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
singke
(singke)
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