KITTY�S MIXING NAIL-POLISH COLORS ON
a paper plate while I�m looking up �celebrity updos� for Trina�s wedding hair. I�m lying on the couch, with pillows propped up behind me, and she is on the floor, with nail-polish bottles all around her. Suddenly she asks me, �Have you ever thought about, like, what if Daddy and Trina have a baby and it looks like Daddy?�
Kitty thinks of all sorts of things that would never have occurred to me. I hadn�t once thought of that�that they might have a baby or that this pretend baby wouldn�t look like us. The baby would be all Daddy and Trina. No one would have to wonder whose child he was or calculate who belongs to who. They�d just assume.
�But they�re both so old,� I say.
�Trina�s forty-three. You can get pregnant at forty-three. Maddie�s mom just had a baby and she�s forty-three.�
�True . . .�
�What if it�s a boy?�
Daddy with a son. It�s a startling thought. He�s not exactly sporty, not in a traditional male sense. I mean, he likes to go biking and he plays doubles tennis in the spring. But I�m sure there are things he�d want to do with a son that he doesn�t do with us because no one�s interested. Fishing, maybe? Football
he doesn�t care about. Trina cares more than he does.
When my mom was pregnant with Kitty, Margot wanted another sister but I wanted a boy. The Song girls and their baby brother. It would be nice to get that baby brother after all. Especially since I won�t be at home and have to hear it crying in the middle of the night. I�ll just get to buy the baby little shearling booties and sweaters with red foxes or bunnies.
�If they named him Tate, we could call him Tater Tot,� I muse.
Two red blotches appear on Kitty�s cheeks, and just like that, she looks as young as I always picture her in my head: a little kid. �I don�t want them to have another baby. If they have a baby, I�ll be in the middle. I�ll be nothing.�
�Hey!� I object. �I�m in the middle now!�
�Margot�s oldest and smartest, and you�re the prettiest.�
I�m the prettiest?? Kitty thinks I�m the prettiest?
I try not to look too happy, because she�s still talking. �I�m only the youngest. If they have a baby, I won�t even be that.�
I put down my computer. �Kitty, you�re a lot more than the youngest Song girl. You�re the wild Song girl. The mean one. The spiky one.� Kitty�s pursing her lips, trying not to smile at this. I add, �And no matter what, Trina loves you; she�ll always love you, even if she did have a baby which I don�t think she will.� I stop. �Wait, did you mean it when you said I was the prettiest?�
�No, I take it back. I�ll probably be the prettiest by the time I get to high school. You can be the nicest.� I leap off the couch and grab her by the shoulders like I�m going to shake her, and she giggles.
�I don�t want to be the nicest,� I say.
�You are, though.� She says it not like an insult, but not exactly like a compliment. �What do you wish you had of mine?�
�Your nerve.�
�What else?�
�Your nose. You have a little nubbin of a nose.� I tap it. �What about me?�
Kitty shrugs. �I don�t know.� Then she cracks up, and I shake her by the shoulders.
I�m still thinking about it later that evening. I hadn�t thought of Daddy and Trina having a baby. But Trina doesn�t have any children, just her �fur baby� golden retriever Simone. She might want a baby of her own. And Daddy�s never said so, but is there a chance he�d want to try one more time for a son? The baby would be eighteen years younger than me. What a strange thought. And even stranger still: I�m old enough to have a baby of my own.
What would Peter and I do if I got pregnant? I can�t even picture what would happen. All I can see is the look on Daddy�s face when I tell him the news, and that�s about as far as I get.
* * *
The next morning, on the way to school in Peter�s car, I steal a look at his profile. �I like how you�re so smooth,� I say. �Like a baby.�
�I could grow a beard if I wanted to,� he says, touching his chin. �A thick one.�
Fondly I say, �No, you couldn�t. But maybe one day, when you�re a man.�
He frowns. �I
am
a man. I�m eighteen!�
I scoff, �You don�t even pack your own lunches. Do you even know how to do laundry?�
�I�m a man in all the ways that count,� he boasts, and I roll my eyes.
�What would you do if you were drafted to go to war?� I ask.
�Uh . . . aren�t college kids given a pass on that? Does the draft even still exist?�
I don�t know the answers to either of these questions, so I barrel forward. �What would you do if I got pregnant right now?�
�Lara Jean, we�re not even having sex. That would be the immaculate conception.�
�If we were?� I press.
He groans. �You and your questions! I don�t know. How could I know what I would do?�
�What do you
think
you would do?�
Peter doesn�t hesitate. �Whatever you wanted to do.�
�Wouldn�t you want to decide together?� I�m testing him�for what, I don�t know.
�I�m not the one who has to carry it. It�s your body, not mine.�
His answer pleases me, but still I keep going. �What if I said . . . let�s have the baby and get married?�
Again Peter doesn�t hesitate. �I�d say sure. Yeah!�
Now I�m the one frowning. �?�Sure�? Just like that? The
biggest decision of your life and you just say sure?�
�Yeah. Because I
am
sure.�
I lean over to him and put my palms on his smooth cheeks. �That�s how I know you�re still a boy. Because you�re so sure.�
He frowns back at me. �Why are you saying it like it�s a bad thing?�
I let go. �You�re always so sure of everything about yourself. You�ve never been not sure.�
�Well, I�m sure of this one thing,� he says, staring straight ahead. �I�m sure I�d never be the kind of dad my dad is, no matter how old I am.�
I go quiet, feeling guilty for teasing him and bringing up bad feelings. I want to ask if his dad is still reaching out to make amends, but the closed-up look on Peter�s face stops me. I just wish he and his dad could fix things between them before he goes to college. Because right now, Peter
is
still a boy, and deep down, I think all boys want to know their dads, no matter what kind of men they are.
* * *
After school, we go through the drive-thru, and Peter�s already tearing into his sandwich before we�re out of the parking lot. Between bites of fried chicken sandwich, he says, �Did you mean it when you said before that you couldn�t picture marrying me?�
�I didn�t say that!�
�I mean, you kind of said that. You said I�m still a boy and you couldn�t marry a boy.�
Now I�ve gone and hurt his feelings. �I didn�t mean it like that. I meant I couldn�t picture marrying anybody right now. We�re both still babies. How could we
have
a baby?� Without thinking, I say, �Anyway, my dad gave me a whole birth-control kit for college, so we don�t even have to worry about it.�
Peter nearly chokes on his sandwich. �A birth-control kit?�
�Sure. Condoms and . . .� Dental dams. �Peter, do you know what a dental dam is?�
�A what? Is that what dentists use to keep your mouth open when they clean it?�
I giggle. �No. It�s for oral sex. And here I thought you were this big expert and
you
were going to be the one to teach
me
everything at college!�
My heart speeds up as I wait for him to make a joke about the two of us finally having sex at college, but he doesn�t. He frowns and says, �I don�t like the thought of your dad thinking we�re doing it when we�re not.�
�He just wants us to be careful is all. He�s a professional, remember?� I pat him on the knee. �Either way, I�m not getting pregnant, so it�s fine.�
He crumples up his napkin and tosses it in the paper bag, his eyes still on the road. �Your parents met in college, didn�t they?�
I�m surprised he remembers. I don�t remember telling him that. �Yeah.�
�So how old were they? Eighteen? Nineteen?� Peter�s headed somewhere with this line of questioning.
�Twenty, I think.�
His face dims but just slightly. �Okay, twenty. I�m eighteen and you�ll be eighteen next month. Twenty is just two years older. So what difference does two years make in the grand scheme of things?� He beams a smile at me. �Your parents met at twenty; we met at��
�Twelve,� I supply.
Peter frowns, annoyed that I�ve messed up his argument. �Okay, so we met when were kids, but we didn�t get together until we were seventeen��
�I was sixteen.�
�We didn�t get together
for real
until we were both basically seventeen. Which is basically the same thing as eighteen, which is basically the same thing as twenty.� He has the self-satisfied look of a lawyer who has just delivered a winning closing statement.
�That�s a very long and twisty line of logic,� I say. �Have you ever thought about being a lawyer?�
�No, but now I�m thinking maybe?�
�
UVA
has a great law school,� I say, and I get a sudden pang, because college is one thing, but law school? That�s so far away, and who knows what will happen between now and then? By then we�ll be such different people. Thinking of Peter in his twenties, I feel a sense of yearning for the man I may never get to meet. Right now, today, he�s still a boy, and I know him better than anybody, but what if it isn�t always this way? Already our paths are diverging, a little more every day, the closer we get to August.
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