AFTER SCHOOL KITTY AND I set up camp in the kitchen, where there’s the best light. I bring down my speakers and play the Andrews Sisters to get us in the right spirit. Kitty puts down a towel and lays out all my makeup, bobby pins, hair spray.
I hold up a packet of individual false eyelashes. “Where’d you get these from?”
“Brielle stole them from her sister and she gave me a pack.”
“Kitty!”
“She won’t notice. She has tons!”
“You can’t just take people’s stuff.”
“I didn’t take it—Brielle did. Anyway, I can’t give it back now. Do you want me to put them on you or not?”
I hesitate. “Do you even know how?”
“Yeah, I’ve watched her sister put them on plenty of times.” Kitty takes the eyelashes out of my hand. “If you don’t want me to use them on you, fine. I’ll save them for myself.”
“Well… all right then. But no more stealing.” I frown. “Hey, do you guys ever take my stuff?” Come to think of it, I haven’t seen my cat-ears knit beanie in months.
“Shh, no more talking,” she says.
The hair is what takes the longest. Kitty and I have watched countless hair tutorials to figure out the logistics of the victory rolls. There’s a lot of teasing and hair spray and hair rollers involved. And bobby pins. Lots of bobby pins.
I stare at myself in the mirror. “Don’t you think my hair looks a little… severe?”
“What do you mean, ‘severe’?”
“It kind of looks like I have a cinnamon bun on top of my head.”
Kitty thrusts the iPad in my face. “Yeah, so does this girl’s. That’s the look. It’s got to be authentic. If we water down the look, it won’t be true to the theme, and nobody will know what you’re supposed to be.” I’m nodding slowly; she has a point. “Besides, I’m going over to Ms. Rothschild’s for a Jamie training session. I don’t have time to start all over again.”
For my lipstick, we achieve the perfect shade of cherry red by blending two different reds—one brick and one fire engine—with a hot pink powder to set it. I look like I kissed a cherry pie.
I’m blotting my lips when Kitty asks, “Is that pretty boy John Amber McAndrews picking you up, or are you meeting him at the nursing home?”
I wave my tissue in her face warningly. “He’s picking me up, and you’d better be nice. Also he’s not a pretty boy.”
“He’s a pretty boy compared to Peter,” Kitty says.
“Let’s be honest. They’re both pretty. It’s not like Peter has a tattoo or huge muscles. In fact he’s very vain.” We never passed a window or a glass door Peter didn’t check himself out in.
“Well, is John vain?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Hmph.”
“Kitty, stop making this a competition of John versus Peter. It doesn’t matter who’s prettier.”
Kitty keeps going like she didn’t hear me. “Peter has a much nicer car. What does Johnny boy drive, a boring SUV? Who cares about an SUV? All they do is guzzle gas.”
“To be fair, I think it’s a hybrid.”
“You sure like to defend him.”
“He’s my friend!”
“Well, Peter’s mine,” she says.
Getting dressed is an intricate process, and I enjoy each step. It’s all about anticipation, hope for the night. Slowly I put on the seamed stockings so I don’t get a run in them. It takes me forever to get the seams straight down the backs of my legs. Then the dress—navy with white sprigs and little holly berries and floaty cap sleeves. Last the shoes. Clunky red heels with a bow at the toe and an ankle strap.
Put all together, it goes great, and I have to admit that Kitty was right about the victory roll on top of my head. Anything less wouldn’t be enough.
On my way out Daddy makes a big fuss over how great I look, and he takes about a million photos, which he promptly texts Margot. She immediately video-chats us so she can see for herself. “Make sure you get a picture of you and Stormy together,” Margot says. “I want to see what sexy getup she’s wearing.”
“It’s actually not that sexy,” I say. “She sewed it herself, off a 1940s dress pattern.”
“I’m sure she’ll find a way to bring the sexy,” Margot says. “What’s John McClaren wearing?”
“I have no idea. He says it’s a surprise.”
“Hmm,” she says. It’s a very suggestive hmm, which I ignore.
Daddy’s taking one last shot of me on the front porch when Ms. Rothschild comes over. “You look amazing, Lara Jean,” she says.
“She does, doesn’t she?” Daddy says fondly.
“God, I love the forties,” she says.
“Have you seen the Ken Burns documentary The War?” Daddy asks her. “If you have any interest in World War Two, it’s a must-see.”
“You should watch it together,” Kitty pipes up, and Ms. Rothschild shoots her a warning look.
“Do you have it on DVD?” she asks Daddy. Kitty is aglow with excitement.
“Sure, you can borrow it anytime,” Daddy says, oblivious as ever, and Kitty scowls, and then her mouth falls open.
I turn to see what she’s looking at, and it’s a red convertible Mustang driving down our street, top down—with John McClaren at the wheel.
My jaw drops at the sight of him. He is in full uniform: tan dress shirt with tan tie, tan slacks, tan belt and hat. His hair is parted to the side. He looks dashing, like a real soldier. He grins at me and waves. “Whoa,” I breathe.
“Whoa is right,” Ms. Rothschild says, googly-eyed beside me. Daddy and his Ken Burns DVD are forgotten; we are all staring at John in this uniform, in this car. It’s like I dreamed him up. He parks the car in front of the house, and all of us rush up to it.
“Whose car is this?” Kitty demands.
“It’s my dad’s,” John says. “I borrowed it. I had to promise to park really far away from any other car, though, so I hope your shoes are comfortable, Lara Jean—” He breaks off and looks me up and down. “Wow. You look amazing.” He gestures at my cinnamon bun. “I mean, your hair looks so… real.”
“It is real!” I touch it gingerly, I’m suddenly feeling self-conscious about my cinnamon-bun head and red lipstick.
“I know—I mean, it looks authentic.”
“So do you,” I say.
“Can I sit in it?” Kitty butts in, her hand on the passenger-side door.
“Sure,” John says. He climbs out of the car. “But don’t you want to get in the driver’s seat?”
Kitty nods quickly. Ms. Rothschild gets in too, and Daddy takes a picture of them together. Kitty poses with one arm casually draped over the steering wheel.
John and I stand off to the side, and I ask him, “Where did you ever get that uniform?”
“I ordered it off of eBay.” He frowns. “Am I wearing the hat right? Do you think it’s too small for my head?”
“No way. I think it looks exactly the way it’s supposed to look.” I’m touched that he went to the trouble of ordering a uniform for this. I can’t think of many boys who would do that. “Stormy is going to flip out when she sees you.”
He studies my face. “What about you? Do you like it?”
I flush. “I do. I think you look… super.”
It turns out that Margot is, as ever, right. Stormy has shortened the hem on the dress; it’s well above the knee. “I’ve still got the gams,” she gloats, twirling. “My best feature, from all the horseback riding I did as a girl.” She’s showing a little cleavage, too.
A silver-haired man who rode over in the van from Ferncliff is making appreciative eyes at her, and Stormy is pretending not to notice, all the while batting her lashes and preening with one hand on her hip. He must be the handsome man Stormy mentioned to me.
I take a picture of her at the piano and send it directly to Margot, who texts back a smiling emoji and two thumbs up.
I’m setting up the American flag centerpiece, watching John lug a table closer to the center of the room at Stormy’s direction, when Alicia sidles up beside me, and then we’re both watching him. “You should date him.”
“Alicia, I told you, I just got out of a relationship,” I whisper back. I can’t take my eyes off him in that uniform with that side part.
“Well, get into a new one. Life is short.” For once, Alicia and Stormy are on the same page.
Stormy is now straightening John’s tie, his little hat. She even licks her finger and tries to smooth his hair, but he ducks away. Our eyes meet, and he makes a frantic face like, Help me.
“Save him,” Alicia says. “I’ll finish the table. My internment camp display is already done.” She’s set that up by the doors, so it’s the first thing you see when you walk in.
I hurry over to John and Stormy. Stormy beams at me. “Doesn’t she look like an absolute doll?” She swans off.
With a straight face John says, “Lara Jean, you’re an absolute doll.”
I giggle and touch the top of my head. “A cinnamon roll–headed doll.”
People are starting to mill in, even though it isn’t seven yet. I’ve observed that old people, as a rule, tend to show up early for things. I still have to set up the music. Stormy says that when hosting a party, music is absolutely the first order of business, because it sets the mood the second your guest walks in. I can feel my nerves starting to pulse. There’s still so much to do. “I’d better finish setting up.”
“Tell me what you need done,” John says. “I’m your second-in-command at this shindig. Did people say ‘shindig’ in the forties?”
I laugh. “Probably!” In a rush I say, “Okay, can you set up my speakers and iPod? They’re in the bag by the refreshments table. And can you pick up Mrs. Taylor in 5A? I promised her an escort.”
John gives me a salute and runs off. Tingles go up and down my spine like soda water. Tonight will be a night to remember!
We’re an hour and a half in, and Crystal Clemons, a lady from Stormy’s floor, is leading everyone in a swing-dancing lesson. Of course Stormy is up front, rock-stepping for all she’s worth. I’m following along from the refreshments table: one-two, three-four, five-six. Early on I danced with Mr. Morales, but only once, because the women were cutting their eyes at me for taking an eligible, able-bodied man off the circuit. Men are in short supply at old-age homes, so there aren’t enough male dance partners, not enough by half. I’ve heard a few of the women whispering how rude it is for a gentleman not to dance when there are ladies without partners—and looking pointedly at poor John.
John is standing at the other end of the table, drinking Coke and nodding his head to the beat. I’ve been so busy running around, we’ve hardly had a chance to talk. I lean over the table and call out, “Having fun?”
He nods. Then, quite suddenly, he bangs his glass down on the table, so hard the table shakes and I jump. “All right,” he says. “It’s do or die. D-day.”
“What?”
“Let’s dance,” John says.
Shyly I say, “We don’t have to if you don’t want to, John.”
“No, I want to. I didn’t take swing-dancing lessons from Stormy for nothing.”
I widen my eyes. “When did you take swing dance lessons from Stormy?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just dance with me.”
“Well… do you have any war bonds left?” I joke.
John fishes one out of his pants pocket and slaps it on the refreshments table. Then he grabs my hand and marches me to the center of the dance floor, like a soldier heading off to the battlefield. He’s all grim concentration. He signals to Mr. Morales, who is manning the music because he’s the only one who can figure out my phone. Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” comes blaring out of the speakers.
John gives me a determined nod. “Let’s do this.”
And then we’re dancing. Rock-step, side, together, side, repeat. Rock-step, one-two-three, one-two-three. We step on each other’s feet about a million times, but he’s swinging me around—twirl, twirl—and our faces are flushed and we’re both laughing. When the song is over, he pulls me in and then throws me back out one last time. Everyone is clapping. Mr. Morales screams, “To the young ones!”
John picks me up and lifts me into the air like we’re ice dancers, and the crowd erupts. I’m smiling so hard my face feels like it could break.
After, John helps me take down all the decorations and pack everything up. He goes out to the parking lot with the two big boxes, and I stay behind to say good-bye to everyone and make sure we have everything. I still feel sort of a high from the night. The party went so well, and Janette was so pleased. She came up and squeezed my shoulders and said, “I’m proud of you, Lara Jean.” And then the dance with John… Thirteen-year-old me would have died. Sixteen-year-old me is floating down the nursing-home hallway, and it’s like I’m in a dream.
I’m floating out the front entrance when I see Genevieve and Peter walking up, her arm linked in his, and it’s like we’re in a time machine and the past year never happened. We never happened.
They’re coming closer. Now they are about ten feet away, and I am frozen to this spot. Is there no way out of this? Out of this humiliation, and out of losing yet again? I got so caught up in the USO party and John that I forgot all about the game. What are my options here? If I turn and run back into the nursing home, she’ll just wait in the parking lot for me all night. Just like that, I am a rabbit under her paw again. Just like that, she wins.
And then it’s too late. They’ve spotted me. Peter drops Genevieve’s arm.
“What are you doing here?” he asks me. “And what’s with all the makeup?” He gestures at my eyes, my lips.
My cheeks burn. I ignore the comment about my makeup and just say, “I work here, remember? I know why you’re here, Genevieve. Peter, thanks a lot for helping her take me out. You’re a real stand-up guy.”
“Covey, I didn’t come here to help her tag you out. I didn’t even know you’d be here. I told you, I don’t give a shit about this game!” He turns to Genevieve. Accusingly he says, “You said you needed to pick something up from your grandma’s friend.”
“I do,” she says. “This is just an amazing coincidence. I guess I win, huh?”
She’s so smug, so sure of herself and her victory over me. “You haven’t tagged me yet.” Should I just make a run for it back inside? Stormy would let me spend the night if I needed to.
Just then, John’s red Mustang convertible comes roaring up through the parking lot. “Hey, guys,” he says, and Peter’s and Gen’s mouths drop. It’s only then that I think of how strange we must look together, John in his World War II uniform with his jaunty little hat, me with my victory roll and my red lipstick.
Peter eyes him. “What are you doing here?”
Blithely John says, “My great-grandmother lives here. Stormy. You may have heard of her. She’s a friend of Lara Jean’s.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t remember,” I say.
Peter frowns at me, and I know he doesn’t. It’s just like him not to. “What’s with the outfits?” he says, his voice gruff.
“USO party,” John says. “Very exclusive. VIPs only—sorry, guys.” Then he tips his hat at him, which I can tell makes Peter mad, which in turn makes me glad.
“What the hell is a USO party?” Peter asks me.
John stretches his arm out onto the passenger seat luxuriously. “It’s from World War Two.”
“I wasn’t asking you; I was asking her,” Peter snaps. He looks at me, his eyes hard. “Is this a date? Are you on a date with him? And who the hell’s car is this?”
Before I can answer, Genevieve makes a move toward me, which I dodge. I run behind the pillar. “Don’t be such a baby, Lara Jean,” she says. “Just accept that you lose and I win!”
I peek from behind the pillar, and John is giving me a look—a look that says, Get in. Quickly I nod. Then he throws open the passenger door, and I run for it, as fast as I can. I’ve barely got the door closed before he’s driving off, Peter and Gen in our dust.
I turn back to look. Peter is staring after us, his mouth open. He’s jealous, and I’m glad. “Thanks for the save,” I say, still trying to catch my breath. My heart is pounding in my chest so hard.
John is looking straight ahead, a broad smile on his face. “Anytime.”
We stop at a stoplight, and he turns his head and looks at me, and then we’re looking at each other, laughing like crazy, and I’m breathless again.
“Did you see the looks on their faces?” John gasps, dropping his head on the steering wheel.
“It was classic!”
“Like a movie!” He grins at me, jubilant, blue eyes alight.
“Just like a movie,” I agree, leaning my head back against the seat and opening my eyes wide up at the moon, so wide it hurts. I’m in a red Mustang convertible sitting next to a boy in uniform, and the night air feels like cool satin on my skin, and all the stars are out, and I’m happy. The way John is still grinning to himself, I know he is too. We got to play make-believe for the night. Forget Peter and Genevieve. The light turns green, and I throw my arms in the air. “Go fast, Johnny!” I shout, and he guns it and I let out a shriek.
We zoom around for a bit, and at the next stoplight he slows and puts his arm around me, pulling me closer to his side. “Isn’t this how they did it in the fifties?” he asks, one hand on the steering wheel and the other around my shoulders.
My heart rate picks back up again. “Well, technically we’re dressed for the forties—” and then he kisses me. His lips are warm and firm against mine, and my eyes flutter shut.
When he pulls away just a fraction, he looks down at me and says, half serious, half not, “Better than the first time?”
I’m dazed. He’s got some of my lipstick on his face now. I reach up and wipe his mouth. The light turns green; we don’t move; he’s still looking at me. Someone honks a horn behind us. “The light’s green.”
He doesn’t make a move; he’s still looking at me. “Answer first.”
“Better.” John pushes his foot on the gas, and we’re moving again. I’m still breathless. Into the wind I shout, “One day I want to see you make a Model UN speech!”
John laughs. “What? Why?”
“I think it would be something to see. I bet you’d be… grand. You know, out of all of us, I think you’ve changed the most.”
“How?”
“You used to be sort of quiet. In your own head. Now you’re so confident.”
“I still get nervous, Lara Jean.” John has a cowlick, a little piece of hair that won’t stay down; it is stubborn. It’s this piece more than anything else that makes my heart squeeze.
