IT’S MY FIRST OFFICIAL FRIDAY night cocktail hour at Belleview and the night isn’t going… as well as I’d hoped. We’re already half an hour in and it’s just Stormy, Mr. Morales, Alicia, and Nelson, who has Alzheimer’s and whose nurse brought him in for a change of scenery. He is, however, wearing a dapper navy sport coat with copper buttons. Not that many people came when Margot was in charge, either—Mrs. Maguire was a regular, but she was moved to a different nursing home last month, and Mrs. Montero died over the holidays. But I made such a fuss to Janette about how I would breathe new life into cocktail hour, and now look at me. I feel a little olive pit of dread in the bottom of my stomach, because if Janette catches wind of how low the attendance is, she might cancel Friday night social after all, and I had the funnest idea for the next one—a USO party. If tonight’s a flop, there’s no way she’ll let me run it. Also, throwing a party and having four people show up, one of whom is dozing off, feels like a huge failure. Stormy either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind; she just keeps singing and playing the piano. The show must go on, as they say.
I’m trying to keep busy, keep a smile on my face: Tra-la-la, everything is loverly. I’ve lined up the glassware in neat rows so it looks like a real bar and brought a bunch of things from home—our one good tablecloth (no gravy stains, freshly ironed), a little bud vase I put next to the plate of peanut butter cookies (at first I hesitated at peanut butter, what with allergies and all, but then I remembered that old people don’t have as many food allergies), Mommy and Daddy’s silver ice bucket with their monogram, a matching silver bowl with cut-up lemons and limes.
I’ve already gone around knocking on doors of some of the more active residents, but most weren’t home. I guess if you’re active, you’re not staying in your apartment on a Friday night.
I’m pouring salted peanuts into a heart-shaped crystal bowl (a contribution from Alicia, who brought it out of storage, along with her ice tongs) when John Ambrose McClaren walks into the room in a light blue Oxford shirt and navy sport coat, not dissimilar to Nelson’s! I nearly scream out loud. Clapping my hands to my mouth, I drop to the floor, behind the table. If he sees me, he might run off. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but this is my perfect chance to take him out. I crouch behind the table, running through options in my head.
And then the piano music stops and I hear Stormy call out, “Lara Jean? Lara Jean, where are you? Come out from behind the table. I want to introduce you to someone.”
Slowly, I rise to my feet. John McClaren is staring at me. “What are you doing here?” he asks me, tugging on his shirt collar like it’s choking him.
“I volunteer here,” I say, still keeping a safe distance. Don’t want to spook him.
Stormy claps her hands. “You two know each other?”
John says, “We’re friends, Grandma. We used to live in the same neighborhood.”
“Stormy’s your grandma?” My mind is blown. So John is her grandson she wanted to set me up with! Of all the nursing homes in all the towns in all the world! My grandson looks like a young Robert Redford. He does; he really does.
“She’s my great-grandmother by marriage,” John says.
Stormy’s eyes dart around the room. “Hush up! I don’t want people knowing you’re my great-anything.”
John lowers his voice. “She was my great-grandpa’s second wife.”
“My favorite of all my husbands,” Stormy says. “May he rest in peace, that old buzzard.” She looks from John to me. “Johnny, be a dear and bring me a vodka soda with lots of lemons.” She sits back at the piano bench and starts to play “When I Fall in Love.”
John starts toward me and I point at him. “Stop right there, John Ambrose McClaren. Do you have my name?”
“No! I swear I don’t. I have—I’m not saying who I have.” He pauses. “Wait a minute. Do you have mine?”
I shake my head, innocent as a little lost lamb. He still looks suspicious, so I busy myself with making Stormy’s drink. I know just how she likes it. I drop in three ice cubes, an eight-second pour of vodka, and a splash of soda water. Then I squeeze three lemon slices and drop them in the glass. “Here,” I say, holding out the glass.
“You can put it on the table,” he says.
“John! I’m telling you, I don’t have your name!”
He shakes his head. “Table.”
I set the glass back down. “I can’t believe you don’t believe me. I feel like I remember you being a trusting kind of person who sees the good in people.”
Sober as a judge, John says, “Just… stay on your side of the table.”
Shoot. How am I supposed to take him out if he makes me stay ten feet away all night?
Airily I say, “Fine by me. I don’t know if I believe you, either, so! I mean, this is a pretty big coincidence, you showing up here.”
“Stormy guilted me into coming!”
I snap my head in Stormy’s direction. She’s still playing the piano, looking over at us with a big smile.
Mr. Morales sidles up to the bar and says, “May I have this dance, Lara Jean?”
“You may,” I say. To John I warn, “Don’t you dare come close to me.”
He throws his hands out like he’s warding me off. “Don’t you come close to me!”
As Mr. Morales leads me in a slow dance, I press my face against his shoulder to hide my smile. I’m really quite good at this espionage thing. John McClaren is sitting on a love seat now, watching Stormy play and chatting with Alicia. I’ve got him right where I want him. I can’t even believe how lucky I am. I’d been planning on showing up at his next Model UN meeting, but this is so much better.
I’m thinking I’ll come up from behind him, take him by surprise, when Stormy stands up and declares she needs a piano break, she wants to dance with her grandson. I go turn on the stereo and cue up the CD we decided on for her break.
John is protesting: “Stormy, I told you I don’t dance.” He used to try and fake sick during the square-dancing unit in gym—that’s how much he hates dancing.
Stormy doesn’t listen, of course. She pulls him off the love seat and starts trying to teach him how to fox-trot. “Put your hand on my waist,” she orders. “I didn’t wear heels to sit behind a piano all night.” Stormy’s trying to teach him the steps, and he keeps stepping on her feet. “Ouch!” she snaps.
I can’t stop giggling. Mr. Morales is too. He dances us over closer. “May I cut in?” he asks.
“Please!” John practically pushes Stormy into Mr. Morales’s arms.
“Johnny, be a gentleman and ask Lara Jean to dance,” Stormy says as Mr. Morales twirls her.
John gives me a searching look, and I have a feeling he’s still suspicious of me and whether or not I have his name.
“Ask her to dance,” Mr. Morales urges, grinning at me. “She wants to dance, don’t you, Lara Jean?”
I shrug a sad kind of shrug. Wistful. The very picture of a girl who is waiting to be asked to dance.
“I want to see the young people dance!” Norman yells.
John McClaren looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “If we’re just swaying back and forth, I probably won’t step on your feet.”
I feign hesitation and then nod. My pulse is racing. Target acquired.
We step toward each other, and I thread my arms around his neck, and he puts his around my waist, and we sway, off beat. I’m short, not even five-two, and he looks just under six feet tall, but in my heels we’re a good height for dance partners. From across the room Stormy smiles knowingly at me, which I pretend not to see. I should probably go ahead and take him out before he’s onto me, but the residents are so enjoying watching us dance. It couldn’t hurt to hold off just a few minutes.
As we sway, I’m remembering the eighth grade formal, how everyone paired up and no one asked me to go. I’d thought Genevieve and I were riding over together, but then she said Peter’s mom was taking them, and they were going to a restaurant first, like a real date, and it would be awkward if I tagged along. So it ended up being her and Peter and Sabrina Fox and John. I’d hoped John McClaren would ask me for a slow dance, but he didn’t; he didn’t dance with anyone. The only guy who really danced was Peter. He was always in the center of the cool-people dance circle.
John’s hand is pressed against my back, leading me, and I think he’s forgotten all about the game. I’ve got him in my crosshairs now.
“You’re not so bad,” I tell him. Song’s halfway over. I’d better hop to the beat. I’ve got you in five, four, three, two—
“So… you and Kavinsky, huh?”
He’s distracted me completely, and I’ve forgotten all about the game for a moment. “Yeah…”
Clearing his throat, he says, “I was pretty surprised that you guys were together.”
“Why? Because I’m not his type?” I say it casually, like it’s nothing, a fact, but it stings like a little pebble thrown directly at my heart.
“No, you are.”
“Then why?” I’m pretty sure John’s going to say “because I didn’t think he was your type,” just like Josh did.
He doesn’t answer right away. “That day you came to Model UN, I tried to follow you out to the parking lot, but you were already gone. Then I got your letter, and I wrote you back, and you wrote me back, and then you invited me to the tree-house thing. I guess I didn’t know what to think. You know what I mean?” He looks at me expectantly, and I feel like it’s important that I say yes.
All the blood rushes to my face, and I hear a pounding in my ears, which I belatedly realize is the sound of my heart beating really fast. My body is still dancing, though.
He keeps talking. “Maybe it was dumb to think that, because all that stuff was such a long time ago.”
All what stuff? I want to know, but it wouldn’t be right to ask. “Do you know what I remember?” I ask suddenly.
“What?”
“The time Trevor’s shorts split open when you guys were playing basketball. And everybody was laughing so hard that Trevor started getting mad. But not you. You got on your bike and you rode all the way home and brought Trevor a pair of shorts. I was really impressed by that.”
He has a faint half smile on his face. “Thanks.”
Then we’re both quiet and still dancing. He’s an easy person to be quiet with. “John?”
“Hmm?”
I look up at him. “I have to tell you something.”
“What?”
“I’ve got you. I mean, I have your name. In the game.”
“Seriously?” John looks genuinely disappointed, which makes me feel guilty.
“Seriously. Sorry.” I press my hands against his shoulders. “Tag.”
“Well, now you have Kavinsky. I was really looking forward to taking him out, too. I had a whole plan and everything.”
All eagerness I ask, “What was your plan?”
“Why should I tell the girl who just tagged me out?” he challenges, but it’s a weak challenge, just for show, and we both know he’s going to tell me.
I play along. “Come on, Johnny. I’m not just the girl who tagged you out. I’m your pen pal.”
John laughs a little. “All right, all right. I’ll help you.”
The song ends and we step apart. “Thanks for the dance,” I say. After all this time, I finally know what it’s like to dance with John Ambrose McClaren. “So what would you have asked for if you won?”
He doesn’t hesitate even one beat. “Your peanut butter chocolate cake with my name written in Reese’s Pieces.”
I stare at him in surprise. That’s what he would have wished for? He could have anything and he wants my cake? I give him a curtsy. “I’m so honored.”
“Well, it was a really good cake,” he says.
