“Hush. We’re family.”
“Are you three still heading out?” Ellen asks. “I’m just so glad Matthew’s finally making real friends here. I thought he was going to spend the whole summer just playing that animal island game. I swear, every day, he’d come home from camp and—”
“Mom. Not every day.”
“Just the second half of the summer.” Ellen winks. “After Jessi left.”
“Ooh, who’s Jessi?” Mom asks.
“Matthew’s ex-girlfriend. Sweet girl, absolutely beautiful. Of course, she doesn’t hold a candle to Kate.”
“Okay! I think we’re heading to dinner,” Matt says loudly.
“Have fun! Drive safe,” Mom says. “Love you guys. Mwah.”
Matt cringes all the way to his car. When we get there, I surrender the passenger seat to Anderson without hesitation. It’s not that Anderson’s super tall, but I’m easily six inches shorter than he is.
I smile out the open back seat window, replaying the whole conversation in my head. I feel strangely giddy about it. So many fascinating updates. Like the fact that Matt’s clearly single. I mean, this Jessi girl is apparently out of the picture, and I doubt Matt replaced her by playing Animal Crossing nonstop like a dork. Like an adorably breathtakingly beautiful dork.
I bet you anything Jessi’s the girl in the formal dance photo. Though if Ellen thinks I’m prettier than that girl, she needs to get her eyes checked. If this were a teen movie, Jessi would be the supermodel love interest, and I’d be one of the extras sitting in math class.
“She thinks she’s so funny.” Matt rolls his eyes. “I didn’t play Animal Crossing all summer.”
“Mm-hmm.” Andy grins at him.
“Don’t be jealous I’m a bellionaire.” Matt starts backing out of our driveway. “I can’t believe I actually know you guys now. You were so funny at camp. I remember you always had ice cream after breakfast.”
I nod. “Breakfast dessert.”
“You always got mint Oreo,” he says to Andy. “I remember that.”
“Gay people have to love Oreos now,” explains Anderson.
“Yeah, but mint.” I rest my hand on the back of Anderson’s seat. “That’s like eating chocolate with toothpaste.”
“Kate, we’ve been through this. I like toothpaste.”
That’s true. He used to beg his mom to let him eat it by the spoonful. Even now, he brushes his teeth twenty billion times a day. That’s actually the main thing I remember about kissing Anderson: his minty freshness.
Matt smiles at me in the rearview. “And you always turned your cone upside down in a bowl.”
I smile back. “I can’t believe you noticed that.”
It’s too early for sunset, but I swear there’s a sunset feeling. We’re taking Matt to Alessio’s pizza, a squad institution. Anderson sets his R&B/hip-hop playlist on shuffle, and thirty seconds later, he’s off and running on the topic of Lizzo’s genius vocal inflections in “Truth Hurts.” I let my mind drift, remembering yesterday’s rehearsal and Jessi the ex-girlfriend and the way Anderson actually didn’t get into hip-hop until last year. He said he always felt this weird pressure to love it, which made him avoid it, but then he finally gave it a shot and fell hard. I’ll never forget the day Anderson played me Scum Fuck Flower Boy from start to finish. He kept glancing sideways at me, beaming, and then monologued for a full ten minutes about how Tyler, The Creator is the most underrated storyteller in history.
The song flips to “Old Town Road,” and now Matt and Andy are singing along so loudly, they’re practically yowling.
It makes me wish you could film a whole entire moment. Not just the visuals and vocals. I want to hold every piece of this. I want to save the details for later: the breeze ruffling my hair through the open car windows, the soft warmth of my flannel. The feeling of being sixteen on a Friday night in September. The pull of the seat belt over my greased lightning heart.
It’s early enough that we land a table right away, and we proceed to order both pizza and fries. I cup my chin into my hand, gazing at our spread. “I read somewhere once that the longest fry is called—”
“The loomster!” Matt smacks his palms on the table.
“Yes, the loomster!”
“Sounds fake,” Andy says.
“I know. But they’re not fake. Andy, this is like a core piece of life trivia.”
“I think I found it.” Matt holds up a fry of extraordinary length. “The loomster.”
“But what’s the point?” asks Andy. “Do you get to make a wish? What do you do with the loomster?”
“We just appreciate its length,” says Matt. “And eat it.”
The tiniest dimple impresses into Andy’s left cheek, and I’m one hundred percent sure he’s thinking of a dick joke. But he’d never say it out loud in front of Matt. It’s weird how much you have to hold back when you’re secretly in love with someone. But then again, the whole point of love is getting close enough that you no longer have to hold back all the dick jokes. Or farts, or all the other gross parts. I’m pretty sure at some point love makes room for the gross parts.
It’s finally getting dark out by the time we finish and pay, which means normal teens are just winding up for the night. Mira Reynolds is no doubt practicing her duck face in her selfie cam. And I’m sure Jack Randall’s hard at work making sure he’s wearing his hat stupidly enough. But we have to wake up early for set design tomorrow—and anyway, none of us are particularly in the mood to be called Fiona by drunk f-boys. So the three of us just head straight home with vague plans to watch Tangled, which Matt’s never seen.
“Have you been living under a rock?” Andy asks, as we buckle our seat belts. “Tangled is one of the top three movies of all time.”
“What are the other two?”
“Anastasia and Clueless,” Andy and I say in unison.
“With an honorable mention for Pride and Prejudice,” I add. “BBC version.”
“It’s technically a miniseries, so we couldn’t count it,” Anderson says. “And obviously Ella Enchanted would be right in there, but Kate’s got some baggage—”
“Okay!” I say quickly.
Matt smiles at me in the rearview. “I’ve actually seen Clueless. It was—”
“A classic?” Andy says.
Matt pauses. “I’m just going to say yes.”
“Right answer.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m settled between my two favorite boys in a giant nest of pillows. Anderson traces the lines of my palm like he does sometimes during movies, and my brain doesn’t know what to make of that. Just that tiny electric physical contact, and the fact that it’s happening in such close proximity to Matt. It almost feels like Matt and I are touching, even though we’re not. I’m so hyperaware of him—every time the movie makes him laugh, every time his arm shifts, every time he’s concentrating. When the part with the lanterns comes on, Matt just sits there, grinning into his fist. Which makes me grin, too. Because Matt’s just like Rapunzel, the way he’s leaning forward, fully absorbed.
Those paper lanterns. And the boat. And the song.
It’s my favorite part of the movie, the part I most know by heart. It’s almost unbearably romantic—and I don’t even mean the hand-holding part or the almost-kiss or the massive amounts of mutual eyegasming. It’s before that. It’s the part when Rapunzel catches that first glimpse of a lantern, and that’s it. She’s totally lost. She almost knocks the boat over, scrambling to get a better viewpoint. And for the entire first verse of the song, the screen doesn’t even cut to Flynn Rider, because she’s completely forgotten about him. It’s just Rapunzel and the lanterns. She’s standing there, clutching the prow of the boat, and at one point, she does this exhale. Like the world’s so beautiful, she can’t take it.
And then she suddenly remembers Flynn, who’s been quietly watching her the whole time. Holding back, not intruding. He’s just there for her when she’s ready. Anderson thinks it’s hilarious that my
number one romantic fantasy involves me forgetting the boy exists, but to me, it just shows how safe Rapunzel feels with Flynn. Her brain doesn’t even have to remember he’s there, because some bone-deep part of her knows it. And there’s that beautifully obvious contradiction. The way being wrapped up in someone can make you more free. The wide-open safety of home.
Scene 47
Saturday feels like a dream before it even starts. There’s birthday dinner for Ryan tonight, but before that is set building, so I throw on my ringer tee and sweats and fight to achieve that perfect messy set-painting ponytail. By the time I make it down to the kitchen, Matt’s already there, eating cereal, wearing—oh my goodness—a Camp Wolf Lake T-shirt. The first shirt I ever saw him in.
“Good morning,” he says. And I just stand there, frozen to the spot, my mind reeling through the greatest hits of our hypothetical future together. Our first apartment. Drinking coffee side by side on the couch, reading the news on our phones. Matt looking sleepy and scruffy in our bed with his laptop, writing an essay. He’ll be getting his PhD in something romantic and nonlucrative like ancient Greek literature, but it’s fine, because by then I’ll be a successful actress. Not like a starlet or celebrity—just a serious working actress. And every night, I’ll play guitar by the fireplace. Basically, our lives will look just like the Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young song, “Our House,” which every single member of my family loves, even Ryan.
“Anderson’s awake.” Matt holds up his phone. “He’s walking over here now. Are we supposed to bring anything?”
“I don’t think so. Just paint clothes. I love your shirt.”
“Aww, thank you.” He smiles.
Matt drives, which means we get to park in the senior lot, which is mostly just a status symbol—and I don’t usually buy into status symbols, but the lemon-sour look on Lana Bennett’s face makes it all worth it. Anyway, there’s something so sweet about walking into set painting day with Matt and Anderson, knowing I’ll be leaving with them, too.
It’s early—just a little past eight in the morning—but lots of the tech people are already here. There are newspapers and giant half-painted sheets of foam spread out over the entire floor of the auditorium lobby. “Should we just . . .” I glance back at Matt and Andy before squatting down across from these sophomores named Suman and Bess. Now that I’m closer, I can see the foam is lined with masking tape in a brick pattern.
“Just paint them gray for now,” says Bess, handing me a paintbrush. “We’re going to add shading later.”
Andy and Matt settle right in beside me, and we fall into a comfortable rhythm. Painting sets is so soothing—I love the hum of the air conditioner and the even back and forth of my brush strokes. Someone’s playing music in the auditorium nearby, and every so often, it leaks faintly through the auditorium doors. Andy’s cross-legged, leaning carefully forward, his bright white T-shirt completely paint-free. But Matt’s bangs keep falling into his eyes, so he keeps pushing them back, and now his hair’s adorably streaked with castle-stone gray.
“Hey. You missed a spot.” Andy nudges Matt sideways. “That’s supposed to be my house. Don’t fuck it up.”
Matt swipes sideways with his paintbrush, leaving a gray streak on the back of Andy’s hand. “Oops.” His eyes are still fixed on the foam board, but he’s grinning. “Missed a spot.” He plants another streak on Andy’s wrist. “Missed another spot.”
Anderson gasps. “Matthew Olsson, don’t you dare.”
I don’t know quite what to make of it. On the one hand, this is starting to feel a little like a rom-com moment, the kind that begins with flirtatious paint slinging and ends with Andy and Matt making out in front of the dramaturgy display. But on the other hand, I can’t imagine having a boyfriend who doesn’t get along this well with Anderson. It would be like having a boyfriend who doesn’t like my face.
Suddenly, the auditorium doors burst open, revealing Noah. I’m surprised he’s here. First of all, it’s not even nine in the morning. Plus, Saturday set building is optional, and Noah seems like a bare-minimum kind of guy. He stands in the doorway for a moment, watching us paint, and I swear, Anderson Walker’s about to get murdered. Because I don’t know how Andy managed to get in my head about this, but Noah definitely looks . . . passable. I don’t even get it. He’s wearing gym shorts and an RHHS baseball T-shirt, his dark hair winging out messily in all directions, but he looks so soft-lipped and sleepy, I feel almost personally attacked. He shuffles over, plopping down beside me without hesitation. “Zhao won’t let me use the drill,” he complains.
“Because you’re wearing a cast? Or because you’re you?”
“Mmm. Both.”
Anderson coughs loudly, pursing his lips out in kiss formation, and I shoot him a lightly homicidal glare. I don’t even know what the worst offense is here—the fact that he actually thinks Noah could distract me from Matt, or the fact that he’s broadcasting it all over his face.
“You should paint,” I say quickly, shoving a brush at Noah. “It’s really relaxing. See? I’m relaxed.” I glob some gray onto the foam backdrop, whirling my brush around frantically.
Noah settles in. “So this is my castle, huh?”
“My castle,” says Andy.
“Not till I die,” Noah says happily. “I’m your father.”
“I am your father,” echoes Matt, in a Darth Vader voice.
Andy looks at Matt and laughs. “You’re cute.”
My heart leaps into my throat. Okay. That was more blatantly flirtatious than I expected. And a part of me’s like, wow, Andy, step up that game. Get yours.
But yeah. A part of me wants to stab him with a paintbrush.
Anyway, Matt’s blushing, but I can’t tell if it’s a swoony blush or an awkwardly-flattered-straight-guy blush. Either way, it looks good on him. And obviously Anderson thinks so too, because now he’s dead silent, grinning down at his hands.
I feel this twinge of—something. Maybe restlessness. It’s hard to pinpoint. But I have this sudden urge to put the world on fast-forward. “We need music,” I say, and Noah’s lips fall open like he’s about to start singing. I clamp a hand over his mouth. “No.”
So Matt starts singing instead—the first verse of “In a Little While.” But he’s singing it as Matt, without Sir Harry’s round knightly vowels. It’s soft and light and actually really lovely. I take my hand off Noah’s mouth and point to Matt. “Yes.” Then I pat Noah on the shoulder, and Anderson bursts out laughing.
Matt only sings four lines—just the first verse—but it makes the whole room go still. It’s just something about his earnestness, or the casual sweetness of his voice. He finishes, and there’s this pause that feels practically electric. But then Noah nudges me with his elbow, breaking the spell. “Kate. That’s you.”
“What?”
“That’s your cue!”
I shake my head.
“I’ll sing it,” he offers.
“NO.” I look up to find Matt, Anderson, Suman, Bess, and Noah all watching me with a range of vaguely amused facial expressions. Then Anderson tilts his head and goes full puppy dog face. I roll my eyes. “Stopppp it.”
Andy starts humming my part of the song.
“Okay, fine.”
I start singing. And I feel weirdly self-conscious about it, even though no one outside our little circle is even paying attention. And it’s not like my singing voice is big news to any of the boys. Matt practically got a whole private concert at Thursday’s rehearsal.
But it’s one thing to sing for a musical, at rehearsals or auditions or even onstage in front of an audience. Singing without structure is another thing entirely. It’s like my heart keeps trying to slide out of my sleeve, and I keep shoving it under the cuff. In a play, everything’s planned out and controlled, even the dramatic parts. But nothing in real life is like that. Real life is chaos. You always end up lurching the wrong way, yelling the wrong thing, and drowning in all the wrong emotions.
And, of course, sometimes you end up on Mira Reynolds’s Instagram.
I shake the thought away and keep singing. And my voice is startlingly crystal clear.
“Pretty,” says Anderson, as soon as I finish, and I flash him a smile. But then, without hesitation, Matt picks it up with Sir Harry’s next verse, and after that, we’re singing straight through the harmonies without any accompaniment. Andy leans toward Suman to brag. “Perfect pitch. Isn’t she amazing?”
I’m not actually amazing, and I don’t have perfect pitch, but there’s something magical about the way my voice blends with Matt’s. A few more people wander over, like there’s some invisible string yanking them toward us. I catch Noah watching me with a face that looks so much like Flynn Rider, I full-on blush and turn away.
When the song ends, Matt shoots me this tiny wink, and I pretty much melt all over the auditorium lobby floor.
“Hey.” Noah hugs me sideways. “That was really good.”
I bite back a smile. “Thanks, Noah.”
I swear, I can feel Anderson beaming mental cupid arrows down on me, which is insanely annoying. Like, I get it. The communal crush isn’t fun anymore. But that doesn’t mean I’m about to force some Noah thing to materialize.
Anyway, it all turns to mush when I look at Matt. I shoot him a tiny smile, like hey, not bad, which makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. And suddenly the world feels ten steps away. Like we made a force field somehow, with our beaming, locked eyes.
Anderson gets weird after that. It’s not that he seems angry, or even grumpy. He’s just quiet, and it lasts the whole afternoon. We leave around four, and Andy asks Matt to just drop him off at home. So I spend half the ride in silence, feeling strange and unsettled but not wanting to probe in front of Matt. Finally, I just text him. Are you coming to Ryan’s birthday?
A moment later: Ehh . . . I need a break. You’ll be fine.
Wait really?? You’re not coming?
Anderson’s always there on Ryan’s birthday, at least for birthday dinner. Otherwise, it’s just my family—Ryan, Mom, Dad, and me—which is the most awkward combination of people in existence. But when Andy’s there, at least there’s a buffer. And he’s just so good at managing that kind of situation. He knows how to derail all the weird, tense parts and keep a conversation funny and airy.
Kate in Waiting Page 16
