“Come on, Lara Jean!”

I blink. Kitty. I’d forgotten she was still in the room. I scramble to my feet. “Cue up the music. Peter just challenged us to a dance-off.”

Kitty squeals and runs to turn on the speakers. I push back the coffee table. We take our places in front of the fireplace, backs turned, heads down, hands clasped behind our backs.

When the bass kicks in, we jump and turn around. Hip thrust, swivel, then move into our knee slides. Then the running man, then this move Margot made up called the treadmill. The music stops, and Kitty and I freeze in our crunking positions—and then it starts up again, and we’re doing the butterfly, then back into the knee slides. I forget what the next move is so I sneak a peek at Kitty, who’s shimmying and clapping her hands. Oh yeah.

Our big finish is splits, with our arms crossed for emphasis.

Peter’s bowled over, laughing his head off. He claps and claps and stomps his feet.

When it’s over, I try to catch my breath and manage to say, “Okay, you’re up, Kavinsky.”

“I can’t,” Peter gasps. “How do I follow a performance like that? Kitty, will you teach me that pop-and-lock move?”

Kitty gets shy all of a sudden. She sits on her hands and looks at him through her lashes and shakes her head.

“Please, please?” he asks.

Kitty finally caves in—I think she just wanted to make him work for it. I watch them dance all afternoon, my little sister the ninja and my pretend boyfriend Spider-Man. First I laugh, but then a worrying thought comes out of nowhere—I can’t let Kitty get too attached to Peter. This is temporary. The way Kitty looks at him, so adoringly, like he’s her hero. . . .

When Peter has to leave, I walk him out to his car. Before he gets in, I say, “I don’t think you should come over anymore. It’s confusing to Kitty.”

Frowning, he says, “How is it confusing to Kitty?”

“Because . . . because when our . . . our thing is over, she’s going to miss you.”

“I’ll still see the kid around.” Peter pokes me in the stomach. “I want joint custody.”

All I can think of is how patient he was with her, how sweet. Impulsively I get up on my tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek, and he jerks back in surprise.

“What was that for?”

My cheeks feel scalded. I say, “For being so nice to Kitty.” Then I wave good-bye and I run into the house.

45

IF I DON’T BUY GROCERIES today, it’s scrambled eggs for dinner tonight. Again.

Margot’s car is fixed and sitting in the driveway, where it’s been sitting for the past few weeks. I could go to the store if I wanted to. I do want to. But I don’t want to drive. If I was a nervous driver before, the accident has only made me worse. What business do I have behind the wheel of a car? What if I hurt someone? What if I hurt Kitty? They shouldn’t just give out driver’s licenses so easily. I mean, a car is a really dangerous thing. It’s practically a weapon.

But the store is less than ten minutes away. It’s not like I’d be getting on the highway. And I really really don’t want to eat scrambled eggs for dinner tonight. Besides . . . if Peter and Genevieve are getting back together, he won’t be giving me rides anymore. I’ve got to learn how to do for myself. I can’t depend on other people to help me.

“We’re going to the store, Kitty,” I say.

She’s lying down in front of the TV, propped up on her elbows. Her body looks so long; it’s getting longer every day. Pretty soon she’ll be taller than me. Kitty doesn’t look away from the TV. “I don’t want to come. I want to watch my shows.”

“If you come, I’ll let you pick out an ice cream.”

Kitty gets to her feet.

On the drive there, I’m going so slow that Kitty keeps telling me the speed limit. “They give tickets for going under the limit too, you know.”

“Who told you that?”

“No one. I just know it. I bet I’m going to be a better driver than you, Lara Jean.”

I grip the steering wheel tighter. “I bet you are.” Brat. I bet when Kitty starts driving, she’s going to be a speed demon without the slightest concern for those around her. But she’ll still probably be better at it than me. A reckless driver is better than a scared one; ask anybody.

“I’m not scared of things like you are.”

I adjust my rearview mirror. “You sure are proud of yourself.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Is there a car coming? Can I switch lanes?”

Kitty turns her head. “You can go, but hurry.”

“Like how much time do I have?”

“It’s already too late. Wait . . . now you can go. Go!”

I jerk into the left lane and look in my rearview. “Good job, Kitty. You just keep being my second pair of eyes.”

As we push the cart around the store, I’m thinking about the drive home and having to get behind the wheel again. My heart still races even as I’m trying to decide if we should have zucchini or green beans with dinner. By the time we’re in the dairy aisle, Kitty’s whining. “Can you hurry? I don’t want to miss my next show!”

To appease her, I say, “Go pick out an ice cream,” and Kitty heads off toward the frozen-food aisle.

* * *

The way home, I stay in the right lane for blocks and blocks so I don’t have to switch lanes. The car in front of me is an old lady, and she’s moving at a snail’s pace, which suits me just fine. Kitty begs me to switch lanes, but I just ignore her and keep doing what I’m doing, nice and easy. My hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles are white.