His eyes widen. “Come on, Covey! Don’t bail on me now. We already signed up and gave the deposits and everything. Let’s just go, and have that be our final hurrah.” When I start to protest, Peter shakes his head. “You’re going, so take this contract back.” Peter refolds it and carefully puts it back in my bag.

Why is it so hard to say no to him? Is this what it’s like to be in love with somebody?

57

I GET THE IDEA DURING the morning announcements, when they announce that our school’s hosting a Model UN scrimmage this weekend. John Ambrose McClaren was the middle school Model UN president. I wonder if he’s on his school’s team.

I bring it up to Peter at lunch, before any of the guys sit down. “Do you know if John McClaren still does Model UN?”

He gives me a funny look. “How should I know?”

“I don’t know. I was just wondering.”

“Why?”

“I think maybe I’m going to go to the Model UN scrimmage this weekend. I have a feeling that he’ll be there.”

“For real?” Peter hoots. “If he is, what are you going to do?”

“I haven’t figured that part out yet. Maybe I’ll go up to him, maybe I won’t. I just want to see how he turned out.”

“We can look him up online right now and I’ll show you.”

I shake my head. “No, that would be cheating. I want to see him with my own eyes. I want to be surprised.”

“Well, don’t bother asking me to go and keep you company. I’m not going to waste a whole Saturday on Model UN.”

“I wasn’t planning on asking you to go.”

Peter throws me a hurt look. “What? Why not?”

“It’s just something I want to do by myself.”

Peter lets out a low whistle. “Wow. The body ain’t even cold yet.”

“Huh?”

“You’re a little player, Covey. We aren’t even broken up yet and you’re already trying to talk to other guys. I would be hurt if I wasn’t impressed.”

This makes me smile.

In eighth grade I kissed John McClaren at a party. It wasn’t a romantic kiss. It was a barely anything kiss. We were playing spin the bottle, and when it was his turn, I held my breath and prayed the bottle would land on me. And it did! It almost landed on Angie Powell, but luck was on my side that day, and he was mine by half an inch. I tried to keep my face very still and robotic so I wouldn’t smile. John and I crawled into the center and we did this very quick chicken peck, and everybody groaned, and his face was red. I was disappointed; I think maybe I’d expected something more, a kiss with more weight to it. More va-va-va-voom. More zsa zsa zsu. But that was it. Maybe I’ll get a second chance. Maybe it’ll make me forget Peter.

58

AS I WALK INTO SCHOOL on saturday morning, I go over what I’m going to say. Maybe just, Hey, John, how are you? It’s Lara Jean. I haven’t seen him since the eighth grade. What if he doesn’t recognize me? What if he doesn’t even remember me?

I scan the sandwich boards in the lobby and I find John’s name under General Assembly. He’s representing the People’s Republic of China.

The General Assembly is meeting in the auditorium. There are desks set up for each delegate, and onstage there is a podium where a girl in a black suit is making a speech about nuclear nonproliferation. I’m thinking I’ll just slip in the back and sit and watch but there’s nowhere to sit, so I just stand at the back of the room with my arms crossed and look for John. There are so many people here, and everybody’s facing the front, so it’s hard to tell what’s what.

A kid in a navy suit turns around and looks at me and whispers, “Are you a page?” He’s holding up a folded piece of paper.

“Um . . .” I’m not sure what a page is, and then I see a girl hustling around the room delivering notes to people.

The boy thrusts the piece of paper at me and turns back around and scribbles in his notebook. The note is addressed to Brazil, from France. So I guess I’m a page.

The tables aren’t in alphabetical order, so I just start wandering around trying to find Brazil. I finally find Brazil, a guy in a bow tie, and other people are raising their hands with notes for me to deliver. Before long I’m hustling too.

From behind I see a boy’s hand raised for me to pick up his note, so I hurry forward, and then he turns his head just slightly. And oh my God, it’s John Ambrose McClaren, delegate from the People’s Republic of China, a few feet away from me.

He has sandy hair, clean-cut. His cheeks are rosy, just the way I remember. They still have that fresh-scrubbed wholesomeness that makes him look young. He’s wearing khakis and a light blue button-down with a navy crew-neck sweater. He looks serious, focused, like he’s a real delegate and this isn’t pretend.

Honestly, he looks just the way I imagined he’d grow up to look.

John’s holding the piece of paper out for me as he takes notes with his head down. I reach for it; my fingers close around the paper, and then he looks up and does a double take.

“Hi,” I whisper. We’re both still holding on to the note.

“Hi,” he says back. He blinks, and then he lets go of the paper, and I hurry away, my heart pounding in my ears. I hear him call out my name in a loud whisper, but I don’t slow down.

I look down at the paper. His handwriting is neat, precise. I go deliver his note to the USA, and then I ignore Great Britain, who is waving a note at me, and I walk right out the auditorium double doors and into the afternoon light.