Jenny Han - To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before

The General Assembly is meeting in the auditorium. There are desks set up for each delegate, and onstage there is a podium where a girl in a black suit is making a speech about nuclear nonproliferation. I’m thinking I’ll just slip in the back and sit and watch but there’s nowhere to sit, so I just stand at the back of the room with my arms crossed and look for John. There are so many people here, and everybody’s facing the front, so it’s hard to tell what’s what.

A kid in a navy suit turns around and looks at me and whispers, “Are you a page?” He’s holding up a folded piece of paper.

“Um . . .” I’m not sure what a page is, and then I see a girl hustling around the room delivering notes to people.

The boy thrusts the piece of paper at me and turns back around and scribbles in his notebook. The note is addressed to Brazil, from France. So I guess I’m a page.

The tables aren’t in alphabetical order, so I just start wandering around trying to find Brazil. I finally find Brazil, a guy in a bow tie, and other people are raising their hands with notes for me to deliver. Before long I’m hustling too.

From behind I see a boy’s hand raised for me to pick up his note, so I hurry forward, and then he turns his head just slightly. And oh my God, it’s John Ambrose McClaren, delegate from the People’s Republic of China, a few feet away from me.

He has sandy hair, clean-cut. His cheeks are rosy, just the way I remember. They still have that fresh-scrubbed wholesomeness that makes him look young. He’s wearing khakis and a light blue button-down with a navy crew-neck sweater. He looks serious, focused, like he’s a real delegate and this isn’t pretend.

Honestly, he looks just the way I imagined he’d grow up to look.

John’s holding the piece of paper out for me as he takes notes with his head down. I reach for it; my fingers close around the paper, and then he looks up and does a double take.

“Hi,” I whisper. We’re both still holding on to the note.

“Hi,” he says back. He blinks, and then he lets go of the paper, and I hurry away, my heart pounding in my ears. I hear him call out my name in a loud whisper, but I don’t slow down.

I look down at the paper. His handwriting is neat, precise. I go deliver his note to the USA, and then I ignore Great Britain, who is waving a note at me, and I walk right out the auditorium double doors and into the afternoon light.

I just saw John McClaren. After all these years, I finally saw him. And he knew me. Right away he knew who I was.

I get a text from Peter around lunchtime.

Did you see McClaren?

I type back yes, but then I delete it before I hit send. I write back no instead. I’m not sure why I do it. I think maybe I just want to keep it for myself, and be happy just knowing that John remembered me, and have that be enough.

WE ALL GO TO PICK up margot from the airport. Kitty’s made a sign that says Welcome Home Gogo. I keep my eyes peeled for her, and when she comes out I almost don’t recognize her for a second—her hair is short! It’s cut in a bob! When Margot sees us, she waves, and Kitty drops her sign and runs toward her. Then we’re all hugging and Daddy has tears in his eyes. “What do you think?” Margot says to me, and I know she means her hair.

“It makes you look older,” I lie, and Margot beams. If anything it makes her look younger, but I knew she wouldn’t want to hear that.

On the way home, Margot makes Daddy pull over at Clouds for a cheeseburger, even though she says she isn’t hungry. “I’ve missed this so much,” she says, but she only has a few bites and Kitty has the rest.

* * *

I’m excited to show Margot all the cookies we made, but when I take her into the dining room and show her all the tins, she frowns. “You guys did the Christmas Cookie Bonanza without me?”

I feel a little bit guilty, but I honestly didn’t think Margot would mind. I mean, she was in Scotland, doing way more fun stuff than baking cookies, for Pete’s sake. “Well, yeah. We kind of had to. School ends tomorrow. If we’d waited for you, we wouldn’t have had time. We saved half the dough in the freezer, though, so you can still help us bake the rest for the neighbors.” I open the big blue tin so she can see the cookies layered and lined up in rows. I’m proud of how they are the same size and height. “We did some new cookies this year. Try an orange Creamsicle; it’s really good.”

Margot picks through the tin and frowns. “You didn’t do molasses cookies?”

“Not this year . . . We decided to do orange Creamsicle cookies in their place.” She picks one up and I watch her bite into it. “Good, right?”

She nods. “Mm-hmm.”

“Those were Kitty’s pick.”

Margot glances toward the living room. “When did you guys do the tree?”

“Kitty couldn’t wait,” I say, and it sounds like an excuse, but it’s true. I try not to sound defensive as I add, “I think it’ll be nice to enjoy the tree for as long as we can.”

“So when did you put it up?”

Slowly I say, “A couple of weeks ago . . .” Why is she in such a bad mood?

“That’s so long ago. It’ll probably be dried out by Christmas Day.” Margot walks over to the tree and moves the wooden owl ornament to a different branch.

“I’ve been watering it every day and putting in Sprite like Grandma taught us.”

Somehow this feels like a fight, and we never fight.

But then Margot yawns and says, “I’m really jet-lagged. I think I’m going to take a nap.”

When someone’s been gone a long time, at first you save up all the things you want to tell them. You try to keep track of everything in your head. But it’s like trying to hold on to a fistful of sand: all the little bits slip out of your hands, and then you’re just clutching air and grit. That’s why you can’t save it all up like that.

Because by the time you finally see each other, you’re catching up only on the big things, because it’s too much bother to tell about the little things. But the little things are what make up life. Like a month ago when Daddy slipped on a banana peel, a literal banana peel that Kitty had dropped on the kitchen floor. Kitty and I laughed for ages. I should have e-mailed Margot about it right away; I should have taken a picture of the banana peel. Now everything feels like you had to be there and oh never mind, I guess it’s not that funny.

Is this how people lose touch? I didn’t think that could happen with sisters. Maybe with other people, but never us. Before Margot left, I knew what she was thinking without having to ask; I knew everything about her. Not anymore. I don’t know what the view looks like outside her window, or if she still wakes up early every morning to have a real breakfast or if maybe now that she’s at college she likes to go out late and sleep in late. I don’t know if she prefers Scottish boys to American boys now, or if her roommate snores. All I know is she likes her classes and she’s been to visit London once. So basically I know nothing.

And so does she. There are big things I haven’t told her—how my letters got sent out. The truth about me and Peter. The truth about me and Josh.

I wonder if Margot feels it too. The distance between us. If she even notices.

* * *

Daddy makes spaghetti bolognese for dinner. Kitty has hers with a big pickle and a glass of milk, which sounds terrible, but then I take a bite, and actually pickle and spaghetti taste good together. Milk, too.

Kitty’s dumping more noodles on her plate when she says, “Lara Jean, what are you going to get Peter for Christmas?”

I glance at Margot, who is looking at me. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Can I go with you to pick it out?”

“Sure, if I get him something.”

“You have to get him something; he’s your boyfriend.”

“I still can’t believe you’re dating Peter Kavinsky,” Margot says.

She doesn’t say it in a nice way, like it’s a good thing. “Can you just . . . not?” I say.

“I’m sorry, I just don’t like the guy.”

“Well, you don’t have to like him. I do,” I say, and Margot shrugs.

Daddy stands up and claps his hands together. “We have three different kinds of ice cream for dessert! Pralines and cream, Chunky Monkey, and strawberry. All your favorites, Margot. Help me get the bowls, Kitty.” They gather up the dirty dishes and go into the kitchen.

Margot looks out the window, toward Josh’s house. “Josh wants to see me later. I hope he finally gets that we’re broken up and he doesn’t try to come over every day while I’m home. He needs to move on.”

What a mean thing to say. She’s the one who’s been calling Josh, not the other way around. “He hasn’t been pining for you, if that’s what you’re imagining,” I say. “He gets that it’s over.”

Margot stares at me in surprise. “Well, I hope that’s true.”

“I THINK WE SHOULD DO recital party this year,” Margot says from her spot on the couch.

When my mom was alive, every Christmas we’d have what she called a recital party. She’d make tons of food and invite people over one night in December, and Margot and I would wear matching dresses and play Christmas carols on the piano all night. People would drift in and out of the piano room and sing along, and Margot and I would take turns playing. I hated real piano recitals because I was the worst in my age group and Margot was the best. It was humiliating to have to play some easy “Für Elise” while the other kids had already moved on to Liszt. I always hated recital party. I used to beg and beg not to have to play.

The last Christmas, Mommy bought us matching red velvet dresses to wear, and I threw a fit and said I didn’t want to wear it, even though I did, even though I loved it. I just didn’t want to have to play the piano in it next to Margot. I screamed at her and I ran to my room and slammed the door and I wouldn’t come out. Mommy came up and tried to get me to open the door, but I wouldn’t, and she didn’t come back. People started arriving, and Margot started playing the piano, and I stayed upstairs. I sat in my room, crying and thinking about all the dips and little canapés Mommy and Daddy had made and how there would be none left for me and how Mommy probably didn’t even want me down there anyway after the way I’d behaved.

After Mommy died, we never had another recital party.

“Are you serious?” I ask her.

“Why not?” Margot shrugs. “It’ll be fun. I’ll plan it all, you won’t have to do anything.”

“You know I hate piano.”

“Then don’t play.”

Kitty’s looking from me to Margot with worried eyes. Biting her lip, she offers, “I’ll do some tae kwon do moves.”

Margot reaches out and cuddles Kitty to her and says, “That’s a great idea. I’ll play the piano and you’ll do tae kwon do, and Lara Jean will just—”

“Watch,” I finish.

“I was going to say hostess, but suit yourself.”

I don’t answer her.

* * *

Later, we’re watching TV and Kitty’s asleep, curled up on the couch like she’s a real cat. Margot wants to wake her up and make her go to her bed, but I say just let her sleep, and I put a quilt over her.

“Will you help me work on Daddy about a puppy for Christmas?” I ask.

Margot groans. “Puppies are so much work. You have to let them out to pee like a million times a day. And they shed like crazy. You’ll never be able to wear black pants again. Also who’s going to walk it, and feed it, and take care of it?”

“Kitty will. And I’ll help.”

“Kitty is so not ready for the responsibility.” Her eyes say, And neither are you.

“Kitty’s matured a lot since you’ve been gone.” And so have I. “Did you know that Kitty packs her own lunch now? And she helps with the laundry? I don’t have to nag her to do her homework, either. She just does it on her own.”

“Really? Then I’m impressed.”

Why can’t she just say, Good job, Lara Jean? That’s it. If she could just acknowledge that I’ve been doing my part to keep the family going since she’s been gone. But no.

AT SIX THIRTY IN THE morning the day of the ski trip, Daddy drops me off at school. It’s not even light out yet. It seems like every day the sun takes longer and longer to come up. Before I hop out of the car, my dad pulls a hat out of his coat pocket. It’s light pink yarn with a pom-pom on top. He fits it on my head so it covers my ears. “I found this in the hall closet. I think it was one of your mom’s. She was such a great skier.”