Kate in Waiting

by Becky Albertalli

  I blink. “Is Matt . . . anywhere? I don’t see him.”

  “Maybe he’s in one of the other rooms. Should we divide and—”

  “Are you insane?” I gape at Anderson. “Don’t you dare leave me. I could get killed.”

  As if on cue, a girl in a tie-dyed crop top staggers into me, barely catching her drink before it tumbles. “Oh my God.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  “It’s . . . fine,” I start to say, but she’s already mowing back into the crowd.

  “Okay, let’s be systematic,” says Anderson. “Why don’t we start moving toward the drinks table?”

  “You’re drinking?”

  “No!” Anderson presses his lips together gingerly. “But we should get red cups of water or something, to blend in. I don’t know. I don’t like this any more than you do.”

  “Ugh.” I wrinkle my nose. “Fine.”

  I swear, there’s a bubble around us. We move through the party, and no one talks to us. Occasionally, someone steps out of our way to let us pass—otherwise, I’d be convinced we were actually invisible.

  As it turns out, Vivian Yang is hovering in the doorway near the kitchen, clutching a red cup to her chest. She’s wearing a tank top, maxi skirt, and makeup, which kind of throws me. At school, she basically lives in track gear. Vivian’s so pretty, though, with her golden-brown skin and dark eyes and halo of hair. She just may be the only person in the world who makes florescent kitchen lighting look like sunshine. She looks up with a start when we join her. “Oh, hey.”

  “Hey,” replies Andy, too brightly.

  “Hey,” Vivian says again. “So this is really—”

  “Hey, congratulations!” Anderson says, at the exact same time.

  “Hey, you too!”

  Five heys in the span of ten seconds has to be some excruciating new record. Honestly, I don’t get their weird chemistry. It’s not romantic chemistry, but it’s something.

  Andy hesitates. “Really cool hearing you sing again,” he says finally.

  It’s hard to know where they stand. I don’t know much about what happened between them, other than the basics. Ninth grade. Vivian liked this guy Jeff Jacobs, from the track team, and I remember it being this whole big thing. Maybe it was supposed to be a secret crush that people found out about anyway. Or maybe Jeff had a girlfriend. I legit can’t remember. But the point is, Vivian joined track and basically stopped talking to Andy. And that’s it. There wasn’t even a fight. It was more like turning the volume down on their friendship.

  Vivian tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “That audition was intense. God. I was so nervous.”

  “It didn’t show,” Andy says.

  “Well.” Vivian looks from Anderson to me. “You guys were both incredible.”

  My cheeks go warm. “No, you were! Oh my God. You were seriously wonderful.”

  “Oh!” She smiles sheepishly. “Thank you.”

  She’s so sincere, I’m almost startled. I mean, how badass is Vivian? Just a plain old thank you, with no deflection or denial. Maybe I’m just wired wrong, but I don’t even know if I’m capable of that. When someone compliments me, I always, always feel the need to counter it. I take your compliment . . . and raise you a BIGGER compliment.

  But Vivian just let the compliment land—and it makes me feel so weirdly buoyant. Like maybe my compliment actually meant something to her. Maybe she cared about my opinion enough to let it touch her.

  “Anyway,” says Andy. “Have you seen Matt?”

  Vivian tilts her head. “The new guy? I don’t think so.”

  I peer past her into the kitchen. No blond Matt heads, not even half hidden beneath an improperly anchored baseball cap. Not that Matt would ever wear an improperly anchored baseball cap. He would never. And he’s apparently nowhere. Though—wow. Or as my mom would say: oy.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Is that . . . Noah?”

  I mean, it’s definitely Noah, back pressed against the refrigerator, enthusiastically making out with some girl with long dark hair and patches on the butt of her shorts. His non-cast hand is sliding up and down her back, almost methodically, and he keeps switching between glomping her neck and glomping her mouth. I can’t look away. Wow. I mean, I knew he was skanky, but wow, Noah.

  “Oh please,” says Anderson. “In front of the fridge?”

  “They were going to get drinks,” explains Vivian, “but they didn’t make it.”

  I blink. “We’re in hell.”

  Suddenly, Anderson’s face lights up. “Hey, Matt’s here.”

  “Where?”

  Andy taps his phone. “He just texted. He had to rescue a drunk guy on the back patio, but he wants to know where we are. I’ll just tell him we’re coming to the patio, okay?”

  “Wait.” I look up at Andy. “You and Matt text?”

  “I mean, it’s not a thing. It was really just to coordinate the audition rehearsal.”

  “Right.” My voice comes out soft.

  “Um,” Vivian says slowly. “I’m going to run to the restroom.”

  I glance up at her, startled—and thoroughly, electrically self-conscious. Cool. No big deal. Just me and Andy being so transparently thirsty that people have to run for the bathroom to escape the radius of our awkward.

  “Come on,” Andy says, grabbing my hand. I lace our fingers together, out of sheer habit, even though a part of me wants to beam myself away from him, beam myself out of this party, beam myself home. Instead, I trail half a step behind Andy, feeling mostly numb. It always takes me a minute to acclimate to unsettling news. I always have to find the way back to myself again.

  Not that this is even newsworthy. I mean. Two humans exchanged phone numbers to coordinate an activity outside of school. An activity to which I was even invited. And the fact that Matt hasn’t asked for my number doesn’t mean anything. No big deal. It’s nothing.

  Sean Sanders’s back patio is mostly just a few squares of concrete, jutting out into the grass of his expansive backyard. There’s a covered-up Big Green Egg grill off to one side and a whole bunch of plastic chairs arranged in clusters. A few f-boys are sitting there, drinking and smoking and laughing and watching other f-boys play flip cup at a table in the yard. But Matt’s removed from the action—we find him sitting cross-legged with his back against the side of Sean’s house. Sitting beside him is a flushed, baby-faced f-boy wearing a sleeveless jersey and the requisite unanchored baseball cap.

  The boy grins up at us. “Hiiiiiiiiiiiii, Fiona.”

  “He’s been calling me Fiona, too,” Matt says. “I’m just rolling with it.”

  “Who is this?” Andy asks.

  “No idea.”

  “I’m driiiiink,” the guy explains.

  Anderson just stares at him for a minute, unblinking—and then he snaps back into himself. “Okay, buddy bro, I’m just gonna . . .” Andy squats in front of the drunk boy, reaching toward his head, and for a moment, I’m bizarrely convinced Andy’s going to slap this f-boy’s face. But instead, he grabs the drunk guy’s hat, rotates the brim forward, and tugs the hat firmly onto his head. “Yup. Wow, okay. That was satisfying.”

  “So you just found this guy wandering around out here?” I ask Matt. “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah. I mean, he seems fine. But I found him lying down on the concrete, which was kind of—I don’t know. He said he was stargazing. I just don’t want to leave him alone until we find his friends, I guess?”

  Okay, so Matt’s a literal angel. Just look at him. First party at an entirely new school, and he’s already taking drunk strangers under his wing. I’m not particularly religious, but even I can recognize a biblical situation when I see one. Sacrificing his own night to help a stranger in need. Talk about a worthy crush. Eric Graves would never.

  “Maybe we should go back in and look for someone named Fiona?”

  “Nope.” Anderson settles in across from Matt, so close their knees are almost touching. �
�I’d rather babysit this drunk f-boy disaster all night long than go back in there.”

  Matt laughs. “Totally one hundred percent agree. Kate?”

  I sink onto the concrete. “Literally always up for not partying.”

  “Yassssss,” affirms the drunk boy.

  A cheer erupts from the flip cup table, and I look up in time to catch Chris Wrigley pouring a cup of beer over his own face. Ryan and Noah have drifted out to the patio too, hovering around the edges of the group. I don’t see the butt-patch girl, not that I care, but Noah’s certainly showing off that chaotically disheveled makeout hair. Of course, he catches me staring and shoots me a beaming, drunk smile.

  I look away quickly, but that’s a mistake too.

  Jack Randall appears to be humping the Big Green Egg grill.

  Scene 23

  Nine in the morning on Saturday, and Noah Kaplan’s in my kitchen. No Dad, no Ryan, no dogs. Just Noah at our kitchen table with a bag of braided challah, rolling a wad of it into a bread ball. The classic Noah technique.

  “Sup, Little Garfield?”

  I pause. “What are you doing here?”

  I mean, it’s not like it’s the first time I’ve come down in my pajamas to find Noah helping himself to the contents of Dad’s pantry. But today feels different, for some reason. I guess my mind keeps sliding back to that vision by Sean Sanders’s fridge—the girl with the patches on the butt of her shorts, Noah’s hand on her back. The way their faces kept squishing and unsquishing. Like, wow. That was sloppy. A cringingly, sloppily, vomity-gross kiss. The true kiss of an f-boy with absolutely no shame.

  I guess it’s just weird having that kind of f-boy in my kitchen.

  “I live here now,” Noah says calmly.

  I roll my eyes. “Sure.”

  “Nah, I came back with Ryan.”

  “Ryan drove?” I sink into the chair across from Noah, remembering my brother’s flushed, smiley face. The red cup. “He was drunk!”

  “You can put your jaw back up, Little G. Madison drove. Good party, right?” He smiles. “You looked so cute. I like your hair like that.” He pantomimes clipping his hair back on the sides. I never know how to respond when Noah says stuff like that. I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me.

  So I change the subject. “Who’s Madison? And please tell me she’s not, like, in my brother’s bed right now.” I reach across the table to grab a chunk of challah.

  “Nah, she went home.”

  “And why aren’t you home?”

  “Because Livy’s having a slumber party, and you know I can’t go scandalizing the youngsters.”

  As if Livy Kaplan could even be scandalized at this point. Not only is she a very worldly seven to begin with, she’s the youngest of four. Noah and Livy have not one, but two older sisters in college.

  “So.” Noah props his chin in his hand. “I heard you asked about me last night.”

  My cheeks flush. “Excuse me?”

  “Vivian said—”

  “Vivian said I asked about you?”

  He tilts his head back and forth, eyes twinkling.

  “Okay, first of all, I didn’t ask about you. I saw you suctioned to your girlfriend’s face, and I asked if it was you—”

  “Madison’s not my girlfriend,” he says. “We’re friends.”

  “Friends?” I splutter.

  “And also—” Noah cuts himself off, popping another bite of challah into his mouth. “Also, if you actually saw me suctioned to Madison’s face—”

  “I did.”

  “Then why did you ask if it was me?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You said you weren’t asking about me, you were asking if it was me. But you also said you saw me, with your own two eyes, so I’m just asking—”

  “Oh my God. Stop.”

  He shrugs—and for a minute, I just sit there, glowering at him across the table.

  “Okay,” he says, after a moment. “So what’s second of all?”

  “What?”

  “You said, first of all, you didn’t ask about me, which is absolutely debatable, in my opinion, but you never closed the loop. You never said what—”

  “Second of all, maybe you should go practice your lines. Right now.”

  Noah shuts one eye thoughtfully. “But my character’s mute.”

  “Exactly,” I say, reaching across the table. Then I snatch away the challah, cradling it like a baby as I stalk out of the room.

  Scene 24

  My hype level for the first day of rehearsal is off the charts. I spend all of Monday trying to activate my clock telekinesis skills, but it’s no use. I’m pretty sure at least ten years have passed by the time the three-forty dismissal bell chimes.

  But as soon as I reach the auditorium, I know it’s worth it.

  First rehearsals are glorious. They just are. It’s all of us here, even the techies, and the stage lights are off, so everything’s cool and still.

  “I’d like to get to our read-through today,” says Ms. Zhao. “But first, I want to focus for a while on ensemble building. I want you to feel comfortable enough to take risks—which is a lot to ask, I know. But I need you to get to a place where you really trust each other.”

  Everyone nods solemnly, like this is some earth-shattering wisdom. And maybe it is. Or maybe wisdom doesn’t need to shatter the earth. It just needs to feel true. And sitting here in a metal folding chair, tucked between Raina and Brandie, what could be truer?

  “As we move forward, we’ll be splitting into smaller groups sometimes, and we’ll schedule intensive pair or trio rehearsals for some of the principals—Winnifred and Dauntless, Larken and Harry, etcetera.”

  Matt catches my eye and winks, and I swear, it makes my organs rearrange. I mean. I don’t think my brain has fully grasped the fact that I’ve been cast in a musical opposite Matt Olsson.

  I get intensive rehearsals with Matt Olsson.

  And.

  I get to kiss Matt Olsson.

  “But.” Zhao’s hand goes still, and then she lifts a single finger. “Every week, every Monday, I’d like to come back to this. Full cast, full ensemble. And that may happen even more frequently than once a week. Take a minute to look around.”

  I do—everyone does. We all just sit there for a minute, peering around the circle of bodies onstage. There’s Anderson, straight-backed and cross-legged in his chair; Vivian, in navy gym shorts; Matt looking like his usual dreamboat self. Next to him is Emma McLeod, fiddling with the wheels on the manual wheelchair she uses for theater stuff. Devon Blackwell, meanwhile, is idly threading his hair with the tips of his fingers, like his head is the prize in a claw machine.

  And there’s Zhao herself, tattoos poking out of her plaid button-down. “For the next two months, we’re family,” she says. “It’s not always going to be easy, but we’re going to build that foundation of trust as an ensemble. And that starts today.”

  Turns out, that means theater games. We play a couple rounds of The West Wind Blows, before moving on to the human knot, and then it’s trust falls, which I suck at. Even when I’m paired with Anderson, I suck at them. I can’t stop my body from trying to catch itself. But it’s okay, and no one really judges me, and before I know it, we’re moving on to that game where you have to silently arrange yourselves in order by birthday.

  And then it’s time for the read-through.

  Pierra, Lindsay, and Margaret don’t really have speaking parts, so they spend the whole time interpreting the script into a dance. A vaguely inappropriate dance, involving a fair amount of crotch grabbing, all of it happening right behind Ms. Zhao’s back. At one point, Pierra lines the spine of her script to her breastbone, opening the pages in a sudden, sexy thrust, like she’s yanking open her shirt. But when Zhao turns around, they all freeze. It’s like one of those old Super Mario games with the little ghosts that look like cream puffs.

  So now Anderson and Vivian keep smirking at each other, and the freshmen look compl
etely delighted. Even Brandie’s grinning in her self-contained way. But no one’s enjoying this more than Matt, and it’s the cutest thing ever. Like. I cannot get enough of the little skip in his voice, the way he keeps rushing through his lines to keep from giggling. It’s not working.

  Also, when he giggles, I giggle.

  Which makes for some very giggly Larken/Harry arguments.

  I swear, this is why I do theater. It’s not about the tiny spotlights or the attention or the final bow or any of that.

  I mean, maybe it is sometimes. A little bit.

  But mostly it’s this. This filled-to-the-brim feeling, this absolute rightness. I don’t know what it is about play rehearsals, but it’s really like that sometimes. You get these moments that feel rare and gifted and almost too good to be real. That exact perfect half point between giddiness and contentment. Half roller coaster, half rocking chair.

  And just when I think this moment couldn’t possibly get any sweeter, there’s Matt, scooting in beside me at the edge of the stage, our legs dangling down over the orchestra pit. Matt’s jeans next to my jeans. “Hey, let me know if you need a ride home,” he says. “You’re right on my way.”

  I look up, turning to face him. “Oh!”

  I mean. This can’t be real, right? Did that actually just happen? Did Matt Olsson just offer me a ride home from rehearsal?

  A ride home. Me. Kate Eliza Garfield.

  But then again—

  Anderson. Who’s staring past us, stiff-backed and stoic, clutching his messenger bag a little too tightly.

  “I’m just saying, I wouldn’t have minded.”

  Anderson’s eyes are glued to the road. He’s squeezing the wheel so hard, I swear his knuckles might burst through his skin.

  “You wouldn’t have minded? Andy, you look like you’re trying to choke the steering wheel.”

  “Excuse me for being a safe driver.”

  “Andy, come on.” I poke him. “Come on! Stop being mad. I’m right here. With you. Do you really think I would have ditched you?”

  “To ride with Matt Olsson?” he asks. Then he shrugs, like I dunno, you tell me.