|Английски оригинал||Перевод на български|
IT’S NEW YEAR’S EVE. NEW year’s eve has always been a stay-at-home holiday for us. We make popcorn and drink sparkling cider, and at midnight we go outside to the backyard and light up sparklers.
Some of Margot’s friends from high school are having a party at a cabin in the mountains, and she said she wasn’t going to go, that she’d rather stay with us, but Kitty and I made her. My hope is that Josh is going too, and that they’ll talk, and who knows what will happen. It’s New Year’s Eve, after all. The night for new beginnings.
We sent Daddy to a party someone from the hospital is throwing. Kitty ironed his favorite button-down shirt and I picked the tie and we shoved him out the door. I think Grandma is right; it’s not good to be alone.
“Why are you still sad?” Kitty asks me as I dump popcorn into a bowl for us. We’re in the kitchen; she’s sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar with her legs dangling. The puppy is curled up like a centipede under her stool, gazing up at Kitty with hopeful eyes. “You and Margot made up. What’s to be sad about?”
I’m about to deny being sad, but then I just sigh and say, “I don’t know.”
Kitty grabs a handful of popcorn and drops a few kernels on the floor, which Jamie gobbles up. “How can you not know?”
“Because sometimes you just feel sad and you can’t explain it.”
Kitty cocks her head to the side. “PMS?”
I count the days since my last period. “No. It’s not PMS. Just because a girl is sad, it doesn’t mean it has anything to do with PMS.”
“Then why?” she presses.
“I don’t know! Maybe I miss someone.”
“You miss Peter? Or Josh?”
I hesitate. “Peter.” Despite everything, Peter.
“So call him.”
I don’t know how to answer her. It’s all so embarrassing, and I want to be someone she can look up to. But she’s waiting, her little brow furrowed, and I know I have to tell her the truth. “Kitty, it was all fake. The whole thing. We were never really together. He never really liked me.”
Kitty wrinkles. “What do you mean it was fake?”
Sighing, I say, “It all started with those letters. Remember how my hatbox went missing?” Kitty nods. “I had letters inside, letters I wrote to the boys I loved. They were supposed to be private, they were never supposed to be sent, but then somebody did, and everything turned into a mess. Josh got one, and Peter got one, and I was just so humiliated. . . . Peter and I decided to pretend to date so I could save face in front of Josh and he could make his ex-girlfriend jealous, and the whole thing just spun out of control.”
Kitty is biting her lip nervously. “Lara Jean . . . if I tell you something, you have to promise not to be mad.”
“What? Just tell me.”
“Okay, I promise I won’t be mad.” Prickles are going up my spine.
In a rush Kitty says, “I’m the one who sent the letters.”
“What?” I scream.
“You promised you wouldn’t be mad!”
“What?” I scream again, but less loud. “Kitty, how could you do that to me?”
She hangs her head. “Because I was mad at you. You were teasing me about liking Josh; you said I was going to name my dog after him. I was so mad at you. So when you were sleeping . . . I snuck into your room and stole your hatbox and I read all your letters and then I sent them. I regretted it right away, but it was too late.”
“How did you even know about my letters?” I yell.
She squints at me. “Because I go through your stuff sometimes when you’re not at home.”
I’m about to scream at her some more, and then I remember how I read Margot’s letter from Josh and I bite my tongue. As calmly as I can, I say, “Do you even know how much trouble you’ve caused? How could you be so spiteful to me?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. Fat teardrops form in the corners of her eyes, and one plops down like a raindrop.
I want to hug her, to comfort her, but I’m still so mad. “It’s fine,” I say in a voice that is the exact opposite of fine. None of this would have happened if she hadn’t sent those letters.
Kitty jumps up and runs upstairs, and I think she’s going to her room to cry in private. I know what I should do. I should go comfort her, forgive her for real. It’s my turn to be the good example. To be the good big sister.
I’m about to go upstairs when she comes running back into the kitchen. With my hatbox in her arms.