Kate in Waiting

by Becky Albertalli

  I’m not telling Anderson that part.

  “Are you upset?”

  “What? Of course not.” He glances up at the rearview. Then, carefully, he backs out of my driveway and onto the road. “Why would I be upset?”

  “I don’t know. You kind of seem upset.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  For a minute, we’re both silent.

  “Did Matt mention he was inviting me over?” I ask finally.

  Andy pauses. Pushes the turn signal. “Nope,” he says.

  “Maybe he just decided last minute.”

  “Maybe.”

  Kind of strange, in a way. Matt must have invited me right after Andy left on Saturday. Also strange the way, the whole time we were together, he didn’t mention Anderson once. Not the superheroes, not the waffles, not anything. Almost like Matt wants to know us separately. Or at least there’s something separate about us in his mind.

  I don’t know how I feel about that. I’m so used to Andy and me being this indestructible unit. Not that this Matt thing is destroying us. Destroying is definitely not the word. Because we’d never let that happen. We have ground rules. Anyway, Andy’s not even upset.

  I mean, he says he’s not upset.

  But I swear he’s not quite the usual bright-eyed Anderson. He’s not even the only-slightly-less-vibrant foggy morning Anderson.

  In fact, he doesn’t speak at all, the whole way to school.

  Scene 40

  But by history class, Anderson’s completely back to normal. Even better than normal. He’s the goofiest, bossiest version of himself, the kind that usually only surfaces for play rehearsal.

  I guess Mr. Edelman’s feeling sassy, too, because we’re doing a study notes review game about Puritans today. He let us pick our own teams, so the squad squadded up. We even moved our desks into a pod as a display of team unity and gave ourselves the most atrocious name on earth: Team Massachusetts Bae. Of course, all the other teams immediately followed suit. Team Plymouth Raunch. Team Thomas Hooker. Team Devil’s Playground. Team Cotton Mather’s Cotton Trousers, consisting of Noah and three f-girls. And Colin Nakamura’s group, the Colinists. Something about AP US History does this to people. Like, here we have a bunch of sixteen-year-olds from Roswell who all apparently think we’re Lin-Manuel Miranda.

  Each team gets a whiteboard, and Mr. Edelman stands at his podium with a few sheets of questions. Just your basic trivia competition game. Open-book, but no phones allowed. Twenty seconds after the question is read, each team holds up their answer. It’s completely pointless, seeing as there are no prizes, not even extra credit, but it really starts to feel like your pride is at stake. Like somehow Thomas Hooker’s legacy is contingent on whether four f-boys can answer questions about Calvinism. But you’d never know that, watching the room erupt into shouting, finger-pointing, and desk-banging, so loud I’m pretty sure Mr. Edelman will never recover. It is the rowdiest, most aggressive celebration of Puritanism I’ve seen in my entire life.

  Team Massachusetts Bae is no exception. We’re not above it. Brandie and I flip frantically through our textbooks, and Raina and Anderson keep yanking the whiteboard back and forth between them. “Okay, 1636,” Brandie keeps muttering. “It’s got to be Harvard, right?”

  “Or Yale! Brandie, use the index.”

  “Here it is. The Puritans founded Harvard University in 1636.” I slide the whole book toward Anderson. “Boom.”

  Something crashes to the ground right beside me, and I’m so startled, I almost leap from my seat. It turns out to be Noah, in a heap on the ground, blinking out from underneath his overturned desk.

  “Oh my God, your arm.” I kneel quickly beside him. “Are you okay? Let me see.”

  “I’m fine.” He disentangles himself, looking slightly dazed, while two of the girls on his team tip it back upright. He thrusts his cast arm into my hand and lets me examine it.

  “Um,” I say, rotating it just a little, and bending his fingers up and down, like I imagine a doctor would. “Cast looks okay.”

  It’s the same cast with the illustrated boobs, so Noah’s doctor appointment must be in the afternoon. Maybe even during rehearsal. Not that I care. He shouldn’t be missing full ensemble rehearsals though. I bet Ms. Zhao’s going to be pissed.

  It occurs to me, suddenly, that I’m still holding Noah’s cast. And his fingertips too. I jerk my hand back and clutch it to my chest. “You can get up now,” I tell him.

  “But it’s nice down here.”

  “You’re on a real fucking roll, Noah,” says Raina. “First the tray, now this. Holy attention-seeking behavior. Wow.”

  “You just fell out of your desk,” Anderson says. “You really did that.”

  “I actually fell with my desk.”

  Anderson narrows his eyes. “Were you trying to eavesdrop?”

  “Whaaaaaat?” Noah’s voice jumps an octave. “Of course not.” Wow. I have literally never seen anyone look more over-the-top, comically guilty than Noah Kaplan in this moment.

  “Noah, it’s open-book,” Brandie says gently. “You don’t have to cheat.”

  “I wasn’t cheating. Just collaborating.”

  I shake my head. “Noah.”

  Anderson climbs onto his chair, clearing his throat. “Excuse me,” he says.

  Everyone falls expectantly silent.

  “Ahem. Team Cotton Mather’s Cotton Trousers are a bunch of filthy cheaters, and they should be disqualified. That is all.” Andy steps down, with a final haughty glance for Noah—who beams up at him from the floor.

  Something bubbles up inside of me, some inexplicable warm relief. Because Andy and I are us again. We’re back on the same team. And it feels like flipping on a light switch or finishing a puzzle or pressing the cap back onto a tube of ChapStick. Like everything clicking into place at last.

  Scene 41

  Thursday’s one of those insane weather days where you don’t think it’s the apocalypse, but you’re not one hundred percent sure it’s not the apocalypse. It’s just nonstop booming thunder and flickering lights. I’d be legitimately freaked out if I were home alone. But at school, it just gives me this vaguely excited, anticipatory feeling, like the universe could deliver pretty much anything.

  To be fair, that feeling might have something to do with the fact that this afternoon marks the first official Larken/Harry intensive rehearsal. Ninety minutes. With Matt. Just me and Matt. And, okay, Ms. Zhao and Devon and Mr. D and probably some of the tech crew. But still. And that’s not even getting into the fact that we’re blocking “Yesterday I Loved You,” which happens to involve a kiss.

  It’s weird. I keep half-forgetting it’s happening, but then I’ll remember it out of nowhere—in the hall, or in class—and I get this jolt. It’s a butterflies in the stomach feeling, but super intense. Butterflies on steroids. To be honest, I can barely keep myself from floating between classes. Everything about today feels infused with magic.

  Case in point: Andy and I slip out of class for a carefully coordinated rendezvous in the Bathroom Time Forgot, and who do we run into? Matt Olsson himself. At his locker. In the middle of a class period. I mean, I never see Matt in the halls, even walking between classes. But here he is, and here we are—just the three of us, in an otherwise empty hallway. He hugs both of us, looking genuinely delighted. He’s wearing this soft navy V-neck, more fitted than usual, and something about that color makes his eyes look like denim. After we part ways, Anderson and I spend twenty minutes in our bathroom stalls, pretty much hyperventilating.

  It’s happiness overload. So much joy, it barely sinks in. It’s everything—the thrill of being at school in a thunderstorm, the diminishing hours until rehearsal, seeing Matt in the hallway, how extra cute he looked. And it’s the secret thought in my head that maybe—maybe—the extra cuteness on today, of all days, is somehow deliberate. Deliberate in the same way my own outfit is deliberate—swingy short dress, black with flowers, and a jean jacket. Because if you don’t put in
that extra ten minutes of effort for an intensive romantic play rehearsal with your crush, what’s the point? I mean, I’m probably overthinking it, and who even knows if boys have that degree of self-awareness. But maybe. Maybe?

  Even the thought makes me unravel.

  Out of everything, though, the best part’s the bathroom freakout with Anderson. We could barely catch our breath, there was so much to discuss. Those denim eyes, Matt’s lightly tousled hair, and that shirt. That. Shirt.

  I don’t know. It was just really nice how, for those twenty minutes in the bathroom, Matt was ours again. Both of ours.

  Scene 42

  By the end of the school day, the storm’s even worse. Matt walks in sopping wet to rehearsal—cheeks flushed, hair slicked straight against his forehead, like he just stepped out of the shower. I stare at him, almost speechless.

  “Left my script in my car,” he explains.

  Andy, Raina, and Brandie have all had their first intensive rehearsals already, so I kind of know what to expect. Thirty minutes of vocal rehearsal with Mr. D, thirty minutes of blocking and fine-tuning with Ms. Zhao, and then thirty minutes running through the whole scene, vocals and blocking together. According to Anderson, it can get a little repetitive. But I’m not so sure that’s a bad thing.

  I mean, I wouldn’t mind getting a little repetitive with that Harry/Larken kiss. Not that I’ve been obsessing about the kiss, the kiss, the kiss, the kiss, the kiss, the kiss, the kiss, the kiss.

  The.

  Kiss.

  Wow. I’m so totally chill right now. Just so normal and fine and not losing my shit.

  “Harry and Larken, come on down,” Mr. D calls, and then he starts playing the theme song to The Price is Right. Mr. D is so extra, and I love it. “Okay, let’s warm up. Starting on ah.”

  We settle in at the edge of the piano, side by side, singing along to all fifty million scales Mr. D gets in his head. Everything. Major key, minor key, up to the top edges of our ranges, and back down again.

  “Now ooh.”

  There’s something wonderful, almost conspiratorial, about running through silly warm-ups with Matt. Not to mention the fact that silly warm-ups make Matt even cuter. He stands perfectly stick-straight, like a choirboy, clutching his hands to his diaphragm. And his wet hair’s curling so sweetly around his ears, winging out slightly in the back. My heart can’t take it.

  “Great. Let’s do . . . bah!” But as soon as Mr. D suggests it, there’s a massive clap of thunder. “Hmm. No bah?” He peers up at the ceiling like he’s consulting with God.

  The lights flicker.

  “No bah,” says Matt.

  Mr. D nods. “I can take a hint. Better hop straight into the songs while we still have power, am I right?”

  We start with “In a Little While,” and Matt leans over to tell me it’s his absolute favorite of our songs.

  It’s my favorite, too. I actually think it’s my favorite song in the show. It’s hard to explain why it’s so relatable, but it is. It really is. Like, on the one hand, yeah, it’s about a medieval knight secretly knocking up a lady-in-waiting. But I think it’s really about anticipation and certainty and that feeling you get when you imagine your best future. The precious secret future, the one you carry around in daydreams.

  It’s a Rapunzel kind of feeling. A when-will-my-life-begin kind of feeling.

  Matt’s so close to me now, by the piano, and I keep expecting my voice to go haywire or disappear altogether. But I push through, and I sound much more okay than expected. Not like I’m perfect or anything, but I get the lyrics mostly right. And Matt’s as dreamy of a Sir Harry as ever, even though he can’t quite nail the octave leap at the end of the second verse. But somehow this little vocal glitch makes him even cuter.

  Mr. D is terrible at time management, so we only have time to run through “Yesterday I Loved You” once before he hands us over to Ms. Zhao. By now, we’ve already blocked bits and pieces of the scene with “In a Little While”—Ms. Zhao’s really good at squeezing little moments into the margins of full-cast rehearsals. But it’s the first time we’ve ever run through it from the beginning of the scene, and Zhao keeps stopping the action to adjust us. “Matt, step forward. Good. Kate, lean back into him and put your hands over his hands. Yup.”

  Cheesy prom pose for the win. Matt keeps quietly apologizing for the dampness of his shirt, which is so sweet, it makes me giggle—at least it would make me giggle if my lungs were even kind of working. But no, apparently my entire brain and body are closed for business, except that little spot on my rib cage where Matt’s hands are pressed.

  I mean. These intensive rehearsals are something. They really are.

  “Okay, great,” Ms. Zhao says. “Devon’s taking all of this down, so you can sit down with him later to add the notes to your script. But I say let’s keep it moving and knock out ‘Yesterday I Loved You.’ Who’s ready for that kiss?”

  Um, apparently Mr. D is. Because now he’s playing that “Kiss Me” song, the one with the line about milky twilight that Anderson swears is about semen. And wow. I sure do love associating that thought with Mr. D. I’m probably super bright red now, and even Matt looks flustered. He shoots me this tentative look, like, are you ready?

  Um, I was born ready. I was conceived ready. For the kiss, though, not for Mr. D’s milky twilight. The kiss.

  The Kiss.

  Deep breath. I nod.

  And . . . thunderclap. It catches me so off guard, I jump. “That’s a loud one,” says Mr. D.

  But Zhao acts like she didn’t even hear it. “Let’s get started. Okay, Act Two, top of scene six. It’s the middle of the night. Harry, you’re there pacing. And Larken, we’ll start you”—she pauses to write something—“downstage left. Good. So Kate, you’re actually leaving the castle, running away to Normandy, but Harry hears you, and he turns around and says—Matt, go ahead and say your line here.”

  Matt puffs his chest up. “Friend or foe?”

  “Friend,” I say.

  “Okay, great. And let’s have you both stop in your tracks. Right there, yup. Center stage. And you’ll stand there for a beat, looking at each other, and then Larken, you take a step toward him. You’re drawn to him. And you’ll say your line there, and then we have Harry’s line, and we move into the song.”

  I glance up at Matt, and then back at Devon, who’s got his head down, writing, and I don’t even want to know what I look like right now. I feel like someone hollowed out my insides and replaced my bones with marshmallows. How am I supposed to survive blocking this song? Especially when this song is the only thing standing between me and the Kiss. The third kiss of my life. And since the first two were with Anderson, this is definitely my first kiss with potential. I’m standing right at the edge of my happy ending. I just know it.

  Maybe this is the kiss Matt and I will tell our kids about in thirty years. We’ll line them up on the couch, How I Met Your Mother–style, and describe every single moment in detail.

  Blocking the song out feels like a dream. Like I’m sleepwalking. Face each other. Now clasp your hands together. Now take a step closer and draw your hands up between your chests. Then cheat out, so you’re holding hands but facing the audience. And Matt, you step behind her again. Kate, you turn . . .

  “Good,” Ms. Zhao says firmly, and everything blinks back into focus. “Okay, let’s block this kiss. Everyone feeling good?”

  “Great,” Matt says, smiling. He looks straight into my eyes when he says it.

  “Okay! So let’s start from where you are. Kate, you’re turned all the way into his embrace, and let’s put your arms around his shoulders. Perfect. And Matt, let’s have you put your hands on her face. Really swoony and romantic.”

  “Okay.” Matt cups my cheeks. “You good?” he whispers.

  I nod. “Good.”

  “Hmm. Actually, Matt, why don’t you slide your hands a little farther back, just so we’re not losing her face. Good. Yes! Perfect. Kate, tilt your head
up just a little bit—”

  I honestly can’t believe this is happening. Like. Holy shit. HOLY SHIT. And I know it’s onstage, and I know it’s being choreographed by a teacher, but the feeling in my stomach, in that spot below my belly button? That’s real.

  Matt’s lips are so close now. Inches away. I can feel his breath.

  Ms. Zhao looks up from her notebook finally. “And . . . they kiss.”

  “And we kiss,” Matt says softly. Suddenly his lips are on mine.

  And okay. It’s not a makeout—more like a slightly extended peck. But it’s so achingly sweet, I could melt. I could seriously melt on the spot.

  Matt Olsson just kissed me. He really did that. And now I’m standing here tingling from my head to my feet, and he takes a single step closer—

  BOOM.

  Thunderclap. I’m close enough to feel Matt’s startled exhale. Then, a split second later, the lights cut out completely.

  “Oh, that’s not good,” says Mr. D.

  For a minute, we all freeze in place, like we can somehow coax the lights back if we stand still enough. But nope. Total pitch-darkness. There are no windows in the auditorium. And I’ve been backstage before in varying levels of darkness, but never like this. I reach out for Matt’s hand, and when I find it, I squeeze it. He squeezes it back, and he doesn’t let go.

  “Okay,” Zhao concedes. “This doesn’t look good. Why don’t we stop here for the day? Take it nice and slow coming off the stage, please. Do you guys have flashlight apps on your phones?” I nod, even though I know she can’t see me.

  Wow, though.

  It’s so easy to imagine how we’ll retell this moment. Our first kiss. The lights went out. We held hands. Used our phones. Even as it’s happening, it’s like it already happened. That same preemptive nostalgia feeling. Like it’s a story we’ll tell in some not-so-distant future.

  Scene 43