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.”

“First promise.”

“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.

72

WHEN IT WAS JUST MARGOT and me, my mom used to buy two of everything, blue for Margot and pink for me. The same quilt, stuffed animal, or Easter basket in two different colors. Everything had to be fair; we had to have the exact same number of carrot sticks or french fries or marbles or erasers shaped like cupcakes. Except I was always losing my erasers or eating my carrot sticks too fast, and then I’d beg for just one of Margot’s. Sometimes Mommy would make her share, which even then I realized wasn’t fair, that obviously, Margot shouldn’t be penalized for eating her snack slowly or keeping track of her erasers. After Kitty was born, Mommy tried to do blue, pink, and yellow, but it’s just a lot harder finding one thing in three different colors. Also, Kitty was enough years younger than us that we didn’t want the same kinds of toys as her.

The teal hatbox might be the only gift from Mommy I got that was just for me. I didn’t have to share it; this one was mine and mine alone.

When I opened it, I expected to find a hat, maybe a straw hat with a floppy brim, or maybe a newsboy—but it was empty. “This is for your special things,” she said. “You can put all your most precious, most favorite, most secret things in here.”

“Like what?” I said.

“Whatever fits inside. Whatever you want to keep just for you.”

* * *

Kitty’s pointy little chin trembles, and she says, “I really am sorry, Lara Jean.”

When I see that, the chin tremble, I can’t be mad anymore. I just can’t, not even a little bit. So I go to her, and I hug her tight. “It’s all right,” I say, and she sags against me in relief. “You can keep the box. Put all your secrets in it.”

Kitty shakes her head. “No, it’s yours. I don’t want it.” She thrusts it at me. “I put something in there for you.”

I open the box, and there are notes. Notes and notes and notes. Peter’s notes. Peter’s notes I threw away.

“I found them when I was emptying your trash,” she says. Hastily she adds, “I only read a couple. And then I saved them because I could tell they were important.”

I touch one that Peter folded into an airplane. “Kitty . . . you know Peter and I aren’t getting back together, right?”

Kitty grabs the bowl of popcorn and says, “Just read them.” Then she goes into the living room and turns on the TV.

I close the hatbox and take it with me upstairs. When I am in my room, I sit on the floor and spread them out around me.

A lot of the notes just say things like “Meet you at your locker after school” and “Can I borrow your chemistry notes from yesterday?” I find the spiderweb one from Halloween, and it makes me smile. Another one says, “Can you take the bus home today? I want to surprise Kitty and pick her up from school so she can show me and my car off to her friends.” “Thanks for coming to the estate sale with me this weekend. You made the day fun. I owe you one.” “Don’t forget to pack a Korean yogurt for me!” “If you make Josh’s dumb white-chocolate cranberry cookies and not my fruitcake ones, it’s over.” I laugh out loud. And then, the one I read over and over: “You look pretty today. I like you in blue.”