Kate in Waiting

by Becky Albertalli

Anderson leaves lunch ten minutes early, looking mopey and cross. Which means I spend the next few minutes staring at the door, trying to decide if I should go find him.

  I almost do.

  But just as I start to stand up, a crash from across the cafeteria stops me in my tracks. A tray clambering to the ground, plastic bottle thudding, fork spinning to a stop in the awful silence that follows. And then there’s the inevitable oooooooh. Completely synchronized, almost choral.

  It’s the kind of moment that makes my stomach twist. I can’t stand watching people get embarrassed, even strangers. Even fictional strangers. I honestly can’t watch certain TV shows. I get this visceral secondhand shame reaction. It’s like my brain can’t tell where someone else’s humiliation ends and mine begins.

  And that feeling. You know that moment when your phone’s front camera catches you looking like a swamp monster? Or when the bathroom smells bad, and then you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. That little spike of wait-holy-shit-I’m-actually-horrible-and-gross.

  It’s like that. But applied to your whole entire being.

  “Noah Kaplan. What a surprise,” Raina says.

  I twist around to follow her gaze, and there he is. Smack-dab in the middle of the cafeteria. His arms are still out in tray-holding position, and if he wasn’t grinning his face off, I’d think he was in shock. A few f-boys have absconded with his water bottle—they’re kicking it around the cafeteria like a soccer ball. But otherwise, Noah’s tray’s just sitting there, overturned at his feet.

  “Do you think he’s just going to leave it there?” asks Raina.

  I open my mouth and then close it. I guess I don’t quite know what to say. I mean, on the one hand, Noah seems absolutely delighted with himself, really basking in the attention. And yeah, as far as I can tell, he’s made no move to pick up his tray.

  But then again, I don’t know if Noah’s arm situation is entirely ideal for picking corn kernels off the floor. Don’t get me wrong, he could at least try. But I guess it bugs me that he’s blatantly injured and nobody’s helping him.

  I stand abruptly and grab a fistful of napkins. “I’m going in.”

  Walking up the aisle toward Noah, it feels like the whole cafeteria’s staring at me. It’s awful. I feel prickly and self-conscious, and I’ll never understand it. When I’m in a play, being watched makes me feel invincible, flooded with light.

  But every other time, it’s feels like—

  yikes lol

  this is so embarrassing, I literally can’t watch

  I die a little

  I die a little

  I die a little

  “Little Garfield.” Noah peers at me, twinkly-eyed. “I finally got your attention.”

  I’m sorry, but he’s unbearable. This is totally a thing he does—this fakey lovesick banter he whips out of nowhere, just to unsettle me. Of course the punchline is that we all know an f-boy like Noah would never actually be lovesick. Or if he were, he’d be lovesick over some mega-hot queen bee f-girl. The kind who’s destined for modeling or Hollywood or at least the Bachelor franchise. But f-boys don’t exactly pine for flannel-wearing theater girls. Thus the joke. The absolutely side-splittingly hilarious joke of Noah pretending he wants to impress me. And that’s not even touching the question of who would be impressed by a tray dropping.

  “Kate. I’m just messing with you.”

  I don’t respond. I just kneel down on the floor, collecting corn kernels into a napkin. And for once—for once in Noah’s life—his little wiseass mouth is shut. I glance up at him finally. “Just so you know.” I ball the napkin up forcefully. “I’m doing this for the custodians. Not you.”

  And before he can reply, I grab his hand, open it, and shove the corn napkin into his palm. His fingers close around it, but other than that, he doesn’t move.

  I look up at him. “Are you saving that for later or something?”

  “Uhhhh, nope.” He blinks. “Throwing it away. Right now.”

  “There you go.”

  I move on to Noah’s chaotically scattered french fries—but suddenly, someone squats down beside me. “Hey.”

  I look up from the floor. “Oh. Hey.”

  It’s a girl I’ve never spoken to, but I know I’ve seen her around the hallways. I think she might be a cheerleader. She definitely has that faintly floral smell that cheerleaders are prone to. And she has super-straight hair, like Raina’s, but darker. More black than brown.

  Pretty sure I’ve seen that hair before, actually. Pretty sure it hits just above the spot on jean shorts where a fashion-forward girl might sew a few patches.

  Madison. Noah’s “friend.”

  She cups her hand, running it along the floor like a snowplow. “You’re so sweet to do this,” she says. When she gets a bunch of fries piled up, I scoop them into another napkin. “Kappy’s so weird about asking for help. He gets so embarrassed.”

  “Kappy?” I almost say—but then it hits me.

  Kappy. Wow. I’ll tell you one thing: I’m saving that one for the next time I get called Little Garfield.

  “You’re Ryan’s sister, right? Katelyn?”

  “Just Kate.”

  “Can I just say, I love your brother. He’s hilarious.”

  “He is?”

  “And he’s such a sweetheart.” She shoots me a megawatt smile. “He was just telling me about his dogs, and how they’re named after the royal family.” Madison laughs. “How cute is that?”

  “It’s cute . . . ish.” As in, cute enough to get a surprised chuckle every so often at the dog park. But not cute enough to warrant Ryan being called hilarious by floral-smelling girls. And that’s putting aside the fact that Mom’s the one who named the dogs in the first place.

  “Hey,” Noah says, reappearing. He squats down between us, eyes darting back and forth almost nervously—which makes me wonder what kinds of secrets he thinks I’m telling Madison. I mean, if she wants secrets, I’ve got them. I could go full sabotage. Like I could easily tell Madison about the velocity experiment we did in eighth-grade science. Somehow Jack Randall managed to bounce a tiny ball into Noah’s pants without him noticing, and it rolled right out through the cuff as soon as Noah stood up. “Hey, Madison,” I can picture myself saying. “Want to hear about the time your boyfriend’s balls dropped?”

  Nailed it.

  Though of course Madison and Kappy aren’t even a couple. They’re friends. Friends who suck on each other’s faces at parties, like friends apparently do.

  Scene 30

  Today’s the kind of weather that’s too perfect to waste, so we end up in Raina’s backyard, sprawled out in the sunshine. Harold shows up with a big Tupperware of grapes, which is just so Harold. He’s like a quiet, scruffy Prince Harry, just with blue jeans and thicker eyebrows.

  Before long, Brandie and Anderson have Harold cornered, and they’re bombarding him with rehearsal photos. “Lana’s the Minstrel,” says Brandie, tapping her phone screen. “She’s the one whose voice is so—”

  “Annoying,” interjects Anderson. “She has the most annoying fucking voice I’ve ever—”

  “Mmm, I wasn’t going to say annoying,” Brandie says, tugging her phone back. “Just, like, kind of operatic.”

  Harold furrows his brow. “Is that not a good thing?”

  “Can we please not talk about Lana Bennett?” Raina repositions herself cross-legged beside me, facing Harold. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” Harold says back.

  I swear, the way they look at each other makes me feel like I stumbled into their wedding vows.

  I pop a grape and lean back on my elbows, watching Harold laugh along with Brandie and Anderson’s banter. I’m pretty sure he likes us, even though he always seems a little nervous when we hang out in person. It makes me wonder: Are we intimidating? I’ve always assumed people see us as, like, a lovable band of nerds. But who knows? Maybe to Harold we’re as insular as a pack of fuckboys.

  Harold catches my eye and does this
tiny, sharp inhale, like he’s steeling himself for a new conversation. It seriously makes me want to hug him. I just love shy people so much.

  “So, Kate.” He clasps his hands and tucks them under his chin. “I hear you’re pregnant.”

  Brandie gives a startled, short laugh.

  “Um. Yes?” I grin. “Theatrically speaking.”

  “She got knocked up by some knight,” says Raina.

  I shrug. “It happens.”

  “At least you know it’ll be a cute baby,” says Brandie. She tilts her phone up toward Harold. “That’s him. In the green, next to Kate. Matt.”

  “Sir Matt.” Harold smiles. “You guys look nice together.”

  “Really?” I beam. God, I love Harold. I fucking love him.

  “In case it wasn’t completely obvious,” Raina says, “Our Katy has a giant, raging crush on Sir Matt.”

  “As does our Andy,” I say quickly.

  “Matt’s one of their communal crushes,” explains Brandie.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that,” says Harold. “Communal crushes.”

  Raina pats my back affectionately. “That’s because these two ding-dongs made them up.”

  “Oh, okay.” Harold tilts his head. “So it’s like a competition? How does that work?”

  “It doesn’t,” Anderson says flatly. “It’s not working.”

  My heart plummets. Wow. I’m an asshole. I really am. Here I am, basking in the glow of being teased about Matt, without a single thought for Anderson. Matt and Kate look so nice together! Won’t their babies be cute! Or Emma and Lindsay yesterday. Palpable chemistry. Married by tech week. Andy probably feels like we’re all taking turns punching him in the face. I mean, God knows that’s how I feel every time I catch Matt and Andy whispering in rehearsal. Even thinking about it makes my eyes prickle.

  It’s just not supposed to be like this. Not with Andy and me. God knows there are enough people out there just dying to hurt us. The Erics of the world, the Miras, the Gennys. Even the Vivians. The last thing we need is to inflict this shit on each other.

  I should change the subject. To be honest, we should probably stop talking about Matt altogether.

  Of course, talking’s only half the problem. I don’t want to get ahead of myself or anything, but what if Matt and I started dating? I could never in a million years keep that from Anderson. Which leaves me with two equally shitty choices. Option one: I declare Matt Olsson off-limits, kind of like a Naomi and Ely’s No Kiss List situation. But then again, the No Kiss List wasn’t exactly smooth sailing for Naomi and Ely.

  Which leaves me with option two: I break Anderson’s heart.

  It’s just unbearable.

  Suddenly, as if he feels me pronouncing his name in my head, Andy glances up from his phone—he’s been texting—and looks me right in my eyes. Then he nudges his glasses up his nose like a dork. And he smiles. I smile back.

  My phone buzzes in my lap, and when I check it, it’s confirmed. Anderson Walker can officially read my mind. Want to grab fancy waffles after this? Just us. I think we should figure out the Matt stuff, for real.

  Scene 31

  We leave just as the sun’s setting and set out for the Belgian waffle place on Canton Street. Andy sets us up with some music—thankfully, no messages from God this time. It’s just his Broadway and off-Broadway playlist, which I’ve heard fifty million times—Be More Chill, Next to Normal, The Last Five Years, the song order so firmly associated in my head, it’s starting to feel more right than the actual soundtracks.

  The song switches to “A Heart Full of Love” just as we pull into the parking lot, which leaves us no choice but to invoke the Formal Kate and Anderson Les Mis Protocol. Andy parks the car and turns the volume up, and we don’t even bother taking off our seat belts, because there’s no leaving the car until we’ve sung it all the way through. It’s not even the best song on the soundtrack, but we’re both suckers for anything with Éponine. Because Miss Éponine Thénardier is literally us. The true patron saint of trench coats and unrequited love. By the time we get to her verse, we’re practically howling.

  He was never mine to lose.

  If anyone walked by Anderson’s car right now, they’d probably run away screaming. God knows Kate Garfield Singing™ isn’t exactly a vision of adorableness. But somehow when I’m with Andy, all the bullshit fades into the background. It hardly even exists.

  “All right, Katypie,” Anderson says, once we’re inside and in line. “We have got to set some ground rules.”

  “Ground rules? Like a No Kiss—”

  “No, come on. We’re us. We have no game. We don’t need a No Kiss List.”

  “That is an excellent point.”

  “I just think we need some guidelines. Because—I feel like we’re on the same page with Matt, right? Like okay. We both like him. We both think he’s awesome. But we’re not letting this get in the way of us.” He presses one fist to his heart. “We come first.”

  “Definitely.” My heart flips. “Andy, I’m so sorry. I don’t even know—”

  The barista asks if we’re ready to order, and my brain jumps straight to waffles. We order a whole bunch to share: strawberries and cream, pink drizzle, and chocolate dunked. They need a name to call out when it’s ready—Anderson doesn’t hesitate for a second. “Kandy with a K.” Our portmanteau.

  “So here’s the thing,” Anderson says, as we drift toward the water dispenser. “I know you’re not trying to hurt me, obviously. And I’m not trying to hurt you.”

  “Of course. Yeah. I know.”

  “And we don’t even know if Matt’s into guys or girls or both or who or anyone, so obviously that’s a thing, and then even if he is into whatever genders he’s into, that doesn’t mean he likes us.”

  “Uh, then he has no taste,” I say.

  “Obviously. But here’s what I’m thinking.” Anderson pauses to fill a cup with water, which he hands to me. Then he fills a second cup for himself. “We both know there’s no point in trying to talk ourselves out of liking him. The heart wants what it wants.”

  “The heart wants Matt.”

  “Exactly,” he says.

  “So . . . what do you propose?”

  “Why, Kate Eliza, I’m glad you asked.” He settles into a chair, sets his cup down, and clasps his hands like a CEO. “After careful consideration, my proposal is this.” He pauses. “I think we should be happy for each other. Like, let’s promise each other—no matter what happens, we’re going to be really, truly happy for each other. Even if we’re disappointed.”

  “Even if we’re disappointed.” I bite my lip. “So you’re saying . . . we both pursue him?”

  He laughs. “Katy. When has either of us ever pursued?”

  “Seventh grade. Eva Cohen’s bat mitzvah. The choir robe room.”

  “Mmm. That was all you.”

  “Oh, that’s funny, Andy.” I cup my chin in my hands, grinning up at him. “Very, very funny. Especially funny coming from a guy who went right for the boobs. Wham. Second base.”

  “Ahem. I was figuring stuff out.”

  “At synagogue. We were in a synagogue.”

  “You’re the one who said it was a reform synagogue,” Andy says. “Listen. All I’m saying is that, given that neither of us are particularly . . . aggressive when it comes to pursuit—”

  “Kandy with a K?” There’s the barista, beaming down at us. “Okay, plates are warm. Oops. You got them? Okay! Bon appétit!”

  “Thank you so much,” we both say. Like, in unison. With the exact same intonation. The barista raises her eyebrows and backs away slowly.

  “Are we creepy?” I ask Anderson, setting our plates on the nearest table.

  “Little bit.”

  We high-five.

  “Anyway.” Anderson plops into a chair. “Basically, what I’m thinking is we just roll with it and see what happens? Since we’re both kind of shy”—I snort—“about this sort of thing. Shut up. I’m just say
ing we’re shy about boys.”

  “Yes.”

  “So maybe we just let the situation play out, you know? We’ll just be honest with each other.”

  “Even if we know the other person might not want to hear it?”

  “Even then,” says Andy. “Especially then.”

  “Okay, so we’re happy for each other, we’re honest with each other.” I count it out on my fingers. “And what about this: our friendship is the most important thing.”

  “Well, duh.”

  “I mean it! Like, we could put it in writing. I’ll text you right now, and you take a screenshot.”

  “A screenshot. Wow. Kate. Are we ready for that level of legitness?”

  “Texting you now.”

  “And you want me to screenshot this?”

  “Yup. And text it back to me. The whole thing. We’re happy for each other, we’re honest with each other, and our friendship comes first. No matter what.”

  “I like it.” Andy grins. “Let’s make it screenshot official.”

  Scene 32

  But the minute I walk into Monday’s rehearsal, there they are: Andy and Matt, in the very front row of the auditorium, heads a little too close together. Not close enough for kissing—anyway, Andy thinks making out on school grounds is both slutty and basic—but definitely close enough for secrets. Flirty secrets. Inside jokes. Love confessions.

  Wow.

  I’m just.

  So happy for Andy. Super happy. Obviously. Didn’t think I’d have to be happy for him so soon, but that’s—

  Okay, now Anderson is literally tousling Matt’s hair, making it stick up in peaks. Man. Rehearsal’s so fun. I’m so glad I get to witness this romance unfolding. It’s going to be a great ninety minutes, a great month, a great forever.

  It’s like I can suddenly see our entire lives unspooling before me. Anderson texting me pictures from Matt’s college campus next year. Or, like, an ironic-but-not-really-ironic photo of a sock on the doorknob of Matt’s dorm room. Yeah.

  But maybe I’ll get numb to it. Maybe eventually this sort of thing stops hurting. I’ll play guitar and sing at their wedding—something romantically offbeat, like “With You” from Pippin. And obviously I’ll be ready to fight Anderson when he starts getting too attached to weird celebrity baby names. I’m going to be an excellent third wheel. Best third wheel in history. Maybe it’s what I was built for.