In French class, I hear Emily Nussbaum whisper to Genevieve, “If it turns out she’s preggo, do you
think Kavinsky will pay for the abortion?”
Genevieve whispers back, “No way. He’s too cheap. Maybe half.” And everyone laughs.
My face burns in mortification. I want to scream at them, We didn’t have sex! We are brisket! But
that would only give them more satisfaction, to know they’re getting a rise out of me. That’s what
Margot would say anyway. So I hold my chin up even higher, as high as I can, so high my neck hurts.
Maybe Gen did do it. Maybe she really does hate me that much.
Ms. Davenport grabs me on my way to my next class. She puts her arm around me and says, “Lara
Jean, how are you holding up?”
I know she doesn’t care about me, not really. She just wants gossip. She’s the biggest gossip of all
the teachers, maybe even the students. Well, I’m not going to be faculty-lounge fodder. “I’m great,” I
say sunnily. Chin up, chin up.
“I saw the video,” she whispers, eyes darting around to see if anyone’s listening. “Of you and
Peter in the hot tub.”
My jaw is clenched so tight my teeth hurt.
“You must be really upset about the comments, and I don’t blame you.” Ms. Davenport really
needs to get a life if all she’s doing over her winter break is looking at high school kids’ Instagrams!
“Kids can be very cruel. Trust me, I know this from personal experience. I’m not that much older than
you guys.”
“I’m really fine, but thanks for checking in.” Nothing to see here, folks. Keep it moving.
Ms. Davenport’s lower lip pushes out. “Well, if you need to talk to someone, you know I’m here
for you. Let me be a resource. Come hang out with me anytime; I’ll write you a note.”
“Thank you, Ms. Davenport.” I slither out of from under her arm.
Mrs. Duvall, the guidance/college counselor stops me on my way to English. “Lara Jean,” she
begins, then falters. “You’re such a bright, talented girl. You’re not the type of girl to get caught up in
these sorts of things. I’d hate to see you go down a wrong path.”
I can feel tears coming up the back of my throat, pushing their way to the surface. I respect Mrs.
Duvall. I want her to think well of me. All I can do is nod.
She tips my chin up tenderly. Her perfume smells like dried rose petals. She’s an older woman;
she’s worked at the school forever. Mrs. Duvall really cares about the students. She is the one kids
come back and say hi to when they’re home from college for winter break. “Now is the time to buckle
down and get serious about your future, not high school drama. Don’t give colleges a reason to turn
you down, okay?”
Again I nod.
“Good girl,” she says. “I know you’re better than that.”
The words echo in my ears: Better than that. Better than what? Than who?
During lunch, I escape to the girls’ bathroom so I don’t have to speak to anybody. And of course there
Genevieve is, standing in front of the mirror, dabbing on lip balm. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror.
“Hi there.” It’s the way she says it—hi there. So smug, so sure of herself.