“You should have gone before class,” he grumbles, but he waves me on.

I hurry out to the hallway and pull Peter away from the door so Mr. Schuller can’t see.

“Where were you this morning?” Peter demands.

I cross my arms and try to stand tall. It’s hard, because I’m so short and he really is tall. “You’re one to talk.”

Peter huffs, “At least I texted you! I’ve called you like seventeen times. Why is your phone off?”

“You know we’re not allowed to have our phones on at school!”

He huffs, “Lara Jean, I waited in front of your house for twenty minutes.”

Yikes. “Well, I’m sorry.”

“How’d you get to school? Sanderson?”

“Yes.”

Peter exhales. “Listen, if you were pissed I couldn’t come over last night, you should’ve just called and said so instead of the shit you pulled this morning.”

In a small voice I say, “Well, what about that shit you pulled last night?”

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Did you just say ‘shit’? It sounds really funny coming out of your mouth.”

I ignore that. “So . . . where were you? Were you with Genevieve?” I don’t ask what I really want to know, which is, Did you guys get back together?

He hesitates and then he says, “She needed me.”

I can’t even look at him. Why is he such a dummy? Why does she have such a hold on him? Is it just the amount of time they’ve been together? Is it the sex? I don’t understand. It’s disappointing, how little self-control boys have. “Peter, if you’re just going to go running every time she beckons, I don’t see a point to any of this.”

“Covey, come on! I said I was sorry. Don’t be pissed.”

“You never said you were sorry,” I say. “When did you say you were sorry?”

Chastened, he says, “Sorry.”

“I don’t want you to go to Genevieve’s anymore. How do you think that makes me look to her?”

Peter looks at me steadily. “I can’t not be there for Gen, so don’t ask me to.”

“But Peter, what does she even need you for when she has a new boyfriend?”

He flinches, and right away I’m sorry I said it. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s fine. I don’t expect you to understand it. Gen and I . . . we just get each other.”

He doesn’t know it, but when Peter talks about Genevieve, he gets a certain softness in his face. It’s tenderness mixed with impatience. And something else. Love. Peter can protest all he wants, but I know he still loves her.

Sighing, I ask, “Did you at least study for the test?”

Peter shakes his head, and I sigh again.

“You can look at my notes during lunch,” I say, and I head back to my class.

It’s starting to make sense to me. Why he’d go along with a scheme like this, why he’d spend his time with someone like me. It’s not so he can move on from Gen. It’s so he can’t. I’m just his excuse. I’m holding Genevieve’s place for her. When that piece makes sense, everything else starts to.

42

JOSH’S PARENTS FIGHT A LOT. I don’t know if it’s a normal amount of fighting because I only have one parent, but I don’t remember my parents fighting that much when I had two. Our houses are close enough that I can hear them sometimes, if my window is open. The fights usually start out with something small, like Mrs. Sanderson accidentally leaving the car door open and the battery going dead, and end with something big, like how Mr. Sanderson works too much and is inherently selfish and not cut out for a family.

When they fight bad, Josh comes over. When we were younger, he’d sneak out sometimes in his pajamas with his pillow, and he’d stay until his mom came looking for him. It’s not something we talk about. Maybe him and Margot, but not me and him. The most he ever said about it was that sometimes he wished they’d just get divorced so it could finally be over. They never did, though.

I can hear them tonight. I’ve heard them other nights since Margot left, but tonight sounds particularly bad. So bad I close my window. I gather up my homework and go downstairs and turn on the living room light so Josh knows he can come over if he wants.

Half an hour later there’s a knock at the door. I wrap myself in my pale blue baby blanket and open it.

It’s Josh. He smiles at me sheepishly. “Hey. Can I hang out here for a bit?”

“Course you can.” I leave the door open and trudge back to the living room. I call back, “Lock it behind you.”

Josh watches TV and I do my homework. I’m highlighting my way through US history when Josh asks me, “Are you going to try out for Arcadia?” That’s the spring play. They just announced it yesterday.

“No,” I say, switching highlighter colors. “Why would I?” I hate public speaking and getting up in front of people, and Josh knows it.

“Duh, because it’s your favorite play.” Josh changes the channel. “I think you’d be a really good Thomasina.”

I smile. “Thanks but no thanks.”

“Why not? It could be something good to put on your college apps.”

“It’s not like I’m going to be a theater major or anything.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to get out of your comfort zone a little bit,” he says, stretching his arms out behind his head. “Take a risk. Look at Margot. She’s all the way over in Scotland.”

“I’m not Margot.”

“I’m not saying you should move to the other side of the world. I know you’d never do that. Hey, what about Honor Council? You love judging people!”

I make a face at him.

“Or Model UN. I bet you’d like that. I’m just saying . . . your world could be bigger than just playing checkers with Kitty and riding around in Kavinsky’s car.”

I stop highlighting midsentence. Is he right? Is my world really that small? It’s not like his world is so big! “Josh,” I begin. Then I pause, because I don’t know how I’m going to finish the sentence. So instead I throw my highlighter at him.

It ricochets off his forehead. “Hey! You could have hit me in the eye!”

“And you would have deserved it.”

“Okay, okay. You know I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean that you should give people a chance to know you.” Josh points the remote control at me and says, “If people knew you, they would love you.” He sounds so matter-of-fact.

Josh, you break my heart. And you’re a liar. Because you know me, you know me better than almost anybody, and you don’t love me.

* * *

After Josh goes back home, I tidy up the living room, lock all the doors, and turn off the lights. Then I pour myself a glass of water and head upstairs.

The light is on in my bedroom, and Chris is asleep in my bed. I roll her to the side so I can fit in too. Stirring, she mumbles, “Wanna go get hot wings?”

“It’s too late to eat hot wings,” I say, pulling my quilt up so it covers both of us. “You just missed Josh.”

Her eyes fly open. “Joshy was here? Why?”

“No reason.” I won’t tell Josh’s secrets, not even to Chris.

“Well, don’t mention it to Kavinsky.”

“He wouldn’t care,” I say.

Chris shakes her head. “All boys care.”

“Peter’s not like that. He’s really confident.”

“They’re the ones that care the most,” she says. I’m about to ask her what she means, but before I can, she says, “Let’s go do something wild.”

“Like what?” It’s a school night; I can’t go anywhere and she knows it. But I still like to hear her schemes. They’re like bedtime stories.

“Like . . . I don’t know. We could sneak into the nursing home and break out that grandma you’re always talking about. What’s her name again? Thunder?”

I giggle. “Stormy.”

“Yeah, Stormy.” She yawns. “She seems like she knows how to have a good time. I bet she’d buy us cocktails.”

“Stormy goes to sleep at nine every night to get her beauty rest. Let’s do it tomorrow.” By tomorrow, Chris will have forgotten all about it, but it’s still a nice thought. Her eyes are closed again. I poke her in the side. “Chris, wake up. Go brush your teeth.” I keep a toothbrush in my bathroom drawer just for her. I painted a cursive C on it with red nail polish so it doesn’t get mixed up with anybody else’s toothbrush.

“Can’t. I’m too tired to move.”

“A second ago you wanted to break Stormy out of Belleview, and now you’re too tired to wash your face and brush your teeth?”

Chris smiles but doesn’t open her eyes.

I turn off my bedside lamp. “Night, Chris.”

She wriggles closer to me. “G’night.”

43

THERE ARE VERY LIMITED OPTIONS for Asian girls on Halloween. Like one year I went as Velma from Scooby-Doo, but people just asked me if I was a manga character. I even wore a wig! So now I’m committed to dressing up as Asian characters exclusively.

Margot never goes as a person; she is always an inanimate object or a concept of some kind. Like last year she went as a “formal apology”: she wore a floor-length evening gown we found at Goodwill for ten dollars, and she had a sign around her neck, written in calligraphy, which said, I’m sorry. It won second prize in the school contest. First prize went to a Rastafarian alien.

Kitty’s going as a ninja, which I suppose is in line with my whole Asian costume idea.

This year I’m going as Cho Chang from Harry Potter. I’ve got my Ravenclaw scarf and an old black choir robe I found on eBay, plus one of my dad’s ties and a wand. I’m not going to win any contests, but at least people will know what I am. I wish I never have to answer a What are you? question ever again.

* * *

I’m waiting for Peter to pick me up for school, messing with my knee-highs. They won’t stay up.

“Lara Jean!”

Automatically I call back, “Josh!” It’s our version of Marco Polo.

Then I look up. There’s Josh, standing in front of his car. In a full-on Harry Potter costume. Black robe, glasses, lightning mark on his forehead, wand.

We both burst out laughing. Of all the random costumes! Ruefully Josh says, “The guys from the graphic-novel club are going as different fantasy-book characters. I was going to go as Drogo from Game of Thrones because, you know, I’ve got the upper body for it, but . . .”

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.