18

WHEN KITTY WAS BORN, I said she looked like a kitten and not a Katherine, so that’s the name that
stuck. After we came home from visiting her and Mommy at the hospital, Margot and I made a HAPPY
BIRTHDAY, KITTEN banner to make the time go faster. We got out all the paints and craft supplies, and
Grandma got annoyed because there was a big mess to clean in the kitchen, colors dripping all over
the floor, handprints everywhere. We have a picture of Mommy standing underneath the sign holding
Kitty that very first day, eyes tired but bright. Happy.
It’s our tradition to put the sign on Kitty’s door so it’s the first thing she sees when she wakes up. I
get up really early and hang the sign with care, so the edges don’t bend or rip. For breakfast I make
her a muenster-cheese omelet. With a ketchup bottle I squeeze out a cat face with a heart around it.
We have a “celebrations drawer,” which is birthday candles, paper hats, tablecloths, emergency
birthday cards. I take out the paper hats and put one on my head, jauntily to the side. I set one each by
Kitty and Daddy’s plate, and I put one on Jamie Fox-Pickle too. He is not into it, but I’m able to get a
picture before he knocks the hat off.
Daddy’s prepared Kitty’s favorite lunch to take to school. A Brie sandwich and chips, plus a red
velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting.
Kitty delights in the place settings and in her cat face omelet. She claps and laughs like a hyena
when the rubber band on Daddy’s hat snaps, and the hat springs off his head. Truly, there’s no happier
birthday girl than our Kitty.
“Can I wear your sweater with the daisies on it?” she asks me, her mouth full of omelet.
I glance at the clock. “I’ll go get it, but you have to eat fast.” He’ll be here any minute.
When it’s time to leave, we put on our shoes, kiss Daddy good-bye, and tumble out the front door.
Waiting for us on the street in front of his car is Peter with a bouquet of cellophane-wrapped pink
carnations. “Happy birthday, kid,” he says.
Kitty’s eyes bulge. “Are those for me?”
He laughs. “Who else would they be for? Hurry and get in the car.”
Kitty turns to me, her eyes bright, her smile as wide as her face. I’m smiling too. “Are you coming
too, Lara Jean?”
I shake my head. “No, there’s only room for two.”
“You’re my only girl today, kid,” Peter says, and Kitty runs to him and snatches the flowers out of
his hand. Gallantly, he opens the door for her. He shuts it and turns and winks at me. “Don’t be
jealous, Covey.”
I’ve never liked him more than in this moment.

Kitty’s birthday party with all her friends won’t be for a few weeks. She insisted on a sleepover, and
Daddy’s on call for weekends in February. Tonight, we’ll celebrate with a family dinner.
One of Daddy’s most go-to dinners is roast chicken. He calls it the house specialty. He’ll slather it
in butter, pop an onion and an apple inside, sprinkle some poultry seasoning, and stick it in the oven.