60
“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.
61
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.”
“I know. I remember.”
“Promise me you’ll go out on the slopes at least once.”
“I promise.”
“I’m so glad you’re doing this. It’s good for you to try new things.”
I smile weakly. If he only knew what went down at the ski trip, he wouldn’t be so glad then. Then I spot Peter and his friends messing around outside by the charter bus. “Thanks for the ride, Daddy. See you tomorrow night.” I give him a peck on the cheek and grab my duffel bag.
“Zip up your coat,” he calls out as I shut the car door.
The lodge is exactly the way Peter described—there’s a big fireplace and bearskin rugs and lots of little nooks. It’s snowing outside, tiny little whisper flakes. Chris is in good spirits—halfway through the bus ride she woke up and started flirting with Charlie Blanchard, who’s going to take her out on the black diamond slopes. We even lucked out with a double room instead of a triple, because all the other girls had signed up for triples together.
Chris went off to snowboard with Charlie. She invited me to come along, but I said no thanks. I tried to ski next to Margot when she snowboarded once, and it ended up with us coming down the slopes at different times and waiting for each other and then losing each other all day.
If Peter were to invite me to go snowboarding with him, I think I’d go. But he doesn’t, and I’m hungry anyway, so I go to the lodge to eat lunch.
Ms. Davenport is there looking at her cell phone and eating a bowl of soup. Ms. Davenport is young, but she presents herself old. I think it’s her heavy foundation and her severe part down the middle. She isn’t married. Chris told me she saw her having an argument with some guy outside the Waffle House once, so I guess she has a boyfriend.
When she spots me sitting alone, eating a sandwich by the fireplace, she waves me over. I carry my plate to her table and sit down across from her. I’d rather eat alone and read my book, but it’s not like I have much of a choice in the matter. I ask her, “Do you have to stay here in the lodge all weekend, or can you go ski too?”
“I’m officially home base,” she says, wiping the corners of her mouth. “Coach White’s on slope duty.”
“That doesn’t seem very fair.”
“I don’t mind. I actually like sitting in the lodge. It’s peaceful. Besides, somebody has to be here for emergencies.” She takes another bite of soup. “What about you, Lara Jean? Why aren’t you out on the slopes with everybody else?”
“I’m not the best skier,” I say, feeling embarrassed.
“Oh, really? I hear Kavinsky’s a very good snowboarder. You should get him to teach you. Aren’t you two dating?”
Ms. Davenport loves being in on student drama. She calls it having her finger on the pulse, but really she’s just a gossip. If you give her an opening, she’ll burrow in for as much dirt as she can. I know she and Genevieve are close.
I have a quick flash of Genevieve and Peter on the bus with their heads close together, and the picture makes my heart squeeze. Our contract isn’t over yet. Why should I let her have him back even one second early? “Yes,” I say. “We’re together.” Then I stand up. “You know what? I think I will go check out the slopes.”