To All the Boys I've Loved Before (To All the Boys I've Loved Before #1)(9)

Sure, I could just use a GPS, but I would feel silly putting in directions to go to the mall when I’ve been there a million times. It should come to me intuitively, easy, where I don’t even have to think about it. Instead I worry over every turn, second-guess every highway sign—is it north or is it south, do I turn right here or is it the next one? I’ve never had to pay attention.

But today, so far so good. I’m listening to the radio, bopping along, even driving with just one hand on the wheel. I do this to feign confidence, because the more I fake it, the more it’s supposed to feel true.

Everything is going so well that I take the shortcut way instead of the highway way. I cut through the side neighborhood, and even as I’m doing it, I’m wondering if this was such a great idea. After a couple of minutes things aren’t looking so familiar, and I realize I should have taken a left instead of a right. I push down the panic that’s rising in my chest and I try to backtrack.

You can do it, you can do it.

There’s a four-way stop sign. I don’t see anyone, so I zip ahead. I don’t even see the car on my right; I feel it before I see it.

I scream my head off. I taste copper in my mouth. Am I bleeding? Did I bite my tongue off? I touch it and it’s still there. My heart is racing; my whole body feels wet and clammy. I try to take deep breaths, but I can’t seem to get air.

My legs shake as I get out of the car. The other guy is already out, inspecting his car with his arms crossed. He’s old, older than my dad, and he has gray hair, and he’s wearing shorts with red lobsters on them. His car is fine; mine has a huge dent in the side. “Didn’t you see the stop sign?” he demands. “Were you texting on your phone?”

I shake my head; my throat is closing up. I just don’t want to cry. As long as I don’t cry . . .

He seems to sense this. The irritated furrow of his brow is loosening. “Well, my car looks fine,” he says reluctantly. “Are you all right?”

I nod again. “I’m so sorry,” I say.

“Kids need to be more careful,” the man says, as if I haven’t spoken.

The lump in my throat is getting bigger. “I’m very, very sorry, sir.”

He makes a grunty sound. “You should call someone to come get you,” the man says. “Do you want me to wait?”

“No, thank you.” What if he’s a serial killer or a child molester? I don’t want to be alone with a strange man.

The man drives off.

As soon as he’s gone, it occurs to me that maybe I should have called the police while he was still here. Aren’t you always supposed to call the police when you’re in a car accident, no matter what? I’m pretty sure they told us that in driver’s ed. So that’s another mistake I made.

I sit down on the curb and stare at Margot’s car. I’ve only had it for two hours and I’ve already wrecked it. I rest my head in my lap and sit in a tight bundle. My neck is starting to ache. This is when the tears start. My dad is not going to be happy. Margot is not going to be happy. They’ll both probably agree that I have no business driving around town unsupervised, and maybe they’re right. Driving a car is a lot of responsibility. Maybe I’m not ready for it yet. Maybe I’ll never be ready. Maybe even when I’m old, my sisters or my dad will have to drive me around, because that’s how useless I am.

I pull out my phone and call Josh. When he answers, I say, “Josh, can you do me a f-f-favor?” and my voice comes out so wobbly I’m embarrassed.

Which of course he hears, because he’s Josh. He comes to attention immediately and says, “What’s wrong?”

“I just got into a car accident. I don’t even know where I am. Can you come get me?” Wobble wobble.

“Are you hurt?” he demands.

“No, I’m fine. I’m just—” If I say another word, I will cry.

“What street signs do you see? What stores?”

I crane my neck to look. “Falstone,” I say. I look for the closet mailbox. “I’m at 8109 Falstone Road.”

“I’m on my way. Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”

“No, that’s okay.” I hang up and start to cry.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there crying when another car rolls up in front of me. I look up, and it’s Peter Kavinsky’s black Audi with the tinted windows. One of them rolls down. “Lara Jean? Are you okay?”

I nod my head yes and make a motion like he should just go. He rolls the window back up, and I think he’s really going to drive off, but then he pulls over to the side and parks. He climbs out and starts inspecting my car. “You really messed it up,” he says. “Did you get the other guy’s insurance info?”

“No, his car was fine.” Furtively, I wipe my cheeks with my arm. “It was my fault.”

“Do you have Triple A?”

I nod.

“So you called them already?”

“No. But someone’s coming.”

Peter sits down next to me. “How long have you been sitting here crying by yourself?”

I turn my head and wipe my face again. “I’m not crying.”

Peter Kavinsky and I used to be friends, back before he was Kavinsky, when he was Peter K. There was a whole gang of us in middle school. The boys were Peter Kavinsky and John Ambrose McClaren and Trevor Pike. The girls were Genevieve and me and Allie Feldman who lived down the block and sometimes Chris. Growing up, Genevieve lived two streets away from me. It’s funny how much of childhood is about proximity. Like who your best friend is is directly correlated to how close your houses are; who you sit next to in music is all about how close your names are in the alphabet. Such a game of chance. In eighth grade Genevieve moved to a different neighborhood, and we stayed friends a little while longer. She’d come back to the neighborhood to hang out, but something was different. By high school Genevieve had eclipsed us. She was still friends with the boys, but the girls’ crew was over. Allie and I stayed friends until she moved last year, but there was always something just a little bit humiliating about it, like we were two leftover heels of bread and together we made a dry sandwich.