Kate in Waiting

by Becky Albertalli

  And wow. Wow.

  “Okay, when have I ever ditched you for Matt. Ever?”

  Like, for real? Is Andy even serious right now? I could have had Matt completely to myself that night at Mom’s house, but no. The second I found out he would be there, I texted Anderson. But Andy? Practiced for auditions with Matt when I couldn’t be there. Joined Senior D with Matt. Exchanged numbers with Matt.

  But somehow Andy’s pissed at me because Matt offered me a ride home from rehearsal? A ride that I turned down?

  You can kind of see Anderson putting all of that together—the way he exhales, the way his jaw clenches. And sure enough, when the light ahead of us turns red, he turns briefly to face me. “Katypie, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. I get it. It’s weird.”

  “It’s insane. I feel like this jealous monster. Every time he looks at you, I’m just like, fuck my whole life.” He does this choked little laugh, and his lip trembles just barely, and oh. He looks so much like seventh-grade Andy right now, it makes my chest hurt.

  It’s a full minute before either of us speak.

  “Kate, I like him,” Andy says finally. “I think I really, really like him.”

  Scene 25

  When we were younger, Anderson used to cry over everything—spiders and splinters and overly loud fireworks. Once he sobbed for an hour when he bit into a chunk of Oreo fudge that turned out to be blue cheese.

  But by the beginning of seventh grade, the tears mostly stopped.

  I’m not saying Anderson stopped being dramatic. He’s like the sovereign king of rants. No one—literally no one—knows how to give a rant like Anderson. I’ve seen him obliterate GOP senators, racist beauty gurus, Gone With the Wind, you name it. And his takedown of Rachel Dolezal could legit be a TED Talk. My favorite is always the halfway point, where Andy says, “Okay, whatever, I’m done. I’m over it.” But then, a split second later: “Okay, but ALSO, can I just say—”

  I don’t know. It’s like somewhere along the line, Andy figured out you could be funny and upset all at once. And that people are way less weird about hilarious rants than they are about crying boys. But the wobbly lip thing is another beast entirely. That I’ve only seen him do once before.

  It was the Saturday after Eva Cohen’s bat mitzvah. Anderson and I had been kind of bashful around each other all week. No one knew about the kiss. Definitely not Raina or Brandie, and I know Andy didn’t tell Vivian. The whole thing seemed so surreal. The morning after the kiss, we kept sneaking our phones out in Sunday school and church. Andy asked me to be his girlfriend in a paragraph-long text, riddled with adverbs and nervous disclaimers. I said yes with an “I’ll be your Batman” gif from Teen Wolf, Andy’s obsession at the time. And I really meant it. I was on cloud nine the whole day.

  But school the next day was like stepping into a funhouse. Everything was off-kilter. We tried holding hands on the bus on Monday, but it felt ridiculous, so we stopped. And then we mostly just hung out the same way we normally did, other than being a little bit shyer and more smiley with each other. It wasn’t exactly what I’d expected. But I remember thinking, maybe that’s how getting a boyfriend always feels. Maybe romantic relationships are just friendships gone weird.

  Of course, it wasn’t until Saturday that we were actually alone together. Normally I’d wander over to Andy’s house after breakfast in sweatpants, but this time I’d blow-dried my hair and even whipped out my new cherry ChapStick.

  But Andy was in the strangest mood that day—quiet and preoccupied, almost broody. We ended up watching The Maze Runner on his laptop, and when it ended, he jumped up to brush his teeth. Then he asked if he could kiss me again.

  And the kiss was nice. Calm and sweet. But when I opened my eyes, his lower lip was trembling. He looked like he was trying not to cry. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Oh.” My stomach twisted. “That’s—”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “No, no. It’s fine. I get it. You’re my best friend, and it’s weird. It makes total sense.”

  But Anderson was shaking his head. “I think I’m gay,” he said softly.

  When I hugged him, he burst into tears.

  Scene 26

  Anderson’s words hang in the air the whole way home.

  Kate, I like him. I think I really, really like him.

  I swear, every friend bone in my body is screaming for me to suck the tension out of this situation. It would be incredibly easy. I could do it in one sentence.

  “Andy,” I say softly.

  Andy, this Matt thing—you should go for it.

  I could tell him I’m not interested in Matt. I could offer to be Andy’s wingwoman. I mean, I can’t make Matt Olsson like boys if he doesn’t, but at least it could stop feeling like a competition. Everything could just be normal. Like a normal crush and a normal lovesick Andy and a normal best friend Kate.

  The only problem is, I don’t feel normal. Not about Matt.

  “I think I like him, too,” I say. I barely recognize my own voice. It’s soft but certain. Like maybe my voice knew how I felt before my brain did. “I really like him.”

  “I know.” He sighs.

  “But we’ll be fine, okay?” I drum on the armrest, eyes fixed to Anderson’s profile. “Seriously. It’s not like we haven’t done this before.”

  “Done what?”

  “Communal crushes. I mean, that’s like our thing, right?”

  Andy shakes his head. “Not like this. Not for real.”

  We’re both quiet, for what feels like centuries, until finally Andy turns on the car’s Bluetooth player. Like maybe hip-hop will drown out the awkwardness.

  But out of every song in the universe, the one that plays is—I’m not even kidding—“The Boy Is Mine.” Like. Holy shit. This song is literally two decades old—more than two decades old. And I don’t even think it counts as hip-hop. The only reason it’s even in Anderson’s music collection is because his mom gets really into Brandy when she’s feeling midlife crisis-y. I cannot fucking believe this song just started playing.

  “Is God speaking to us through your Bluetooth?” I ask.

  Suddenly, Anderson pulls over, even though we’re less than five minutes from Dad’s house. He jabs the button to turn on his hazards, and for a minute he just sits there, hands over his face. Shoulders shaking. He’s leaning so far forward, I’m legitimately concerned he might honk the horn with his rib cage.

  It takes me a full sixty seconds to realize he’s not crying—he’s laughing. “Wow. Are we the biggest clichés ever?”

  “I think so.” I grin. “It’s kind of our specialty.”

  “Well, we’re not going to do this. Fighting over a boy? That is some grade-A f-force bullshit, and I’m not here for it.”

  My heart swells. “Neither am I.”

  “Katypie, I’m so sorry. I’m done being an asshole.” He leans over the gearshift and wraps his arms around me tight. “I love you so much. None of this matters. The Matt stuff? Doesn’t matter. I love you.”

  I lean into his hug, my eyes prickling with tears. “I love you, too.”

  “You smell like laundry detergent,” Andy murmurs, into my shirt. “Just FYI.”

  I hug him even tighter.

  And that’s how we sit, for five minutes straight. Kind of like one of those drive-through movie makeout couples, but without the movie or the makeouts.

  I am so platonically in love with Anderson Walker, it makes my brain hurt.

  Scene 27

  So we’re fine. At least, I think we are.

  But every time I talk to Matt, the Anderson stuff bubbles right back up to the surface. Anderson likes this boy. Anderson really likes this boy. But I really like this boy, too. And it’s all turning out to be a little more complicated than I thought it would be.

  Especially at rehearsal.

  “So we’ve got Harry kneeling,” says Ms. Zhao. “And, Larken, go ahead and stand right u
p next to him.” I take a step downstage, toward Matt. “Closer . . . closer. Right next to him, Kate.”

  Matt looks up at me, smiling the gentlest smile imaginable.

  “And let’s have you lean back a little bit and put your hand on your hip—other hand. Great. Okay, and Matt?”

  “Yup!” He straightens his shoulders and does this dorky obedient nod. It’s so cute, it almost hurts. Andy says Matt’s like that in Senior D, too. Super respectful of Ms. Zhao. Like, soldier-level respectful.

  “And, Matt, let’s have you rest your head right there on her stomach.”

  My stomach. Wow. So now my heart’s like a hummingbird. I know exactly what Zhao’s going for. She’s obviously recreating that iconic pose from the Broadway revival with Jane Krakowski and Lewis Cleale. It’s an undeniably cute pose for a secretly pregnant lady and lord. Larken looks like a total boss mom-to-be, and I love the idea of Harry trying to listen to the baby through her princess skirt. So, artistically? I’m into it. It’s just that I didn’t exactly wake up today thinking Matt’s cheek would be on my stomach.

  Matt peers up at me, tilting his head. He’s got this look on his face like he’s asking permission.

  Deep breath. I catch his eye and nod.

  And . . . okay, so far, so good. I mean, it doesn’t feel sexual or anything. I’m actually not as self-conscious as I thought I’d be. I guess Matt doesn’t really seem like an abs guy. Which is good, seeing as I’m a generally squishy person with no abs whatsoever. Anyway, I’m all layered up today, in jeans and a flannel, which makes for a nice, solid barrier. Honestly, the only weird part of the equation is Anderson.

  Who happens to be down in the music room with Vivian and Mr. D, working on vocals. Thank God.

  “Great. So, Matt, cheat out just a little bit—good. And put your hand on her stomach.”

  Again, he hesitates, catching my eye first—and if this isn’t the most endearing thing in the whole entire world, I don’t know what is. Matt Olsson is obviously the kind of boy who asks if he can kiss you before kissing you, which is a move that makes Anderson and me melt. God. The first time we saw Call Me By Your Name, Anderson had to bite his own fist when Oliver asked that, just to keep from screaming. Andy’s got this whole soapbox about consent being sexy, and it’s so fucking true.

  But if I’m totally honest, it’s the moment itself that appeals to me. Specifically, the moment right after the question gets asked. Just that breath of a second before the world changes its orbit. Every time I think about it, I literally sigh.

  Okay, I’m literally sighing.

  Which makes Matt yank his hand back, like my stomach’s a hot stove.

  I whisper, “No, you’re fine.”

  And then apparently I’m possessed by some other Kate entirely, some badass total queen version of myself I barely even recognize. I find Matt’s hand, hovering about an inch in front of my body. And then I press it back onto my stomach.

  “This looks fantastic,” Ms. Zhao says, nodding. “So, Larken and Harry, you’ll hold this pose for a couple of beats after the song ends—good—applause, applause, applause. And then we’ll have you exit stage right.” She pauses to scribble a note in her script. “And . . . great. All right! Let’s keep it moving. Why don’t we skip ahead to . . . Act One, Scene Four, with Queen Aggravain and the Wizard. Raina and Emma, you’re up!”

  I drift behind Matt into the wings, and he turns toward me—hands fisted, tucked sweetly beneath his chin. Then he shakes his head slowly, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  “For all the groping. Are you good?”

  “I’m good. Are you good?”

  He laughs. “Yeah, absolutely.” Then he reaches his hand out.

  Wait.

  Am I supposed to take his hand? Is he asking me to—oh.

  Oh.

  I get it. We’re doing the shoulder thing, not the hand thing. He’s sliding his arm around my shoulders in a nice solid side hug, easily the dreamiest side hug in history.

  “Sorry if I made it weirder back there. I just didn’t want to—you know—”

  “You didn’t.” I shake my head quickly, trying not to get derailed by the fact that his arm’s still hooked around my shoulders.

  Neither of us speaks for a moment, and my heart squeeze-flips, like a roly-poly.

  God. If Anderson were here.

  And suddenly, Matt slides his arm off my shoulder, like my guilty brain sent him a telepathic message. Oy. Thank God Andy and I aren’t going full Brandy and Monica over this guy, because I wouldn’t stand a chance. Anderson has my own brain running interference for him. Unless—

  Okay, maybe the side hug release isn’t a big statement.

  Maybe it’s just phone related. After all, now Matt’s reaching into his back pocket, and—

  “We should exchange numbers,” he says.

  I’m rooted to the spot. I just stand there, blinking up at him.

  “If you want to,” he adds quickly. “Just so we can rehearse. But seriously, only if you want to—”

  “Yeah, okay. Totally.” I slide my phone out of my own pocket, trying to ignore my thundering heart. “Give me yours, and I’ll text you.”

  There’s this guilty twinge in my throat, but I swallow it back. I mean, Anderson already has Matt’s number. He already gets to do the flirting over text thing. Not that I have flirting on the brain. Just—you know. Acting. And rehearsing. And being bros. Just one bro shoving his face against another bro’s stomach.

  Anyway. I’m just saying.

  If Anderson gets to text with Matt Olsson all night, maybe I do, too.

  Scene 28

  But we don’t text all night. In fact, Matt doesn’t even respond to the text I sent him with my number. And yes, technically he was standing right in front of me when I sent it. But still. I can’t text him again, since I’m the one who sent that first text. The ball is clearly in Matt’s court.

  All I can do is not check my phone fifty million times during breakfast. Or at least be discreet about it.

  “Peapod, you expecting a call or something?” my dad asks.

  Welp. I mean, Dad didn’t even notice when I decided—a week after the eighth-grade variety show—that I was now a guitar goddess, and therefore needed blue-streaked hair. And that was the same week Ryan kept wearing turtlenecks to hide this red spot on his neck. Mom was pretty much obsessed with it—she must have asked Ryan a zillion times if it was a hickey. Personally? I think Ryan was experimenting with Mom’s curling wand and didn’t want to admit it. But Dad never even asked about it.

  So there you have it: even blue hair and neck burns are more subtle than my thirst for Matt Olsson.

  I don’t see him at school in the morning at all, which sucks grandly. And there’s no rehearsal on Fridays, so unless a miracle happens, I’ll be Matt-less until Monday. It’s so weird having a crush on someone you mostly see at rehearsal. It flips your whole world around. You start living for Mondays through Thursdays, and everything else is just filler.

  Of course, I’m looking for him everywhere. I can’t stop staring at doorways, like Matt’s about to randomly stumble into my history class. I take the long way to the cafeteria, past the senior lockers. And I’m so zoned out at the lunch table, I hardly notice Lindsay Ward and Emma McLeod sidling up. “Hey, mind if we join y’all?”

  “Of course!” Brandie scoots her chair sideways to make room for Lindsay.

  Emma parks her wheelchair next to Anderson, but she grins right at me. “Kate, your face yesterday during the preggo pose. Oh my God.”

  Lindsay leans forward. “Right? You and Matt are so cute. I was like, whoa, I’m watching a rom-com.”

  “I mean, Once Upon a Mattress is pretty much a rom-com, right?” I say.

  “Actually, it’s a musical,” says Raina.

  “Actually, are you Lana Bennett?” I ask.

  Lindsay’s and Emma’s jaws drop, but then they both burst out laughing, and now I
can’t decide if I’m a comedy genius or an asshole.

  Lindsay turns back to me, still smiling. “All I’m saying is, the chemistry was palpable. We were feeling it. Back me up here, Em.”

  “Definitely feeling it,” says Emma.

  Anderson scowls. “Pretty sure that’s called acting.”

  “Pretty sure that’s called Kate and Matt are going to be married by tech week,” says Emma. “Mark my words.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  Brandie and Raina exchange glances.

  “You never know.” Lindsay beams. “Lots of intensive rehearsals coming up on that schedule.”

  “Wow,” Anderson says, opening a bag of chips with unnecessary force. “And here I thought it was possible for actors to—I don’t know—act? And be professional? You guys are like those blogs that analyze paparazzi pictures for evidence of actors hooking up.”

  Raina snorts. “That’s not a thing.”

  “Uh, yeah it is.” He whips out his phone.

  “Hey,” I say, and my voice sounds hollow and bright. Because apparently I can’t even land the delivery of one syllable. I plow ahead regardless, desperate for a subject change. “Do y’all know when set design is?”

  “I don’t know. Not till September, I think,” says Raina. “Why?”

  Andy’s still tapping on his phone, peering intently at the screen. And there’s this empty-ache feeling inside me, all of a sudden. Everything just feels so strange. Maybe the air pressure dropped.

  Maybe Anderson’s mad at me.

  Even though he can’t be mad at me. We already talked about this. About how the Matt stuff doesn’t matter. And how we love each other too much to cave to f-force bullshit. We’re not clichés. We’re better than that.

  But maybe there’s some unspoken contingency here I’m not understanding. I should crowdsource for answers. Easy peasy. I’ll just google: Is it cool to let your best friend’s crush put his face on your stomach?

  Yeah. Probably not.

  Scene 29