*
Beach Week is a tradition where we’re from. It’s exactly what it sounds like. The day after graduation, the senior class packs up and goes to Nags Head for a week. Never in a million years did I think I would be going. For one thing, you have to gather up enough friends to rent a house together—like ten friends! Before Peter I didn’t have ten friends I could rent a beach house with. Somebody’s parent has to rent the house in their name, because no one wants to rent out a house to a bunch of high school kids. Margot didn’t go her year. She and Josh went camping with some friends. She said Beach Week wasn’t really her thing. A year ago, it wouldn’t have been my thing either. But now I have Peter, and Pammy, and Chris and Lucas.
When the topic of Beach Week first came up months ago, Peter asked me if I thought my dad would let me stay at his house. I said no way. Instead I’m staying with a bunch of girls. Pammy’s older sister Julia rented the house, and Pammy assured me it had air-conditioning and everything. She said the boys’ house was on the beach and we were two rows back, but it was better this way because then we could junk up their house with sand and ours would stay pristine.
My dad said yes at the time, but I’m fairly certain he’s forgotten about it, because when I bring up Beach Week tonight at dinner, he looks confused. “Wait, what’s Beach Week again?”
“It’s when everybody goes to the beach after graduation and parties all week,” Kitty explains, stuffing her slice of pizza in her mouth.
I shoot her a look.
“My Beach Week was insane,” Trina says, and a fond smile crosses her face.
I shoot Trina one too.
Daddy’s forehead creases. “Insane?”
“Well it wasn’t that insane,” Trina amends. “It was just a fun girls trip. One last fling with all the girls before college.”
“Where’s Peter staying?” Daddy asks me, and now his forehead looks as wrinkled as a walnut.
“In a boy house. I told you all about it ages ago and you said yes, so you can’t go back on it now. It’s the day after graduation!”
“And there won’t be any adult supervision? Just kids?”
Trina puts her hand on Daddy’s arm. “Dan, Lara Jean isn’t a kid anymore. In a few months she’ll be living on her own. This is just practice.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He sighs heavily and stands up. “Kitty, help me clear the table, will you?”
As soon as they’re gone, Trina turns to me, and in a low voice she says, “Lara Jean, I know you’re not a drinker, but here’s a pro tip that you can take with you to Beach Week and college and beyond. Always, always have a buddy system in place. It’ll go like this: One night, you get to drink. The next night, your girlfriend gets to drink. That way one person is always sober enough to hold the other person’s hair back and make sure nothing bad happens.”
Smiling, I say, “Peter will be there. He’ll hold my hair back if need be. Or I can just wear it in a ponytail.”
“True. I’m just saying, for the future.” For when he isn’t there. My smile dims, and she quickly goes on to say, “At my Beach Week, we took turns cooking dinner for the house. When it was my turn, I made chicken parmesan and all the smoke detectors went off and we couldn’t figure out how to make the beeping stop all night!” She laughs. Trina has such an easy laugh.
“I doubt my Beach Week will get that crazy,” I say.
“Well, let’s hope it gets a little crazy,” she says.
29
THIS IS THE LAST TIME we’ll walk up this staircase together, Peter taking the stairs two at a time, me nipping at his heels, huffing and puffing to keep up. It’s the last day of school for seniors, the last day of my high school career.
When we reach the top of the staircase, I say, “I feel like taking the stairs two at a time is just bragging. Have you ever noticed that only boys ever take stairs two at a time?”
“Girls probably would if they were as tall.”
“Margot’s friend Chelsea is five eleven, and I don’t think she does it.”
“So what are you saying—boys brag more?”
“Probably. Don’t you think?”
“Probably,” he admits.
The bell rings, and people start heading for class.
“Should we just skip first period? Go get pancakes?” He raises his eyebrows at me enticingly, pulling me toward him by the dangling straps of my book bag. “Come on, you know you want to.”
“No way. It’s the last day of school. I want to say good-bye to Mr. Lopez.”
Peter groans. “Goody-goody.”
“You knew who I was when you started dating me,” I tell him.
“True,” he says.
Before we go our separate ways, I hold out my hands and wait expectantly. Peter gives me a curious look. “My yearbook!”
“Oh shit! I forgot it again.”
“Peter! It’s the last day of school! I only got half the signatures I wanted!”
“I’m sorry,” he says, rubbing his hand through his hair and making it go all messy. “Do you want me to go back home and get it? I can go right now.” He looks genuinely sorry, but I’m still annoyed.
When I don’t say anything right away, Peter starts to head back toward the stairs, but I stop him. “No, don’t. It’s fine. I’ll just pass it around at graduation.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say. We’re not even here the full school day; I don’t want him to have to run back home just for my yearbook.
Classes are pretty lax; we mostly just walk around saying good-bye to teachers, the office staff, the cafeteria ladies, the school nurse. A lot of them we’ll see at graduation, but not everyone. I pass around cookies that I baked last night. We get our final grades—all good, so no worries there.
It takes me forever to clean out my locker. I find random notes I saved from Peter, which I promptly put in my bag so I can add them to his scrapbook. An old granola bar. Dusty black hair ties, which is ironic because you can never seem to find a hair tie when you need one.
“I’m sad to throw any of this stuff away, even this old granola bar,” I say to Lucas, who is sitting on the floor keeping me company. “I’ve seen it there at the bottom of my locker every day. It’s like an old pal. Should we split it, to commemorate this day?”
“Sick,” Lucas says. “It’s probably got mold.” Matter-of-factly he says, “After graduation I probably won’t see any of these people again.”
I throw him a hurt look. “Hey! What about me?”
“Not you. You’re coming to visit me in New York.”
“Ooh! Yes, please.”
“Sarah Lawrence is so close to the city. I’ll be able to go to Broadway shows whenever I want. There’s an app for same-day student tickets.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes.
“You’re so lucky,” I say.
“I’ll take you. We’ll go to a gay bar, too. It’ll be amazing.”
“Thank you!”