“I always wanted a dog with bangs,” I say, cuddling him to my cheek.

“What should we name him?” Margot asks. We all look to Kitty, who chews on her bottom lip in a contemplative way.

“I don’t know,” she says.

“How about Sandy?” I suggest.

Kitty sneers. “Unoriginal.”

So I say, “What about François? We can call him Frankie for short.”

“No thanks,” Kitty says. Cocking her head, she says, “What about Jamie?”

“Jamie,” Daddy repeats. “I like it.”

Margot nods. “It has a nice ring to it.”

“What’s his full name?” I ask, setting him down on the floor.

Kitty promptly says, “Jamie Fox-Pickle, but we’ll only call him that when he’s in trouble.” She claps her hands and coos, “Come here, Jamie!” and he skitters over to her, tail wagging like mad.

I’ve never her seen her so happy or so patient. She spends all of Christmas Day trying to teach him tricks and taking him outside to pee. Her eyes never stop shining. It makes me wish I was little again and everything could be solved with a Christmas Day puppy.

I only check my phone once to see if Peter called. And he didn’t.

68

THE MORNING OF THE PARTY I come downstairs after ten, and they’ve been working for hours. Margot’s the head chef and Daddy’s her sous-chef. She has him chopping onions and celery and washing pots. To us she says, “Lara Jean, I need you to clean the downstairs bathroom and mop and tidy. Kitty, you’re overseeing decorations.”

“Can we at least have some cereal first?” I ask.

“Yes, but be quick about it.” She goes back to scooping cookie dough.

To Kitty I whisper, “I didn’t even want to have this party and now she’s got me scrubbing the toilet. Why do you get the good job?”

“Because I’m the littlest,” Kitty says, climbing onto a stool at the breakfast bar.

Margot spins around and says, “Hello, the toilet needed to be scrubbed anyway! Besides, it’ll all be worth it. We haven’t done recital party in so long.” She slides a cookie sheet into the oven. “Daddy, I’m going to need you to make a run to the store soon. We’re out of sour cream and we need a big bag of ice.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” our dad says.

The only one of us Margot doesn’t put to work is Jamie Fox-Pickle, who is taking a nap under the Christmas tree.

* * *

I’m wearing a red-and-green plaid bow tie with a white button-down and a tartan skirt. I read on a fashion blog that mixing plaids is a thing. I go to Kitty’s room to beg her to give me a braid crown, and she curls her lip at me and says, “That’s not very sexy.”

I frown. “Excuse me? I wasn’t trying to look sexy! I was trying to look festive.”

“Well . . . you look like you’re a Scottish waiter, or maybe a bartender at a bar in Brooklyn.”

“What do you know about bartenders in Brooklyn, Katherine?” I demand.

She gives me a withering look. “Duh, I watch HBO.”

Hmm. We might need to put some parental controls on the TV.

Kitty goes to my closet and pulls out my red off-the-shoulder knit dress with the swishy skirt. “Wear this. It’s still Christmasy but less elf-costumey.”

“Fine, but I’m putting my candy-cane pin on it.”

“Fine, you can wear the pin. But leave your hair down. No braid.” I give her my best sad pouty face, but Kitty shakes her head. “I’ll curl the ends to give it some body, but no braids of any kind.”

I plug in the curling iron and sit on the floor with Jamie in my lap, and Kitty sits on the bed and sections my hair off. She wraps my hair around the barrel like a real pro. “Did Josh RSVP yes to the party?” she asks me.

“I’m not sure,” I say.

“What about Peter?”

“He’s not coming,” I say.

“Why not?”

“He just can’t,” I tell her.

* * *

Margot’s at the piano playing “Blue Christmas,” and our old piano teacher Mr. Choi is sitting next to her singing along. Across the room, Daddy’s showing off a new cactus to the Shahs from down the street, and Kitty and Josh and a few of the other little kids are trying to teach Jamie how to sit. I’m sipping cranberry-and-ginger-ale punch and talking to Aunt D. about her divorce when Peter Kavinsky walks in wearing a hunter-green sweater with a button-down shirt underneath, carrying a Christmas tin. I almost choke on my punch.

Kitty spots him when I do. “You came!” she cries. She runs right into his arms, and he puts down the cookie tin and picks her up and throws her around. When he sets her down, she takes him by the hand and over to the buffet table, where I’m busying myself rearranging the cookie plate.

“Look what Peter brought,” she says, pushing him forward.

He hands me the cookie tin. “Here. Fruitcake cookies my mom made.”

“What are you doing here?” I whisper accusingly.

“The kid invited me.” He jerks his head toward Kitty, who has conveniently run back over to the puppy. Josh is standing up now, looking over at us with a frown on his face. “We need to talk.”

So now he wants to talk. Well, too late. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”

Peter takes me by the elbow and I try to shake him off, but he won’t let go. He steers me into the kitchen. “I want you to make up an excuse to Kitty and leave,” I say. “And you can take your fruitcake cookies with you.”