Kate in Waiting

by Becky Albertalli

  “Oh no! No, I’ll drive you. Don’t worry about the tea. We’ll leave straight from school.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just—I promised . . . Noah.”

  Raina snorts. “Noah Kap—” she starts to say but quickly clamps her mouth shut, flipping frantically through her notebook. Bye, f-boy. Bye, f-boy. Bye, f-boy. She stabs the words repeatedly with her pointer finger.

  I cover my face. “I knooooooow.”

  “I don’t get it,” says Anderson.

  “I’m supposed to teach him how to sing.”

  “Okay, that’s random.” Andy reaches for my hand across the table. “Can you get out of it?”

  “No. I don’t know.”

  God. Of fucking course. The one day—literally the one day I make plans without the squad, Matt Olsson enters the picture. And yeah, I guess I could ditch Noah. One afternoon certainly won’t make or break his singing voice. But this kind of situation throws me. I’m allergic to making choices. At least I’m allergic to choosing between people. I mean, on the one hand, I have my best friends, my whole squad, and the cutest boy in the universe, all of whom would like me to spend my afternoon with them rehearsing for the musical I can’t stop daydreaming about. On the other hand, there’s Noah, a literal f-boy, who basically tricked me into hanging out in the first place.

  The thing is, I’m not a person who blows off commitments.

  Holy shit, though. The thought of the squad and Matt rehearsing without me.

  I guess a tiny part of me is relieved it’s not just Andy and Matt. Raina and Brandie will keep things cockblocked. But even that thought is so strange. Cockblocking Anderson. It’s never even crossed my mind before. Why would it? It would be like tripping my own dance partner. Pointless and absurd, practically a self-own. But maybe it’s different with Matt. I don’t know what the rules are here. We’ve never had a communal crush turn into a real crush before.

  “I’m so mad at myself right now.” I sigh into the sleeve of my flannel.

  “You’ll be fine. Just remember, no dairy.” Anderson narrows his eyes slyly. “Noah can have dairy.”

  “You’re evil,” says Brandie.

  “What? I don’t care if he’s Kate’s protégé. He’s my competition.”

  “Noah’s not my protégé.” I can’t help but smile, just a little. “And he’s definitely, definitely not your competition.”

  Scene 18

  In fact, Noah’s even worse than I thought.

  “Middle C,” I say. “Just—” I sing a quick quarter note, no frills or vibrato.

  Noah’s perched on the edge of my bed, arm tucked into his sling. And yeah, his back is straight, so he gets points for posture. But vocally?

  “Ahhhhh . . .”

  “You sound like you’re getting a strep test.”

  Noah beams. “Is that good?”

  “No.”

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .”

  “Maybe just hum it.”

  “Mmmmmmmmm.” He glances up at me. “How’s that?”

  “Better.”

  It’s not better. He’s basically picking notes at random. If I hadn’t been in choir with him, I’d swear he was messing with me.

  “This room’s so different from your mom’s house.” He leans back on his good elbow, peering up at my canopy. “It’s like a little kid’s room.”

  “Um, okay. No one asked—”

  “I don’t think this room has changed since middle school. Like, you haven’t moved a single piece of paper on the desk, have you?”

  “So what?”

  It’s true—my room at Dad’s house is a museum of me. I’ve got my most loved teddy bear twins, Amber and Ember. The walls are pink, still covered with Rapunzel decals, and the bed’s a canopy, because I was That Kid. There’s a ceramic tea set on my dresser, a massive bookcase, plus a giant bin full of doll clothes, featuring a few too many hand-sewn togas from Brandie and Raina’s short-lived American Girl Fashion Designer phase. I mean, it’s nothing Noah hasn’t seen before. If it were Matt, though, I’d die.

  Of course, Matt’s currently at Anderson’s house without me.

  “Let’s try singing along with the soundtrack,” I say quickly.

  “Aye-aye, Captain.”

  “All right. Which one are you using for your audition?”

  “No idea.”

  “Okay . . .” I hook my phone to my speaker and start flipping through my music library. “Which songs do you know the lyrics to?”

  But when I glance back at Noah, he’s lying all the way back, with his arm behind his head and his eyes closed.

  “Noah?”

  He sits up with a start. “Wait, what?”

  “Did you just fall asleep?”

  “Nooooo.” He smiles crookedly. “Maybe.”

  “Noah!”

  I just gape at him. This is unreal. I’m missing the ultimate squad rehearsal for this. For this f-boy, who’s literally sleeping through the favor I’m doing for him. Seriously? I’m not asking you to be Josh Groban. Just be, like, physically awake. Not a high bar to pass.

  “I’m up!” He nudges my arm. “Come on. Katy. What was the question?”

  I blink slowly. “Which songs do you know the lyrics for?”

  “Which songs in general?”

  “From Once Upon a Mattress.”

  “Oh, right.” He nods. “None. Haven’t listened to it yet.”

  I laugh flatly. “You’re joking.”

  “No one told me I had to memorize it.”

  “Well you don’t, but.” I just look at him. I mean, it’s baffling. Maybe this is just that aggressively casual f-boy mentality. But if you’re going to be that unprepared, why bother auditioning? Okay, technically, he’s required to audition, for Senior D. But Noah’s the one who was so dead set on getting a singing part.

  Which isn’t happening, by the way. Like, super not happening.

  I shake my head. “Noah, how—”

  But I’m drowned out by squealing tires and a deep thudding bass, followed by a car door slamming shut.

  “Sounds like someone’s home from practice,” I say.

  A minute later, Ryan appears in my doorway, wearing a baseball hat that he promptly takes off. “How’s the lesson going?” He smooths his hair down and sits gingerly at my desk, like he’s trying to minimize the sweat-to-chair contamination.

  “You mean how hard am I nailing this?” Noah says, and then he pauses like he’s really considering it. “Pretty hard,” he concludes.

  I just shake my head. Nope.

  “Did you get a ride from Sean?” asks Noah, and Ryan nods.

  Wow. Sean Sanders, a true fuckboy icon. A boy who spends most of his time posting shirtless selfies that show his V-line, with captions that use “your” and “you’re” completely interchangeably.

  “Gross.” I wrinkle my nose.

  Noah looks intrigued. “You think Sean’s gross?”

  “I mean, he’s not gross. He’s just an asshole.”

  “Really! How so?”

  “You want me to explain why Sean Sanders is an asshole?”

  “Yeah, what did he do?”

  What did Sean do? I don’t even know how to respond to that. Is Sean an asshole? Of course. But it’s not his actions, per se. He’s just a fuckboy. It’s just his basic fuckboy essence.

  But even I have to admit, fuckboy essence is kind of nebulous. Probably wouldn’t hold up in a court of law as a murder defense, for example.

  I shake my head. “The real question is, why are you guys even friends with him?”

  “With Sean?” Ryan says. He and Noah exchange glances. “I mean, I’m not, like, super tight with him.”

  “He drove you home.”

  “He was dropping someone else off nearby. He’s not a bad dude.” Ryan pauses, meeting my eyes. “Right?”

  “Right. No, you’re right.” Something tugs in my chest. “He hasn’t done anything to me.”

  “Okay, good.” He hesitates. “Let me know
if he does.”

  I stare up at my canopy, feeling thick-throated and strange. It’s not that I mind when Ryan does the protective big brother thing. It’s just, my heart never quite knows where to land with it. Because at the end of the day, Ryan still lifts weights with Eric Graves. He still sees Mira Reynolds at parties. And sometimes I just want to scream in his face. Did you forget? Do you not care?

  “You know what the issue is?” says Noah.

  I blink. “That you guys have shitty friends?”

  “Good guess. But no.” Noah grins. “Little G, the issue here is that you don’t understand sports.”

  “Oh, yay. This again—”

  “Hear me out. I’m talking about team stuff, okay? Take Sean, for example. You asked why we’re friends with him, which I get. Super legit question, because, to the untrained eye, sure. That’s what it looks like.”

  I sit up straight, scowling. “I don’t have untrained eyes.”

  “I’m just saying. You don’t know what it’s like to be on a team.”

  “Excuse me? I used to play soccer.”

  “You were six,” Ryan reminds me. “You cried every game because you were scared the ball would hit you.”

  “Because it did! Right in the foot!”

  “That’s the game,” says Ryan. “Like, that’s the whole entire game.”

  “Okay, well, so what? I know what teams are—”

  “But.” Noah raises a finger. “You don’t get team dynamics. You’re trying to compare it to friendship, but it’s not the same thing. It’s like this.” He grabs my teddy bears, Amber and Ember. “These two. They fucking hate each other, right?”

  “Um, no. They love each other—”

  “But let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that they hate each other. Wait, no. Okay, it’s more like a vague mutual dislike.” He turns the bears to face each other. “But the thing is, they’re kind of stuck together, right? They’re hanging out here together in your bed all day, and—you sleep with them, right?” He looks at me. “Yeah, you totally do. So all day and all night, these two little dudes—”

  “They’re girls!”

  “Pardon me! These two ladies. These pretty, pretty little lady bears—”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Just listen! So, what I’m saying is, you’ve got these two fine young women who are basically forced together twenty-four seven. And let’s take it to the next level, okay? So Beary and Bundles here—”

  “Amber and Ember! Show some respect—”

  “All right, so Amber and Ember are not only constant companions, they also have to work together, right? Let’s say they have some common task to complete. Like . . .” He looks at Ryan, who shrugs. “Okay. I don’t know,” says Noah, “I don’t know bears. I don’t know their lives. But the point is, even though they’re not friends, and they may not even really get along, they pretty much have to find a way to be generally cool with each other. Otherwise it just sucks for everyone.”

  I snatch the bears back and hug them. “Got it. Cool story.”

  “So what I’m saying,” Noah continues, unfazed, “is that when you’re on a team—”

  “You realize this is the exact same dynamic as a theater ensemble, right?”

  “No, no, no. It’s different. It’s more like—Ry, help me out here. You know what I’m saying, right?”

  “Something about teddy bears?” Ryan rests his chin on his fist.

  “Shut up. No. You guys are both—ugh.”

  Ryan and I exchange the tiniest smiles.

  “You know what?” Noah slides off the bed, turning to face me. “Here’s what has to happen. Kate, you need to go to a game. One game, okay? Promise me. Doesn’t even have to be baseball.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Football. All right? I’ll make a deal with you. Little Garfield, you go to one football game with me, and I want you to really pay attention to how the players interact. Okay? On and off the field. The whole dynamic. I’ll talk you through it. You’ll get it.”

  “How is that a deal—”

  “I’m not done! So, if you do that—one game, but you have to really focus, okay? And in return . . .” He pauses thoughtfully. “I’ll sing a whole song onstage.”

  I laugh. “That’s not an incentive.”

  “Just think about it.” Noah gestures vaguely at Amber and Ember. “You three ladies talk among yourselves—”

  I throw both bears at his head before he even closes his mouth.

  Scene 19

  Three and a half minutes after the final bell rings on Thursday, Andy and I are in the auditorium. Center section, six rows from the front, carefully calculated to be the ideal seat for audition spying. Andy sinks into his chair. “How are you holding up?”

  “Fine. Good. Are you nervous? I’m nervous.” I drum my hands along the armrest. “Why does this never get easy?”

  Anderson nods without speaking.

  “You got this, though. You’re going to be so good, Andy. I swear to God, you’ll get Dauntless. It’s not even a question—”

  He cuts me off. “I think Matt’s going to get it.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Seriously? You’ve heard him sing.”

  “I’ve heard you sing, too,” I say.

  But Anderson just sighs. “Like, what if Zhao does the seniority thing again this year? Or what if I just fucking bomb it?”

  “You’re not going to bomb it!”

  “You don’t know that. You’re not psychic.”

  “Andy, you’ve never bombed an audition in your life.”

  And it’s true. If Anderson wants to play Prince Dauntless, I’d be shocked if he didn’t get it. After all, he’s a triple threat. An obnoxiously talented triple threat.

  They should make a word for the mix of pride and envy you get when someone you love is really good at a thing. It’s like you want them to win so badly it feels personal. But also the thought of them winning makes you almost sick with longing.

  Because when it comes down to it, I’m not as talented as Andy. I’m just not. I’ve never been. I don’t have the magic singing voice or the comic timing or the charisma. I’ve never been the last to bow at curtain call. Maybe I’m just not a final bow person.

  I’m more of a “this is so embarrassing, I literally can’t watch” kind of person.

  Raina slips in through the side hall, amped and ready. She pats her phone. “Harold says break a leg.”

  “Aww. Thanks, Harold. Cutie.”

  “I know.” She leans over Anderson and me, craning her neck. “Where’s Zhao?”

  “I guess she’s—”

  But she cuts me off, eyes narrowed toward the entrance. “And why is Vivian Yang here?”

  “What?” I twist around, stomach sinking. It’s not that I dislike Vivian. I mean, I’m not exactly a fan of the way she ditched Andy out of nowhere to join the f-force, but I get that it was ninth grade. It’s just that Vivian’s not exactly a theater kid. I don’t think she’s ever tried out for a musical before in her life.

  But she can sing. That I know, and not just from Anderson’s voice studio performances. Vivian did the national anthem every few months at elementary school assemblies. And all those singing competitions Vivian and Andy carpooled to back in the day? Vivian won them. I mean, she pretty much won all of them. It’s not exactly surprising, given that her parents are both legit professional musicians. Her mom’s R&B group even opened for Blaque once in the nineties. Vivian sounds a lot like her mom, too. She’s got one of those voices where she sounds like an alto tonally, but she’s not. She’s an uber-soprano. I’m pretty sure she can sing notes only my dogs could hear.

  I sigh. “Fuck.”

  “Okay, where’s Zhao?” Raina asks. “And where’s Matt?”

  There’s a honk of piano notes, so loud we all jump. I glance up at the stage, and go figure—it’s Noah. I don’t know what it is about f-boys and musical instruments. It’s like they have to touch
everything and be as disruptive as humanly possible. Noah looks so startled, you’d think he was just now learning what happens when you press the keys of a piano.

  The after-school late bell rings, and I spare one last glance at the auditorium doors. Brandie rushes in, and then Ms. Zhao and the music teacher both emerge from the wings, talking to Devon Blackwell, the student director—cute in a grungy, floppy-haired musician kind of way, with a double-blink tic I’ve always found really endearing. We used to talk a lot at rehearsals last spring, mostly about music, and for a while, I thought . . . maybe. But Andy wasn’t feeling him. So. Yeah.

  Anyway, most of us know the drill. The music teacher, Mr. Daniels, takes the bench, while Zhao and Devon sort of hover beside him. And then they call people up to sing, one by one. You have to hand it to them, though—they’re not assholes about auditions. In movies, you always see people having to perform alone on a stage like they’re on Broadway or The Voice. But Zhao, Devon, and Mr. D keep it chill. Just you and them on the stage, no microphone. And yeah, everyone’s listening from the auditorium seats, but the piano accompaniment hides some of the messiness. Zhao’s really big on not humiliating students, which is surprisingly rare for a teacher.

  Lindsay Ward is up first, and I try not to look super obvious about leaning forward. She’s singing “Happily Ever After,” which means she’s going for Winnifred. She’s not bad. I sneak a glance at Mr. D’s face behind the piano. He does this thing sometimes where his lips purse in and out while he’s playing. Raina calls it the Suckle. He only does it when he’s super in the zone.

  I’d say Mr. D’s giving Lindsay a basic polite head bob. Definitely no Suckle. But then again, Lindsay’s a senior, which makes her a threat. You never know which way Zhao’s going to go.

  “Hey,” Matt says breathlessly, sinking into the aisle seat beside me. “Am I late?”

  “You’re good. How are you feeling?”

  Anderson leans over me to high-five him. “Made it.”

  Matt grins. “Phew.”

  “He had to finish an English quiz,” Anderson says, because apparently Andy’s the keeper of Matt’s schedule now.

  But then Matt leans closer, lips an inch from my ear. “So, Anderson tells me you’ve got Winnifred in the bag.”