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THE LETTER COMES ON A Tuesday, but I don’t see it until Wednesday morning before school. I’m
at the kitchen window seat, eating an apple, going through the stack of mail while I wait for Peter to
pick me up. Electric bill, cable bill, a Victoria’s Secret catalog, Kitty’s issue of this month’s Dog
Fancy (For Kids!). And then a letter, in a white envelope, addressed to me. A boy’s handwriting. A
return address I don’t recognize.

Dear Lara Jean,

A tree fell in our driveway last week and Mr. Barber of Barber Landscaping came by to haul it away. The Barbers are the family

who moved into our old house in Meadowridge, and not to overstate, but they own a landscaping company. Mr. Barber brought

your letter. I saw on the postmark you sent it way back in September, but I only just got it this week, because it was sent to my old

house. That’s why it took me so long to write back.

Your letter made me remember all kinds of stuff I thought I’d forgotten. Like that time your older sister made peanut brittle in the

microwave and you guys decided we should have a break-dancing contest for who got the biggest piece. Or the time I got locked

out of my house one afternoon and I went to the tree house and you and I just read until it got really dark and we had to use a

flashlight. I remember your neighbor was grilling hamburgers and you dared me to go ask for one for us to share, but I was too

chicken. When I went home I was in so much trouble because no one knew where I was, but it was worth it.

I stop reading. I remember that day we both got locked out! It was Chris and John and me, and then
Chris had to leave and it was just John and me. My dad had been at a seminar; I don’t remember
where Margot and Kitty were. We got so hungry, we tore into the bag of Skittles that Trevor had
stashed under a loose floorboard. I suppose I could have gone to Josh’s for food and shelter, but there
was something fun in being vagabonds with John Ambrose McClaren. It was like we were runaways.

I have to tell you, your letter blew me away, because when I was thirteen, I was still such a little kid, and here you were this actual

person with complex thoughts and emotions. My mom still cut my apple up for me for afternoon snack. If I had written a letter to

you in eighth grade it would have said, your hair is pretty. That’s it. Just, your hair is pretty. I was so clueless. I had no idea you

liked me back then.

A few months ago I saw you at a Model UN scrimmage at Thomas Jefferson. I doubt you recognized me, but I was there

representing the Republic of China. You dropped off a note for me and I called your name but you kept walking. I tried to find you

later, but you were gone. Did you see me?

I guess what I’m most curious about is why you decided to send me the letter after all this time. So if you want to call me, or email

me, or write me, please do.

Yours truly, John

PS. Since you asked—the only people that call me Johnny are my mom and my grandma, but feel free.

I let out a long sigh.
In middle school John Ambrose McClaren and I had all of two “romantic” encounters—the spin-
the-bottle kiss, which honestly wasn’t the least bit romantic, and that day in the rain during gym,
which up until this year was the most romantic moment of my life. I’m sure John doesn’t remember it
that way. I doubt he remembers it at all. To get this letter from him, after all this time, it’s like he’s
come back from the dead. It feels different from seeing him for those few seconds at Model UN in