On the way over, he keeps looking at me. I keep my eyes trained straight ahead, but I can see him in my periphery. I’ve never felt so admired. This must be how Stormy felt all the time.

*  *  *

As soon as we get to prom, I tell Peter we have to get in line to take our official prom picture with the professional
photographer. He says we should just wait till the line dies down, but I insist. I want a good one for my scrapbook, before my hair goes flat. We do the requisite prom pose, with Peter standing behind me, his hands on my hips. The photographer lets us take a look at our picture, and Peter insists on taking another one because he doesn’t like the way his hair looks.

After we take our picture, we find all of our friends on the dance floor. Darrell has matched his tie to Pammy’s dress—lavender. Chris is wearing a tight black bandage dress—not unlike the one Kitty picked out for me to wear when she and Margot and I went shopping. Lucas looks like an English dandy in his suit, which is tailored to his body just beautifully. I finally convinced the two of them to come, by suggesting they just “stop by.” Chris said she was still going clubbing with her work friends, but from the looks of it, she isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. She’s getting so much attention in her bandage dress.

“Style” comes on and we all go crazy, screaming in each other’s faces and jumping up and down. Peter goes craziest of all. He keeps asking me if I’m having fun. He only asks out loud once, but with his eyes he asks me again and again. They are bright and hopeful, alight with expectation. With my eyes I tell him,
Yes yes yes I am having fun.

We’re starting to get the hang of slow dancing, too. Maybe we should take a ballroom-dancing class when I get to
UVA
so we can actually get good at it.

I tell him this, and fondly he says, “You always want to take
things to the next level. Next-level chocolate chip cookies.”

“I gave up on those.”

“Next-level Halloween costumes.”

“I like for things to feel special.” At this, Peter smiles down at me and I say, “It’s just too bad we’ll never dance cheek to cheek.”

“Maybe we could order you some dancing stilts.”

“Oh, you mean high heels?”

He snickers. “I don’t think there’s such a thing as ten-inch heels.”

I ignore him. “And it’s too bad your noodle arms aren’t strong enough to pick me up.”

Peter lets out a roar like an injured lion and swoops me up and swings me around, just like I knew he would. It’s a rare thing, to know someone so well, whether they’ll pivot left or right. Outside of my family, I think he might be the person I know best of all.

*  *  *

Of course Peter wins prom king. Prom queen is Ashanti Dickson. I’m just relieved it isn’t Genevieve up there, slow dancing with him with a tiara on her head. Ashanti is nearly Peter’s height, so the two of them actually can dance cheek to cheek, though they don’t. Peter looks out at me and winks. I’m standing off to the side with Marshawn Hopkins, Ashanti’s date. He leans over to me and says, “When they come back, we should ignore them and just dance away,” which makes me laugh.

I’m proud of Peter out there, at how he dances so tall,
with his back so straight. At a pivotal moment in the song, Peter dips Ashanti, and everyone hoots and hollers and stomps their feet, and I’m proud of that, too. People are so sincere in their affection for him; they can all celebrate Peter because he is nice, and he makes everyone feel good. He just gives the night a little extra shine, and they are glad for it, and so am I. I’m happy he gets this send-off.

*  *  *

One last dance.

We’re both quiet. It’s not over yet. We still have the whole summer ahead. But high school, the two of us here together, Lara Jean and Peter as we are today, that part is done. We’ll never be here exactly like this again.

I’m wondering if he’s feeling sad too, and then he whispers, “Check out Gabe over there trying to casually rest his hand on Keisha’s butt.”

He turns me slightly so I can see. Gabe’s hand is indeed hovering at Keisha Wood’s lower back/butt area, like an indecisive butterfly looking for a landing spot. I giggle. This is why I like Peter so much. He sees things I don’t see.

“I know what our song should be,” he says.

“What?”

And then, like magic, Al Green’s voice fills the hotel ballroom. “Let’s Stay Together.”

“You made them play this,” I accuse. I’m tearing up a little bit.

He grins. “It’s fate.”

Whatever you want to do . . . is all right with me-ee-ee.

Peter takes my hand and puts it on his heart. “Let’s, let’s stay together,” he sings. His voice is clear and true, everything I love about him.

*  *  *

On the way to after-prom, Peter says he’s hungry, and can we stop at the diner first.

“I think there’s going to be pizza at after-prom,” I say. “Why don’t we just eat there?”

“But I want pancakes,” he whines.

We pull into the diner parking lot, and after we park, he gets out of the car and runs around to the passenger side to open my door. “So gentlemanly tonight,” I say, which makes him grin.

We walk up to the diner, and he opens the door for me grandly.

“I could get used to this royal treatment,” I say.

“Hey, I open doors for you,” he protests.

We walk inside, and I stop short. Our booth, the one we always sit in, has pale pink balloons tied around it. There’s a round cake in the center of the table, tons of candles, pink frosting with sprinkles and
Happy Birthday, Lara Jean
scrawled in white frosting. Suddenly I see people’s heads pop up from under the booths and from behind menus—all of our friends, still in their prom finery: Lucas, Gabe, Gabe’s date Keisha, Darrell, Pammy, Chris. “Surprise!” everyone screams.

I spin around. “Oh my God, Peter!”

He’s still grinning. He looks at his watch. “It’s midnight. Happy birthday, Lara Jean.”

I leap up and hug him. “This is just exactly what I wanted to do on my prom night birthday and I didn’t even know it.” Then I let go of him and run over to the booth.

Everyone gets out and hugs me. “I didn’t even know people knew it was my birthday tomorrow! I mean today!” I say.

“Of course we knew it was your birthday,” Lucas says.

Darrell says, “My boy’s been planning this for weeks.”

“It was so endearing,” Pammy says. “He called me to ask what kind of pan he should use for the cake.”

Chris says, “He called me, too. I was like, how the hell should I know?”

“And you!” I hit Chris on the arm. “I thought you were leaving to go clubbing!”

“I still might after I steal some fries. My night’s just getting started, babe.” She pulls me in for a hug and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Happy birthday, girl.”

I turn to Peter and say, “I can’t believe you did this.”

“I baked that cake myself,” he brags. “Box, but still.” He takes off his jacket and pulls a lighter out of his jacket pocket and starts lighting the candles. Gabe pulls out a lit candle and helps him. Then Peter hops his butt on the table and sits down, his legs hanging off the edge. “Come on.”

I look around. “Um . . .”

That’s when I hear the opening notes of “If You Were Here” by the Thompson Twins. My hands fly to my cheeks. I
can’t believe it. Peter’s recreating the end scene from
Sixteen Candles
, when Molly Ringwald and Jake Ryan sit on a table with a birthday cake in between them. When we watched the movie a few months ago, I said it was the most romantic thing I’d ever seen. And now he’s doing it for me.

“Hurry up and get up there before all the candles melt, Lara Jean,” Chris calls out.

Darrell and Gabe help hoist me onto the table, careful not to set my dress on fire. Peter says, “Okay, now you look at me adoringly, and I lean forward like this.”

Chris comes forward and puffs out my skirt a bit. “Roll up your sleeve a little higher,” she instructs Peter, looking from her phone to us. Peter obeys, and she nods. “Looks good, looks good.” Then she runs back to her spot and starts to snap. It takes no effort on my part at all to look at Peter adoringly tonight.

When I blow out the candles and make my wish, I wish that I will always feel for Peter the way I do right now.

THE NEIGHBORHOOD POOL ALWAYS OPENS
up on Memorial Day weekend. When we were little, Margot and I would count down the days. Our mom would pack ham and cheese sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, carrot sticks, and a big jug of apple water. Apple water was watered down sugar-free apple juice, but mostly water. I begged for soda out of the machine, or fruit punch, but no. Mommy would slather us up with sunscreen the same way she slathered butter on a turkey. Kitty used to scream her head off; she was too impatient for the rubdown. Kitty’s always been impatient; she’s always wanted more, now. It’s funny how much of who we are as babies is who we are as we get older. I’d never have known it if it weren’t for Kitty. She still makes the same screwy faces.

Kitty isn’t doing swim team this year; she says it isn’t fun anymore now that none of her friends are doing it. When she didn’t know I was watching, I saw her looking at the meet schedule on the community board with wistfulness in her eyes. I guess that’s part of growing up, too—saying good-bye to the things you used to love.

Everyone’s lawns are freshly cut, and the air smells of clovers and green. The first crickets of summer are chirping. This is the soundtrack of my summer and every summer.
Peter and I have staked our claim on the lounge chairs farthest away from the kiddie pool, because it’s less noisy. I’m studying for my French final, or trying to, at least.

“Come over here so I can get your shoulders first,” I call out to Kitty, who is standing by the pool with her friend Brielle.

“You know I don’t burn,” she calls back, and it’s true; her shoulders are already tanned like golden brioche. By the end of summer they’ll be dark as the crust on whole wheat bread. Kitty’s hair is slicked back, a towel around her shoulders. She’s all arms and legs now.

“Just come over here,” I say.

Kitty trots over to the lounge chairs Peter and I are sitting on, her flip-flops clacking against the pavement.

I spray her with the sunscreen and rub it into her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t burn. Protect your skin so you don’t end up looking like an old leather bag.” That’s what Stormy used to tell me.

Kitty giggles at “old leather bag.” “Like Mrs. Letty. Her skin is hot dog–colored.”

“Well, I wasn’t talking about any one person in particular. But yeah. She should’ve worn sunscreen in her younger days. Let that be a lesson to you, my sister.” Mrs. Letty is our neighbor, and her skin hangs on her like crepe.

Peter puts on his sunglasses. “You guys are mean.”

“Says the guy who once toilet-papered her lawn!”

Kitty giggles and steals a sip of my Coke. “You did that?”

“All lies and propaganda,” Peter says blithely.

As the day heats up, Peter convinces me to put down my French book and jump in the pool with him. The pool is crowded with little kids, no one as old as us. Steve Bledell has a pool at his house, but I wanted to come here, for old times’ sake.

“Don’t you dare dunk me,” I warn. Peter starts circling me like a shark, coming closer and closer. “I’m serious!”

He makes a dive for me and grabs me by the waist, but he doesn’t dunk me; he kisses me. His skin is cool and smooth against mine; so are his lips.

I push him away and whisper, “Don’t kiss me—there are kids around!”

“So?”

“So nobody wants to see teenagers kissing in the pool where kids are trying to play. It isn’t right.” I know I sound like a priss, but I don’t care. When I was little, and there were teenagers horsing around in the pool, I always felt nervous to go in, because it was like the pool was theirs.

Peter bursts out laughing. “You’re funny, Covey.” Swimming sideways, he says, “ ‘It isn’t right,’ ” and then starts laughing again.