Quickly he says, “Not that I would even want to. And I definitely wouldn’t want to go to one with my girlfriend’s dad.” He shudders. “That’s sick.”
“So then what’s the plan? Grill some steaks?”
“No. We’ll go to a nice steakhouse. We’ll get dressed up; it’ll be a real guys’ night. Maybe we’ll even wear suits.”
I suppress a smile. Peter will never admit it, but he loves to get dressed up. So vain. “Sounds good.”
“Will you ask him about it?” he asks.
“I think you should ask him.”
“If he says yes, who should I invite?”
“Josh?” I suggest it half-heartedly, knowing he won’t agree.
“No way. Doesn’t he have any work friends?”
“He doesn’t have that many close friends at work,” I say. “Just Dr. Kang. . . . You could invite my uncle Victor. And sometimes he goes on bike rides with Mr. Shah from down the street.”
“Can you get me their e-mails ASAP?” Peter asks me. “I want to get the invites out as soon as I get the okay from your dad. When’s the bachelorette? The weekend after next?”
My heart surges. I’m so touched by how eager Peter is to impress my dad. “It’s the third Friday of the month. We’re waiting for Margot to come home.”
*
Kitty was suspiciously serene about not being invited to Trina’s bachelorette night, and I thought to myself, Wow, Kitty’s really growing up. She gets that it’s not about her; she understands that the night is about Trina.
But of course Kitty always has a long game.
For the first time in a while, she’s riding to school with us. She wanted Peter to take her in his Audi, but I put my foot down and said I needed to get to school too. So we’re all in his mom’s minivan like old times.
However, Kitty is up front and I am in the backseat.
From the passenger seat Kitty sighs heavily and rests her head against the window.
“What’s up with you?” Peter asks.
“The bridesmaids won’t let me go on the bachelorette night,” she says. “I’m the only one left out.”
I narrow my eyes at the back of her head.
“That’s bullshit!” Peter looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Why won’t you guys let her go?”
“We’re going to a karaoke bar! We can’t bring Kitty in because she’s too young. Honestly, I think I was barely allowed to go.”
“Why can’t you guys just go to a restaurant like we’re doing?”
“Because that’s not a real bachelorette.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you guys are going to a strip club or something—wait, did you change your mind? Are you going to a strip club?”
“No!”
“Then what’s the big deal? Just go somewhere else.”
“Peter, it’s not my decision. You’ll have to take it up with Kristen.” I smack the back of Kitty’s arm. “Same goes for you, you little fiend! Quit trying to weasel your way in by manipulating Peter. He has no power here.”
“Sorry, kid,” Peter says.
Kitty slumps in her seat and then straightens. “What if I came to the bachelor night instead?” she suggests. “Since you’re just going to a restaurant?”
Peter stutters, “Uh—uh, I don’t know, I’d have to talk to the guys. . . .”
“So you’ll ask? Because I like steak too. I like it so much. I’ll order steak with a baked potato on the side, and for dessert I’ll have a strawberry sundae with whipped cream.” Kitty beams a smile at Peter, who smiles back weakly.
When we get to the elementary school and she hops out, perky and puffed up like a chickadee, I lean forward in my seat and say into Peter’s ear, “You just got played.”
28
WITH ONLY THREE DAYS LEFT of school, yearbooks arrive. There are several blank pages in the back for signatures, but everybody knows the place of honor is the back cover. Of course I’ve saved mine for Peter. I never want to forget how special this year was.
My yearbook quote is “I have spread my dreams under your feet; / Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.” I had a very hard time choosing between that and “Without you, today’s emotions would be the scurf of yesterday’s.” Peter was like, “I know that’s from Amélie, but what the hell is a scurf?” and honestly, he had a point. Peter let me write his. “Surprise me,” he said.
As we walk through the cafeteria doors, someone holds the door for us, and Peter says, “Cheers.” Peter’s taken to saying cheers instead of thanks, which I know he learned from Ravi. It makes me smile every time.
For the past month or so, the cafeteria’s been half-empty at lunch. Most of the seniors have been eating off-campus, but Peter likes the lunches his mom packs and I like our cafeteria’s french fries. But because the student council’s passing out our yearbooks today, it’s a full house. I pick up my copy and run back to the lunch table with it. I flip to his page first. There is Peter, smiling in a tuxedo. And there is his quote: “You’re welcome.” —Peter Kavinsky.
Peter’s brow furrows when he sees it. “What does that even mean?”
“It means, here I am, so handsome and lovely to look at.” I spread my arms out benevolently, like I am the pope. “You’re welcome.”
Darrell busts out laughing, and so does Gabe, who spreads his arms out too. “You’re welcome,” they keep saying to each other.
Peter shakes his head at all of us. “You guys are nuts.”
Leaning forward, I kiss him on the lips. “And you love it!” I drop my yearbook in front of him. “Write something memorable,” I say, leaning over his shoulder. “Something romantic.”
“Your hair is tickling my neck,” he complains. “I can’t concentrate.”
I straighten up and rock back on my heels, arms crossed. “I’m waiting.”
“How am I supposed to think of something good with you looking over my shoulder?” he says. “Let me do it later.”
I shake my head firmly. “No, because then you never will.”
I keep bugging him about it, until finally he says, “I just don’t know what to write,” which makes me frown.
“Write down a memory, or a hope, or—or anything.” I’m disappointed and trying not to show it, but would it be so hard for him to think of something on his own?
“Let me take it home tonight so I can take my time with it,” he says hastily.
I spend the rest of the day filling up my yearbook, and people write generic things like Good luck at UNC, and You made freshman year gym fun, and Add me on Instagram, but also more meaningful things, like I wish you had started coming out more sooner, so I’d know you better. Ben Simonoff writes, It’s always the quiet ones that are the most interesting. Stay interesting. I hand the yearbook over to Peter at the end of the day. “Keep it safe,” I tell him.
*
The next morning, he forgets to bring it to school with him, which is annoying, because I want to get the whole senior class’s signatures, and I still have a few more to go. Tomorrow is the last day of school.
“Did you at least finish it?” I ask him.
“Yeah! I just forgot it,” he says, wincing. “I’ll bring it tomorrow, I swear.”