Kate in Waiting

by Becky Albertalli

  “Are you doing Goldfish cracker art?” Anderson asks.

  I take a closer look at Mom’s plate, and sure enough: multicolored Goldfish splayed in spiraling rainbow order. Normally, Ryan and I are kind of latchkey kids. Same with Andy—his parents are doctors, so they’re usually seeing patients until dinner. And Mom’s a middle school music teacher, which means she’s on the hook for after-school choir and the variety show. But when Mom’s home early, she likes to be as extra as possible.

  She carries her Goldfish masterpiece over but sneaks in a round of cheek kisses first. “My boychick. Mwah.”

  It’s funny—when it comes to me and Ryan, Mom’s obsessed with not playing favorites. Everything’s painstakingly equal—equal allowance, equal-sized bowls of cereal in the morning. I’m half convinced she named us Ryan and Kate so she could spend the exact same amount of money on each set of custom wooden letters she ordered for the door signs outside our bedrooms. I mean, I technically own half of Ryan’s car, and I don’t even drive.

  But all that goes out the window when it comes to Anderson, her true favorite. She goes full Jewish mom when he’s here. It’s slightly terrifying.

  “So? What’s the musical?” she asks, setting the Goldfish spiral between us. Anderson sinks into a chair, swipes a layer of red ones off the outer edge, and stuffs them into his mouth like they’re popcorn. Followed by lots of vigorous chewing. All of this just to keep my mom in suspense for a minute, because this boy lives for dramatic pauses.

  Anderson finally swallows, smiling grandly up at her. “Once Upon a Mattress.”

  “Oh, no way!” Mom presses both palms to her chest. “I was in that at camp. I played Winnifred!”

  Anderson’s eyes widen. “Shut up.”

  “For real.” Mom beams. “One of my favorite roles ever.”

  So here’s the thing: I can kind of sing. But Mom can really sing. When she was my age, she was the lead in every single play she tried out for. Not just the school plays—she did community theater at the rec center, too. And of course, she was basically famous at Camp Wolf Lake in the summers. I think she pretty much ran their whole theater program from fourth grade on.

  “Once Upon a Mattress. How exciting! I’ll have to tell Ellen. Katy, you remember my friend Ellen, right?” Mom says. And just like that, she’s off and running. “ . . . grew up together, and we were absolute best friends at camp, but we fell out of touch for—oy. Twenty-five years?” Mom shakes her head sadly. “We had one of those ridiculous fights, you know? She was seeing this terrible boy, and you know me. I’m not going to hold my tongue. What a schmuck. Thank God that finally ended. Ellen’s an absolute doll, though. You remember.”

  “Yup. Ellen from camp who dated a schmuckboy.”

  “Even worse, she married that schmuckboy,” Mom says. “Oy gevalt. Thankfully, the divorce is almost finalized, and she’s back in Roswell . . .”

  My mind starts to drift. I love my mom, but she’s a Talker, capital T. She can keep herself going for hours. When we were younger, Ryan and I used to quietly time her. Of course, Andy’s nodding along politely like the perfect boychick he is.

  “Shabbat dinner,” Mom concludes. “Anyway, look at me keeping you here, when I bet you guys are dying to sneak off and listen to that soundtrack.”

  “Oh no—” Andy starts to say, but I cut him off.

  “Yup. YUP. Gotta go work on the play. Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.”

  Listen. When my mom shows you an escape hatch, you take it.

  Scene 6

  Unfortunately, AP US History is already putting a serious damper on my daydream schedule. I just think it’s disrespectful of teachers to expect us to focus on Puritans when we’re eight days out from auditions.

  There are so many things I need to think about by then. Things like audition songs and breath support and how much Zhao’s going to cast based on seniority this year. Every few years, Ms. Zhao gets it in her head that all the good parts should go to seniors. Which would be an excellent mindset down the line—like, Zhao, feel free to lean right the fuck into that next year. But if Ms. Zhao goes the seniority route this time, I don’t even have a shot.

  The thing is, I kind of have my hopes up again. Classic me, dreaming of spotlights. My name at the top of the cast list. My voice, soaring on the wings of a wireless microphone. Standing ovations. Booming applause. Every year I get entranced all over again by the idea of it.

  Every year I fall short.

  It’s such a stupid thing to want. A leading role. A singing part. I’ve barely even had a speaking part before. I don’t even think I could pull it off. Who cares if I sound good when I’m alone in my room. Everyone knows I’m a mess under pressure.

  Everyone knows.

  But I can’t seem to turn off the daydreams. Every time I close my eyes, I can picture it. Me as Princess Winnifred the Woebegone. Me, center stage, in an artfully bedraggled medieval dress, singing about swamps. Me perched on top of a stack of mattresses, the rest of the cast fanning out around me.

  Me, standing in the shoes of giants. Carol Burnett. Sarah Jessica Parker. Tracey Ullman. My mom. It’s the kind of daydream I love to live in.

  Inconveniently, Mr. Edelman wants to spend AP US History learning AP US History, and today, that’s worksheet packets. You can tell a lot about a teacher’s desperation level from how quickly he resorts to worksheets.

  It’s the third day of school.

  At least he’s got us in groups. But the groups aren’t great. I’ve got Brandie, but instead of Raina and Anderson, we’ve got this random f-boy, Jack Randall. Needless to say, the worksheets aren’t going so well. Partially because Jack’s a douchebag and Puritans are insanely boring, but also because Brandie and I are lost to our research.

  “How do we know if it’s the original version or the revival?” asks Brandie.

  “I’ll revive you,” Jack says. Because vaguely sexual nonsense is the native language of all fuckboys. Brandie doesn’t look up from her phone. He leans closer, dramatically inhaling. “Brandie Reyes. That hair perfume. Me likey.”

  Okay, anyone who says “me likey”? Should be punched in the balls. That is my hill to fucking die on.

  “It’s called shampoo,” says Brandie.

  Out of all of us in the squad, Brandie’s the most patient with f-boys, as evidenced by the fact that she did not, in fact, punch Jack in the balls. Raina’s the opposite, of course—at this point, she really just has to glance at an f-boy, and the ball-punch is implied. It’s pretty funny to watch it happen in the wild. There’s just something about the sight of Raina and Brandie together that appeals to fuckboys on some sort of chemical level—my theory is that it’s because they’re both really cute, but in completely different ways. Raina’s got one of those poreless cheekbone faces, and she basically looks like the sensible younger sister of every white brunette actress on the CW. Whereas with Brandie, it’s the unpretentious girl-next-door energy and the dreamy boho wardrobe. Plus Brandie’s pretty much oblivious to all flirting, in a way that’s completely irresistible to a certain kind of fuckboy. Which is how we’ve arrived at this blissful scene of Jack doggedly inquiring about Brandie’s hair routine. And absolutely none of us have cracked open the worksheet packet.

  Jack peers over my shoulder. “Are you looking at porn?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Upon a mattress. Daaaaaamn.”

  “It’s a musical.” I start digging in my backpack for my headphones. Something tells me I’ll need a little help making Jack’s voice disappear.

  “A porn musical?” he asks, totally unfazed. I hear Anderson snicker.

  “You don’t think I’m funny, Garfield?” Jack tilts his head, grinning. “Your boyfriend thinks I’m funny.”

  He means Andy, of course—though he doesn’t actually think Andy’s my boyfriend. At this point, Anderson’s out to everyone at school. Except, the funny thing is, Anderson and I did date once, in seventh grade. He realized he was gay after our second kiss.
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  It kind of bugs me, though, the way people get weird about our closeness. If we were a couple, no one would even blink. But people are always saying that if they didn’t know Andy was gay, they’d never believe we were just friends.

  It’s such bullshit. First of all, we’re best friends.

  Second of all, there’s no just. Friendship isn’t a just. Yes, Andy’s gay. No, we’re not a couple. But Anderson Walker is the most important person in my life, hands down.

  “Once Upon a Mattress.” Jack grins. “That can’t be a real musical.”

  I shove my earbuds in and scroll through my music library. Better be Lizzo. She’s the only one who could drown out this level of fuckitude.

  “Google it,” I say.

  Then I press play.

  Scene 7

  Raina smacks her palms down on the lunch table. “Final inventory.”

  “Spotify has the soundtrack.” I settle in beside her, unloading my paper bag. “We’ve got two versions of the movie—”

  “Karaoke tracks?”

  “All over YouTube,” says Andy. “Plus Kate’s mom was in it, so—”

  Laughter erupts behind me and I don’t even have to turn around to know which cluster of tables it’s coming from. I’m not saying Roswell Hill’s like one of those teen dramas where the camera pans around the cafeteria, zooming in on every perfectly differentiated clique.

  But the f-force.

  I don’t know how to explain it. One on one, they’re not so bad. Jack Randall is a human dildo, and I’m pretty sure Mira Reynolds and Eric Graves are actual supervillains, but the vast majority of them are fine in isolation.

  When they’re together, though, it’s a whole different story.

  I don’t mean to be a judgmental asshole. I know I’m holding on to stuff that happened years ago. Middle school. Elementary school, even. But f-force wounds are no joke.

  “Um,” Andy says, staring at some point over my shoulder. “I think Chris Wrigley just violated your brother’s hoodie.”

  “He just—what?” I whip my head around, spotting Ryan in an instant. I’d know his slouch anywhere. He’s facing away from us, sandwiched between Vivian Yang and Chris Wrigley. “I’m not seeing this violation—”

  Andy tilts his chin up. “Just watch.”

  For almost a minute, there’s nothing—but then it happens, lightning fast. Chris Wrigley, fuckboy on a mission, stretches his arm out toward Ryan like he’s going in for a side hug. But he’s holding something—a french fry? I stare in bewilderment as Chris’s hand hovers over Ryan’s hood, pausing the way a claw machine does before releasing its prize.

  Ryan doesn’t notice in the slightest.

  “He’s put, like, fifteen fries in there,” says Andy.

  “But why?”

  Andy shrugs. “To be an asshole?”

  I twist around in my chair, peering back toward Chris and Ryan. I don’t get it. I seriously don’t. I mean, for one thing, Ryan’s cool with Chris. He’s cool with everyone. He’s cool in general.

  “Should I go rescue him?”

  “From french fries?” asks Raina.

  I shake my head, glaring fiercely at Chris. “From being trolled by some fuckboy.”

  “You mean his teammate?” asks Raina. “The one he’s choosing to sit with?”

  “He didn’t choose to wear Chris Wrigley’s lunch.” I scoot my chair back. “I’m sorry, but this is bullying.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know,” Raina says. “I think it’s just f-boys messing with each other.”

  “Ryan’s not an f-boy.” I swipe her arm, and she grins.

  I can’t help but grin back. It’s kind of a running squad joke at this point. No one—I mean no one—gets to call my brother a fuckboy. I don’t care if Ryan looks like an f-boy or plays baseball with f-boys. I don’t care if he carves a big red F on his chest. Doesn’t matter.

  And yeah, if I’m honest, it bugs me that Ryan hangs out with assholes like Chris Wrigley. Or Eric Graves and Mira Reynolds. Especially Eric Graves and Mira Reynolds. I don’t like it. I don’t get it. But it’s not like those are his best friends. I’d say Ryan lives in the hazy borderlands of the f-zone. He’s vaguely allied with the f-force. But he’s not a jerk. He’s just a jock who doesn’t like to make waves.

  Chris, apparently all out of fries, tosses a napkin wad into the hood like it’s a basketball. Ryan doesn’t even flinch. But the move catches Vivian Yang’s attention—and a moment later, she’s scooping the fries and trash from Ryan’s hoodie, dumping it all back on Chris’s tray. Ryan laughs and shoves Chris in the shoulder, but Vivian scoots her chair out and stands. Somehow, she catches my eye and smiles faintly, and I can’t help but smile back. Honestly, Vivian’s not so bad for an f-girl. I don’t even know if she counts as an f-girl. Maybe she’s like Ryan, living in the borderlands.

  The funny thing is, up until ninth grade or so, she was pretty close friends with Anderson. Not that Andy ever talks about that friend breakup. All I know is they were in church choir together, and they shared voice lessons twice a week, and their parents carpooled to auditions and singing competitions. But then Vivian joined the track team and ditched singing altogether. I guess she ditched Anderson altogether, too.

  I twist back around, mostly just to see if Andy noticed her, but he’s grinning down at his phone.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Oh. I’m just.” He holds his phone up to show me. “Lindsay sent me a meme.”

  “Lindsay Ward?” I look at him. “Didn’t know you guys text.”

  The meme itself is one I’ve seen a million times before, with some anime guy and a butterfly. But the text doesn’t quite compute.

  Anderson looks at me sheepishly. “Inside joke.”

  “Oh.”

  “From Senior D. But it’s not—yeah. Sorry.” He sets his phone down. “Sorry, we’re not really supposed to talk about it.”

  “Right.” My chest squeezes in a way I can’t quite explain. Raina and Brandie have moved on to speculating about auditions, but my eyes are locked on Andy’s. It’s like there’s a tiny force field around us.

  “Kate, it’s not . . . no.” Andy leans forward. “We just all kind of agreed not to talk about it, you know? Like what happens in Senior D stays in Senior D. It’s a circle of trust thing.”

  “I’m not part of the circle?”

  Andy doesn’t say anything.

  “Wow.”

  “Katy, it’s not like that.”

  “Then what’s it like?”

  “It’s not like anything. It would be shitty for me to talk about that class when we specifically agreed not to. That’s all.”

  “Right.” I exhale, more loudly than I mean to. “It’s just that you said you’d—”

  “I’m sorry, okay? I know I said I’d give you the play-by-play, but I’m literally not allowed to. It’s not—”

  “Andy! Okay, I get it. Sheesh.”

  He smiles at me tentatively. “You’re not pissed?”

  “No, I’m not pissed.” I bite my lip. “It’s just weird, you know? I’m not used to being on the outside of your inside jokes.”

  “I know—”

  “And I’m not used to there being off-limit topics between us.”

  I mean, Anderson knows when I’m on my period. I know his glasses prescription and his top five Chrissy Teigen tweets. He knows my wavy hair type. By number. I don’t even know my own hair number. And not to be morbid, but we know each other’s Instagram passwords, just in case one of us dies. Seriously. We know everything about each other.

  Anderson reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I’m not used to it either.”

  And maybe it’s just a reflex, but I can’t help but squeeze back.

  Scene 8

  Andy has a voice lesson after school, and my brother’s ghosting my texts. Which makes it a bus day for me. The one downside to not driving.

  I’ve got my laptop crammed in my bag on top of my school stuff. I used to car
ry around this neon duffel on Dad’s house days, big enough to hold three nights’ worth of stuff. At this point, though, I barely have anything to drag around with me. Ryan and I tend to have two of most things—two phone chargers, two toothbrushes, two closets of clothes. And my guitar pretty much stays in the trunk of Ryan’s car. It’s pretty seamless by now.

  When the bell rings, I get caught behind a pack of f-boys kicking a textbook across the floor. So I end up running to catch the bus, which leaves me breathless. Of course, I’m the last one on board.

  Of all people, Noah Kaplan’s in the front seat, cheated out with his back to the window. He’s got his arm in a navy sling today, tucked up tight to his chest. Normally, Noah drives. And even before he could, he wouldn’t have been caught dead in the front. But I guess broken wrists put a damper on that f-boy lifestyle. I catch his eye, and he nods. “Bus life,” he says.

  “Bus life,” I say. I settle in behind him and unwind my headphones. But the minute I tap into my music, Noah slides in beside me.

  “So Anderson ditched you?”

  “What? No—”

  “Wow. He abandoned you.” Noah shakes his head. “Sentenced you to bus hell.”

  “Anderson didn’t ditch me! He’s—”

  “—moved on to bigger and better things. I get it. Sometimes we outgrow our friendships, Little Garfield.”

  “Oh my God, you doofus.” I smack his shoulder. “He has a voice lesson.”

  Noah does this scrunchy-nose grin and scoots an inch closer. I make a big show of turning away from him and popping in my earbuds.

  “Here’s the thing, though,” Noah says.

  I swear, this boy can’t go two consecutive seconds without talking.

  He tips his palms up. “I don’t really get the point of voice lessons.”

  “Great. You don’t have to.”

  “Do they even work?” he asks. “Instruments, I get. You’re teaching a skill—”

  “How is singing not a skill?”

  “But like, either you can sing or you can’t, right? It’s not like you can just keep practicing till you’re Beyoncé.”