Matt Olsson.
I can’t believe he’s here.
I was heartbroken to leave him. It’s so dumb, because it’s not like we were even really friends with him. It’s not like we were staying up late with him, swapping secrets in bunk beds. We literally learned this boy’s last name five seconds ago.
But it felt like we knew him. And not just the correctly pronounced Aeschylus name-drop that got Andy so bonered. I don’t care about Aeschylus. I just feel so—I don’t even know. Discombobulated. That’s the word.
Because here’s Matt Olsson, looking like he stepped out of an Archie comic. Sandy-haired and straightforwardly beautiful, standing right in front of us. He’s a senior in high school. MY high school. In my Roswell. Roswell, Georgia, twenty miles north of Atlanta, home of an impressively well-stocked Super Target, infinite Waffle Houses and a staggering number of f-boys.
He meets my eyes. “Your hair looks different.”
“This is so weird,” I say, barely out loud.
Matt laughs. “Yeah, I know. I was just coming down here for first period.” He gestures vaguely at the theater room. “I didn’t think—”
“You have Ms. Zhao for first period?” Anderson’s eyes widen. “Advanced Drama?”
Advanced Drama, better known as Senior D. No idea why, other than the fact that the class is for seniors, and people like saying, “Seen yer D.” It’s the class of legends, though. Zhao won’t even consider you unless you’re serious about drama. And apparently the first two months are strictly about trust building, because stuff gets pretty intense, and it only works if you’re vulnerable. Everyone says you basically come out of Senior D with an acting MFA. I don’t know if I buy that, but I do know that class bonds people for life. Andy and I have been aching to enroll since we were freshmen.
“Anyway,” Matt says. “I’m supposed to bring a form up to Mr. Merced’s office.”
“Right now?” Brandie nods toward the door. “But Ms. Zhao’s about to announce the musical. Like. Any minute.”
“Is it a secret?”
Raina whirls around to face him, eyes narrowed. “She told you, didn’t she?”
Matt smiles the cutest, tiniest guilty smile I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Tell us.” Anderson clasps his hands. “Please tell us.”
Matt tilts his head. “Should I?”
Okay, how is he already teasing us? How is he this cool? I’m still trying to get my brain to stop spinning, and here’s Matt, gently trolling the squad like he’s known us for years.
“So you’re saying if the musical was Once Upon a Mattress, you’d want to know that?”
“Motherfucker.” Raina looks as gobsmacked as I feel. Zhao told Matt the musical. Wow. So much for tradition. So much for pomp and circumstance and secrecy. She just . . . told him. She told Matt.
Coke-Ad Matt. Who goes here now.
Okay, help me out here, yoga warm-up exercises. Let’s do a subtle inhale. Hold for ten. Subtle exhale. Kate Garfield, you are cool as a cucumber. Totally not freaking out. Nope. No overload in this brain.
Matt looks at me and smiles.
Okay, yeah, now I can’t think straight, can’t even breathe straight, can’t even hold my head up, can’t even—
“I have to pee,” Andy whispers.
I nod slowly, finally catching my breath.
I have to pee.
It’s our magic escape code.
Scene 3
Okay, it’s not much of a code.
It means private meeting in the bathroom. Specifically, the men’s bathroom at the end of the theater hallway, also known as the Bathroom Time Forgot. The BTF. We’re the only ones who ever use it. All things considered, though, it’s a decent bathroom. Minimal wall graffiti, and the stuff that’s there is pleasantly vintage—mostly Sharpied penises and pointy stylized iterations of the letter S. We head straight for our favorite stalls, side by side, using the toilets as chairs. I don’t even remember how we settled on this arrangement. I just know it’s strangely intimate, sitting like this—side by side in a pair of bathroom stalls, talking through the partial wall that divides them. I’m Jewish, but maybe this is what confession feels like. When we’re in here, I always say a little more than I think I’ll say.
“What. The. Fuck. Is happening?” Anderson says. Even though I can’t see him, I can picture him perfectly—awkwardly straddling the toilet seat, like he’s riding a donkey.
“Wait, are we freaking out about the play or about—”
“Coke-Ad Matt. I didn’t just dream that, right? He’s here? At our fucking school?”
“Coke-Ad Matt is at our fucking school,” I confirm.
“But why?”
“Because he moved here?”
Andy exhales. “Why would he move here?”
“Maybe he followed us?” I slide my feet forward on the tiles.
“Oh my God. He fell in love with us and followed us home from camp.”
“WAIT—”
“I mean, he had to have known, right?” Andy says.
“Right, no. Definitely. That’s just too big of a—”
“But,” Andy points out. “But, but, but. He was clearly surprised to see us.”
“He could have been acting.”
“He is taking Advanced Drama.”
“This is so weird,” I say, for what feels like the millionth time this morning.
“SO weird.”
“How are we even—”
But my voice evaporates, because out of nowhere, the bathroom door creaks open. And then, a moment later, there’s the sound of someone peeing in a urinal.
Text from Anderson: UMMMMMMM
I text back: trespasser!!!!!!!!!
INFILTRATOR. HOW DARE, Andy writes, and I giggle before I can stop myself.
The pee stream stops abruptly.
For a moment, it’s dead silent.
“You can keep peeing,” Anderson says finally.
This time I clap my hands over my mouth to keep from laughing.
The infiltrator clears his throat. “Am I . . .”
“You’re in the right place,” Anderson says. “Carry on with your business and have a wonderful day.”
HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY?? I text Andy. You sound like a cult leader.
Okay but why isn’t he peeing?!!
Because you scared him and now he doesn’t want to join your “wonderful day” cult
You’re just jealous that it’s a wonderful day in my cult, he writes. Anyway you’re the one who giggled from the stall. Who does that??
Uh obviously me.
Katy he’s not leaving, what do we do???
Who do you think it is? I write.
OMG
WAIT
For a moment, it’s just ellipses. And then nothing. And then a lightbulb emoji, followed by a close-up selfie of just Anderson’s wide-open eyes.
Then: Is it MATT???
“Did I interrupt something?”
That’s not Matt’s voice, I write back.
“Nope,” Andy says brightly. “Not at all. We’re just. You know.”
“Peeing,” I say quickly. “Just peeing.”
“Kate?” asks the interloper.
And just like that, I recognize the voice, though I doubt Andy does. I dethrone and unlock the door, pausing before opening it. “Are your pants up?”
“That is quite a question, Little Garfield.”
Mmm. Guess how much I love being called Little Garfield by someone who’s six weeks younger than I am?
“Verbal confirmation, Noah.”
“Yes, my pants are up.”
I crack the door open, peering out. “Why are you here?”
“In the men’s room? Why are you here?”
Noah Kaplan, the f-boy next door. Okay, technically, he’s the f-boy across the street, and just at Dad’s house. He and my brother are basically inseparable, even though Ryan’s a senior. I guess it’s one of those baseball team bro friendships that know no age limits
.
“This isn’t the locker room,” Anderson calls out from the stall.
Andy has no patience for f-boys. Or f-girls. Or anyone even remotely allied with the f-force. But who could blame him? The school fuckboy population didn’t exactly throw a Pride parade when Andy came out. Noah’s not so bad—he’s the slutty kind of f-boy, not the homophobic kind. He’s one of those guys who’s always ostentatiously flirting, or PDA-ing, or getting loudly dumped in the hallway. Last year he had two homecoming dates, and it wasn’t even a secret. He had two boutonnieres.
Once, Andy looked at Noah, apropos of nothing, and asked, “Are straight boys okay? Do they need help?”
The age-old question.
Noah smiles wryly. “Not looking for the locker room.” He pulls up the sleeve of his hoodie—which is when I notice he’s wearing a bright-white fiberglass cast, almost to his elbow.
“Whoa. What happened?” I ask.
“Distal radius fracture.”
“Sportsball injury?”
“Something like that.”
Anderson cracks his door open, peering out at us. “Too bad we’re not doing Dear Evan Hansen,” he says.
“That’s a theater reference,” says Noah.
“Noah Kaplan,” says Andy. “I’m impressed.”
“I’m just getting warmed up for first-period drama,” Noah says.
“Hold up.” I step out of my stall, shutting it fast behind me. “Like Senior D?”
“Whose D?”
“Senior D. The class. Advanced Drama. Andy, get out here.” I lean against my stall door, staring Noah down. “You’re a junior.”
Anderson steps primly out of his stall like he’s stepping out of a limo. He looks Noah straight in the eye. “How?”
“I was . . . assigned into it?” He looks from Anderson to me, brown eyes crinkling. Classic Noah expression. You know how people freeze-frame into your brain, almost like your mental contact photo? That’s Noah in my head. Perpetually twinkly-eyed. It’s not like we’re friends anymore. But he’s always around—at Dad’s neighborhood block parties, or with Ryan, sprawled out in our living room on rainy TV-watching days.
Anderson, who has apparently transformed into a TV lawyer, begins his cross-examination. “Did they say anything about you being a junior?”
“Nope.”
“Or the fact that you’ve never done theater? Ever?”
Noah shrugs. “Had to move out of PE, and there were spots available—”
“What?” Andy inhales sharply. “Why are there spots available?”
“There are never spots available,” I say.
“Unless—” Andy cuts himself off, frantically typing on his phone. Then he shoves the screen in front of my face. “Kate, look, look, look!”
It’s the Roswell Hill High School website. Music department. News and updates.
I look up at Andy. “Glee club is a class now?”
“Brand-new. Saw a flyer, but didn’t put it together.” Anderson sounds breathless. “Katy, it’s first period—”
“So it conflicts with—”
“Yes! Okay, yes. No wonder—”
“You guys okay?” Noah asks.
“Never been better.” Anderson takes my hand and tugs it, and the next thing I know, we’re halfway to the counseling office.
Scene 4
“I’m not sure I follow,” says Mr. Merced, the counselor. He’s new—which is promising—and he’s young. So maybe he’s pliable. “You’re both asking to be transferred into Advanced Drama.”
My heart pounds. “Yes.”
He pushes his glasses up, peering at the monitor. “I’m not sure the system will let me.”
“But you’ll try?” Anderson asks.
Mr. Merced’s already typing. “Andrew . . . Walker?”
“Anderson Walker.”
“Ah. Okay. Yup, here you are.” Mr. Merced purses his lips, scrolling. “First period, I see you’ve got—”
“Study hall,” Andy says. “Just study hall. Throwaway class. I mean, first-period study hall. Who’s actually going to show up for that?”
Mr. Merced raises his eyebrows.
“ME. I would show up for that. Because I would never skip class,” Anderson says quickly. “I would never do that.”
“Never. Me too.” I nod.
Anderson scoots to the edge of his seat and plants his elbows on Mr. Merced’s desk. “And actually, studies have shown that participation in the arts helps students—”
Mr. Merced cuts him off. “Okay, Mr. Walker. You’re good to go.”
“Wait—what?”
“First period, Advanced Drama, Zhao, room—”
“No, I know. But . . . I’m in?”
“I’ll print you a revised schedule, and you can head down there right now. Do you need a hall pass?”
Anderson’s eyes flick toward me, jaw hanging open.
“What about me?” I say. “Kate Garfield.”
Mr. Merced starts typing. “And you’d like to make the same move as Mr. Walker, correct? You’re withdrawing from study hall and—”
“Well, I’ve got study hall seventh period. First period is Algebra II with—”
“Oh.” Mr. Merced frowns. “Ms. Garfield, if your first-period class is a core academic subject—”
“Right, I know.” The words tumble out. “But if I could switch into the third-period section—”
“That’s not really—”
“Or if we moved chemistry to fourth period, maybe—”
There’s a knock, and Mr. Merced stands. “There’s my nine o’clock.”
“Wait—”
“Right!” Mr. Merced points with finger guns. “Hall passes.” He pulls a bright-pink pad and a pen out of his drawer. “Okay . . . Ms. Garfield.” He uncaps the pen, still standing. “Time: 8:57 . . . pass to Algebra II . . . with . . . Ms. Evans. Here you go.” He hands it to me, and my heart sinks all the way down to my sneakers. “And Mr. Walker . . . let’s say 8:58 . . . pass to Advanced Drama . . . with . . . Ms. Zhao.”
“Wait—wait—wait,” Anderson says, shooting out of his seat. “There has to be something—”
But Mr. Merced’s already walking us to the door. “I’ll notify your study hall supervisor of the change. Don’t worry.”
Then, in one smooth move, he opens the door and directs us into the counseling lobby, where this boy Frank Gruber is waiting with a half-crumpled schedule sheet. I don’t actually know Frank all that well, though we used to get paired together a lot for alphabetical reasons. But I had one of those blink-and-you’ll-miss-it crushes on him in ninth grade. We’d talk in homeroom sometimes, and he had this way of trailing off mid-word while staring at my mouth. Like a satellite dipping out of orbit. And the fact that I, Kate Eliza Garfield, had the ability to throw a cute boy off his orbit was electrifying.
Except . . . Anderson didn’t think Frank was cute at all, which made him instantly a hundred times less appealing. I know that’s awful. But that’s just how it is for me. If a crush is really going to take hold, Andy has to like the guy too. Otherwise, this switch in me flips—and suddenly it’s not electrifying and the boy isn’t cute and the whole situation goes sour. And Andy’s almost as bad when it comes to me. Raina says it’s yet another example of us being codependent, and that’s why neither of us has ever dated anyone but each other.
Of course, Frank Gruber just drifts past us toward Mr. Merced’s office. Doesn’t even spare us a glance.
The door closes, and Anderson looks like he might burst into tears. “Katy, I’m so—so sorry. This is bullshit. I can switch back—”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. This is Senior D. We were going to take it together.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug, and he winces. And okay. I’m not proud of this, but a tiny secret part of me is glad he feels shitty. I know it’s not his fault. And I know it’s just a class. Up until ten minutes ago, I never dreamed I’d be able to take Advanced Drama this year. But I
can’t help but feel like something got snatched away from me, right under my nose.
Because it’s not just Senior D. It’s Senior D with Matt.
Anderson’s going to have a class with Matt.
“Katy. Seriously.” Anderson takes both my hands. “I’ll get Mr. Merced to switch me back. We’ll take it together. Next year. You and me.”
“Andy, just stop.”
He furrows his brow.
“It’s fine. Take the class.” I force a smile. “Someone needs to get intel on Matt.”
He nods slowly. “That’s true.”
“And obviously you’ll tell me everything.”
“Everything. The full play-by-play. Promise.” Anderson hugs me. “You’re so—”
“Late for first period.” I hold up the Pink Hall Pass of Algebraic Doom. “Gotta go.”
Scene 5
It’s long past dismissal. But Andy and I, world-class suck-ups, end up taping Ms. Zhao’s audition flyers around the school for almost an hour. You know how there’s always that one teacher you’d do anything for? The one you swear would be your ride-or-die BFF in any other context?
Ms. Zhao. No joke. The whole squad seriously worships her. She’s in her forties or so, with a wife and kids and everything, but she’s always up-to-date on the news and pop culture and basically all our dumb memes. And not in a try-hard way. You can just tell she thinks her students are cool and interesting people. Which shouldn’t be a revolutionary stance for a teacher, but it kind of is.
By the time we get home, Mom’s car is in the garage, with Ryan taking up the whole driveway behind her. Doesn’t matter. Andy always just pulls into his own driveway next door, and we cut straight through our adjacent front yards, back to my house. We’re given a hero’s welcome by the dogs as soon as we walk through the door. Charles and Camilla, pupper and doggo, respectively.
Mom’s at the counter, working on a snack plate, and her face lights up when we walk in. “Oh, hey! Katy, you just missed your brother. He’s out on a run.”
Of course he is. I swear, Ryan’s a couch potato by nature, but you’d never know it these days, especially during baseball season. Full-on jock mode.
Kate in Waiting Page 2
