“Well, how would you feel if I told you Gen was going to UVA?”
“I don’t know. Not that bothered?” I mean that sincerely. All of my bad feelings about Peter and Genevieve feel like such a long time ago. Peter and I have come so far since then. “Besides, it’s completely different. John and I never even dated. We haven’t spoken in months. Also, he has a girlfriend. Also, he hasn’t even decided if he’s going there or not.”
“So where’s his girlfriend going then?”
“Ann Arbor.”
He makes a dismissive sound. “That ain’t gonna last.”
Softly I say, “Maybe people will look at you and me and think the same thing.”
“It’s literally not the same thing at all. We’re only going to be a couple of hours apart, and then you’re transferring. That’s one year tops. I’ll drive down on weekends. It’s literally not a big deal.”
“You just said literally twice,” I say, to make him smile. When he doesn’t, I say, “You’ll have practice and games. You won’t want to be at William and Mary every weekend.” It’s the first time I’ve had this thought.
For just a moment Peter looks stung, but then he shrugs and says, “Fine, or you’ll come up here. We’ll get you used to the drive. It’s basically all just I-64.”
“William and Mary doesn’t let freshmen have cars. Neither does UVA. I checked.”
Peter brushes this off. “So I’ll get my mom to drop my car off when I want to come see you. It’s not like it’s far. And you can take the bus. We’ll make it work. I’m not worried about us.”
I am, a little, but I don’t say so, because Peter doesn’t seem to want to talk about practicalities. I guess I don’t either.
Scooting closer to me, he asks, “Want me to stay over tonight? I can come back after my mom goes to bed. I can distract you if you get sad.”
“Nice try,” I tell him, pinching his cheek.
“Did Josh ever spend the night? With your sister, I mean.”
I ponder this. “Not that I know of. I mean, I really doubt it. We’re talking about my sister and Josh, after all.”
“That’s them,” Peter says, dipping his head low and rubbing his cheek against mine. He loves how soft my cheeks are; he’s always saying that. “We’re nothing like them.”
“You’re the one who brought them up,” I start to say, but then he is kissing me, and I can’t even finish a thought, much less a sentence.
22
THE MORNING OF PROM, KITTY comes in my room as I’m painting my toes. “What do you think about this color with my dress?” I ask her.
“It looks like you dipped your toenails in Pepto-Bismol.”
I peer down at my feet. It kind of does look like that. Maybe I should do a beige color instead.
The consensus is that the dress requires an updo. “To show off your collarbone,” Trina says. I’ve never thought of my collarbone as something to be shown off; in fact I’ve never thought of my collarbone at all.
After lunch Kitty goes with me to the hair salon, to supervise. She tells the stylist, “Don’t make it too done, do you know what I mean?”
The stylist gives me a nervous look in the mirror. “I think so? You want it to look natural?” She’s talking to Kitty, not me, because it’s obvious who is in charge. “Like a natural chignon?”
“But not too natural. Think Grace Kelly.” Kitty pulls up a picture on her phone and shows it to her. “See, like this, but we want the bun to the side.”
“Just please don’t use too much hairspray,” I say meekly, as the stylist coils my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck and shows Kitty.
“That’s great,” Kitty says to her. To me she says, “Lara Jean, she has to use hairspray if you want it to stay up.”
Suddenly I’m having second thoughts about an updo. “Are we sure about the updo?”
“Yes,” Kitty says. To the stylist she says, “We’re doing the updo.”
* * *
The updo is more “done” than I’m used to. My hair is in a side bun; the top is smooth like a ballerina. It’s pretty, but when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize myself. It’s an older, sophisticated version of me who’s going to the opera, or the symphony.
After all the time the woman at the salon spent putting my hair up, I end up taking it down when I get home. Kitty yells at me as she brushes my hair out, but I bear it. Tonight I want to feel like me.
“How are we doing your grand entrance?” Kitty asks me as she sweeps the brush through my hair one last time.
“Grand entrance?” I repeat.
“When Peter gets here. How are you going to enter the room?”
Trina, who is lying on my bed eating a Popsicle, pipes up with, “When I went to prom, we did a thing where the dads walked the girls down the stairs and then somebody would announce you.”
I look at them both like they are nuts. “Trina, I’m not getting married. I’m going to prom.”
“We could turn off all the lights and put on music, and then you walk out and do a pose at the top of the stairs—”
“I don’t want to do that,” I interrupt.
Her forehead creases. “What part?”
“All of it.”
“But you need a moment where everybody looks at you and only you,” Kitty says.
“It’s called a first look,” Trina explains. “Don’t worry, I’ll get the whole thing on video.”
“If we’d thought about this earlier, we could’ve really done it up, and maybe it would’ve gone viral.” Kitty shakes her head at me in a disgusted way, as if this is somehow my fault.
“The last thing I need is to go viral again,” I tell her. Pointedly I say, “Remember my hot tub video?”
She at least looks a little abashed, for a second. “Let’s not linger on the past,” she says, fluffing up my hair.
“Hey, birthday girl,” Trina says to me. “Is the plan still to go for barbecue tomorrow night?”
“Yup,” I say. With Stormy passing away and prom and the wedding and everything else, I haven’t given my birthday much thought. Trina wanted to throw me a big party, but I told her I’d rather just have a family dinner out, and cake and ice cream back at the house. Trina and Kitty are baking the cake while I’m at prom, so we’ll see how that goes!
* * *
When Peter and his mom arrive, I’m still running around doing last minute things.
“Guys, Peter and his mom are here,” my dad calls up the stairs.
“Perfume!” I screech to Kitty, who sprays me. “Where’s my clutch?”
Trina tosses it to me. “Did you pack a lipstick?”
I open it to check. “Yes! Where are my shoes?”
“Over here,” Kitty says, picking them up off the floor. “Hurry up and get strapped in. I’ll go downstairs and tell them you’re coming.”
“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.