Uh. I’ll just state for the record, though, that I wouldn’t mind making out with Matt in the lighting booth.
I sit up straighter, cheeks burning. “So.”
“So.”
“So you moved here.”
He smiles. “I did.”
Awkward silence, and it’s a big one. One for the history books. But listen—talking and crushing simultaneously isn’t easy. It’s a whole lot for one brain. Because obviously, you can’t just spew what you’re really thinking, which in this case is basically a bunch of heart emojis. And you don’t want to cast yourself as Generic Stranger Number Six, who speaks only in basic-ass questions like—
“How do you like Roswell?” I ask.
Nailed it.
But Matt leans back a little, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s good! I mean, it’s really different. I think the weirdest part is my dad not being here.”
“Oh.” My stomach flutters. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s fine. We’re not close. At all. He’s not very . . .” Matt trails off.
For a moment, we’re both silent.
“Divorce is just weird,” he says finally.
I nod. “So weird.”
“I mean, you get it. How long have your parents been . . . ?”
“Seventh grade. So I’m pretty much used to it.”
“Good to know you get used to it.”
I scoot closer—close enough that our pinkies are touching—which feels insanely brave, but also right. “Do you miss your dad?”
“Mmm.” He smiles slightly. “Not really.”
And something clicks in my brain. Nothing earth-shattering or game-changing. Just this one tiny detail.
Matt Olsson smiles when he’s sad.
I don’t mean it like he’s in denial. It’s more like he’s pushing it back, tucking the badness away. It’s strangely moving. And it makes my whole body feel warm.
Maybe it’s just the intimacy of knowing this tiny thing about him. It’s not a thing you can know from Instagram. It’s something real.
He turns toward me. “Where does your dad live?”
“Oh, just like ten minutes away.”
“That’s really nice. Are you and Ryan there a lot?”
“Wednesday and Thursday nights, plus every other weekend.”
“Is that hard?”
“Sometimes? I don’t know. Mostly it just . . . is.”
He nods. “I know exactly what you mean.”
Scene 15
And now I can’t get that out of my head.
I know exactly what you mean.
It tugs at the edge of my mind the whole time Matt’s here. And even after he leaves, it’s there, stealing my brain away from algebra, and making my squad texts so short and distracted, even Brandie calls me out.
But I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s the most underrated sentence on earth. I know exactly what you mean.
Translation: no, you’re not weird. Even your weird stuff isn’t weird. You make sense.
The thing is, I don’t usually talk about the divorce, apart from the logistics.
It’s not a secret, of course. I just never want to be a brat about it, especially the whole joint custody thing. Because I know how lucky I am. My parents live three miles apart from each other. It isn’t a tragedy. It’s just my life. Split in half.
But it’s hard to explain the way that wears on you. The feeling of constant motion. The fact that you’re never one hundred percent home. The way it falls into this unsettling new normal. It’s just life. It just is.
And somehow Matt already gets that.
Mom and Ryan head out for a college info session, and it doesn’t take me long to give up entirely on algebra. When I’m in this kind of mood, there’s only one thing I’m good for. I tune my guitar, and then I strum until a song takes shape. “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me,” which I’ve loved my whole life. It always gives me this soft, enchanted feeling, like I’m in an English rose garden, or some rustic meadow dance floor strung with fairy lights.
Once upon a time, it was my parents’ wedding song. You’d think that alone would suck out all the romance for me. But it hasn’t, not even slightly. Maybe some songs are just unruinable.
I sing the first verse with my eyes closed, feeling my way through the chords. My mind keeps drifting back to Matt. Smiling, sad Matt, holding my hand as we stroll down a winter path, right at dusk. I’m dressed like Elizabeth Bennet, and my hair’s collecting snowflakes. “But they never stood in the dark with you, love.”
I know I’m singing too loudly. I know my voice is too earnest, too ardent. But I’m so moonstruck, I can’t help it. I think my heart’s wrapped in clouds.
Someone knocks—and everything freezes. My hand goes rigid against my guitar strings.
“Hello?”
My heart’s hammering so loudly, I can barely hear my own voice. Hello? Maybe I didn’t say it out loud at all. Just in my head. Maybe this is all in my head. I glance out the window—no cars in the driveway. So, the only person who could feasibly be here is Andy, and he’s still with his voice teacher. Ergo, no one’s here. No one’s knocking on my bedroom door. My mile-a-minute brain made the whole thing up, just to troll me.
“Little Garfield?”
Oh my God.
“Um.” Nope. Nope. Not real. “Noah?”
Of course, he takes that as an invitation.
So now Noah Kaplan’s in my doorway, grinning like a T. rex. “Why’d you stop singing?”
You know those stoves where the knob makes a flame shoot straight up? Zero to burning. That’s my face.
“How are you here?” It comes out like a croak.
He crosses the room in two strides, plops onto the edge of my bed. “What do you mean, how am I here?”
“This is my mom’s house.”
“I’m not allowed at your mom’s house?”
“No, I mean, how did you get here? Where’s your car?”
“At home. I can’t drive until this comes off.” He lifts his cast arm.
“So, what, you just walked here?”
Noah pops his sneakers off using only his feet. I always forget he can do stuff like that. Picking up stuff off the ground with his toes, and then sort of tossing it up into his hands. He says it helps keep him lazy. I don’t even get how he’s an athlete.
He scoots back beside me by the headboard. “Of course I walked here.”
“You walked here from your house.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“That’s like an hour-long walk.”
“It was nice.” He pats the head of my guitar, yawning.
“In the rain.”
“I like rain.”
“You’re, like, completely dry. You’re not even—okay, you’re just making stuff up, aren’t you?”
“Possibly.”
I shove him hard in the shoulder.
“Okay, okay! Little Garfield. Sheesh.” He glances at me sidelong, eyes crinkling. “If you must know, I’m here because your brother, Ryan Kevin Garfield, stole my phone—”
“He stole your phone.”
“Well, I left it in his car yesterday.”
“Ah.”
“And unfortunately, my sources have informed me that it’s still in his car, which is currently parked at Georgia Tech, and will be for another”—he checks my wall clock—“forty-six minutes.”
“Which is why you’re here . . . now.”
“My ride had places to be, Little G.”
“Your ride. You mean your mom?”
“No, it was definitely a limo. Like a big limo full of hot girls.”
“Don’t call your mom a hot girl. That’s weird.”
“It is weird.” He wrinkles his nose. But then he smiles and taps the head of my guitar again. “Anyway. Sorry I interrupted your whole thing. What were you singing?”
“Nothing. I wasn’t.”
“What? Come on, you should keep going. I really like that song—�
��
“Nope.” I set my guitar down, pushing it toward the foot of my bed.
“Come on, you’re so good, though! It sounded amazing. It was the MLB of singing. I was like—whoa. She really means it—”
“I don’t.”
“You totally do. Who were you singing about? Wait, let me guess. Shawn Mendes. No. No, wait. Who’s that guy from that movie?”
“That guy from that movie.” I bite back a smile. “Very specific.”
“You know who I mean. The cheekbones guy. With the French name—”
“I have no idea where you’re going with this.”
“I’m going to start leaving my phone in Ryan’s car more,” Noah says. “If it means I get to experience Kate Garfield singing to Timothée Whatshisname . . .”
All the air whooshes out of my lungs. Noah’s smiling expectantly, but when he looks at me, it falters.
Kate Garfield Singing.
His eyes widen. “Kate—”
“It’s not funny.” I scoot off the bed, grabbing my guitar and shoving it into its case. “Okay? You’re not funny.”
I slam the case shut. And Noah’s mouth falls shut, too.
Scene 16
Of course, the minute Andy and I walk into school on Monday, there’s Noah, ready to pounce. “Kate!” He intercepts us in the lobby. “Hey, Anderson.”
“Hiiii.” Anderson glances at me sidelong, eyebrows raised.
“How’s it hanging?” asks Noah.
“You mean my testicles?” Anderson asks. “They’re fine, thank you.”
For once, Noah’s speechless.
Anderson smiles and elbows me gently. “Love you. See you in history.” Then he adjusts his messenger bag—backpacks ruin Andy’s aesthetic—and disappears down the hall.
Noah blinks. “Why are we talking about testicles?”
“You brought them up.” I blush. “I mean, not up, physically—”
“This conversation needs to be, like, a hundred percent less literal,” says Noah.
“Yeah.” I nod quickly. “Yup. Anyway—”
“Anyway,” he says, suddenly serious. “About yesterday. I just wanted to apologize again—”
“No, no, no. You’re good. I overreacted. It’s fine.”
“No, it was a stupid thing to say. I just wasn’t thinking about that whole mess. Not—I don’t mean the singing was messy. Just the Instagram stuff.”
“Noah?”
“Yup?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.” He nods. “Great. So we’re good?”
“Good. Great.”
“Great,” he says. “Perfect. Because I need your help.”
“My help?”
He smiles slightly and nods. Then he squares his shoulders, looking right into my eyes.
Aha. I recognize this maneuver. The eyegasm. An f-boy classic. It’s this extra split second of eye contact, but with the intensity ramped up to eleven, typically ending in a makeout. Even Jack Randall pulls it off, and he’s so stoned half the time he can barely keep his eyes open. But Noah’s, like, unsettlingly good at it.
“My help with what?” I say flatly.
I refuse to succumb to the eyegasm.
But man. Noah’s got these huge, gold-brown eyes, and his eyelashes are ridiculous. It’s honestly unfair. F-boys should be required by law to have that muscly jock hotness that does nothing for me. Like, I truly, sincerely don’t care about six-packs. Six-packs are meh.
But pretty eyes? Those are not meh.
“Well, I was thinking,” says Noah. “Maybe you could teach me how to sing.”
“How to sing?”
“Preferably by Thursday.”
“You’re trying out for the play?” I raise my eyebrows.
“For Senior D. They’re making me.”
“Right.”
“I just kept thinking yesterday, like. Wow. Kate’s such a good singer. Maybe she could tell me her secrets. But I was like, no, you can’t really teach someone singing.” He rubs his hands along the length of his cast. “But then I remembered what you said on the bus—”
“Oh. Noah. No, that’s not—”
“And I thought, you know what? I’m not great, but maybe I could get better with some training. Right? Always room for improvement.”
“Yeah. There’s room.”
I don’t quite know what to say. I don’t even know if he’s serious.
Here’s what I do know: Noah’s not one of those guys like my brother, holding back wells of untapped talent. Noah Kaplan singing sounds like a goose slowly dying. We were in Temple choir together for over two years, and even the cantor gave up on him. She flat out stopped in the middle of “Oseh Shalom” and asked Noah to mouth the words. And instantly, the whole choir sounded fifty times better. If it were me, I’d have been mortified, but Noah seemed to find the whole thing hilarious.
“Are you actually required to try out for a singing part?”
“No idea. I didn’t ask.”
“I think you should ask.”
“What if I want to try out for a singing part?”
I laugh. “Why?”
“Because.”
“What, is there a hot girl in that class or something?”
“Is there a hot girl.” Noah pats my shoulder. “Kate. It’s theater. I’m basically swimming in hot girls.”
“But do you mean hot girls like hot girls, or hot girls like your mom’s limo—”
“Nope. Nope. That’s gross.” He shakes his head firmly. “I’m talking about hot girls. Just regular old—okay, not old hot girls. Age-appropriate hot girls. It’s a class full of age-appropriate hot girls.”
“And Anderson and Matt,” I point out, feeling suddenly nauseated.
Matt. And hot girls. I was so busy being jealous of Andy, I didn’t even consider the hot girls.
“So you’ll do it?” Noah asks.
“Wait—what?”
“This afternoon sound good? I’ll get Garfield to drive us—other Garfield, I mean. Big Garfield. Bro Garfield—”
“Noah.” My lips tug at the corners. “I can’t teach you to sing.”
He looks stricken. “Why not?”
“Because you couldn’t carry a tune if it jumped into your arms?”
“Little Garfield. Wow. Tell me how you really feel—”
“Okay, remember when you and Ryan tried to teach me sports?”
Sixth grade, right after Noah moved here from Texas. He and I used to hang out a lot, but it’s not like we were ever really in sync. Noah always wanted to do stuff. But not my kind of stuff. Not stuff like reading with color-coded sticky tabs or singing the Les Mis soundtrack from start to finish. Noah just wanted to kick soccer balls and run drills with my brother, and I could never keep up, no matter what I did. So I tried to make them teach me.
He nods gravely. “That was so sad.”
“Okay, no. You’re sad. This isn’t about sports. That was an analogy. That was me trying to explain to you why I can’t teach you to sing.”
“Really? Because it actually sounds like a reminder that you owe me one.” Noah flips his palm up, the one with no cast. “So. This afternoon?”
“I’m at my mom’s house.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Mom’s house.”
“Wednesday?”
I pause—for like a split second, not even—and Noah lights up. “Wednesday it is! Sweet. We’ll make Ryan drive us.”
“He can’t. Dad’s taking his car in for an oil change. Also, doesn’t Ryan have baseball on Wednesday?”
“Ohhh. Right, he does. Yup.”
“So Wednesday’s out.”
“Oh no it’s not. Little Garfield, come on. We’ll live the bus life. Wednesday’s perfect.” He wrestles his bag onto his shoulder and glances back before he leaves. “Seriously, you’re the best. Thanks for offering this.”
“I didn’t.”
“See you Wednesdaaaaaaay,” he warbles.
Scen
e 17
All week, I’m a yarn ball of nerves. I can’t focus on anything. On the drive to school Wednesday, I’m so queasy, Anderson has to pull over.
“Breathe in and out.” He rubs my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Why am I always like this?”
“Oh, Katy. It’s just theatrical morning sickness. You know that.”
I make it through algebra, which is a miracle under the circumstances. Not that Ms. Evans cares in the slightest. She is all about polynomials today. Teachers never get it. Like, come on. It’s audition week. In a just world, they’d turn off the lights, skip the academic bullshit, and just let us all curl up in fetal positions with the Once Upon a Mattress soundtrack on repeat.
By lunchtime, the squad has officially descended into panic mode. All of us. Brandie’s too nervous to eat. Raina’s convinced she’s losing her voice, so she’s taken a vow of silence. She’s actually carrying around a spiral-bound notebook with common Raina phrases to flip to, like: Nope. Hell the fuck yes. I’m judging you. Bye, f-boy.
But for whatever reason, Anderson’s the eye of the hurricane today. Calm amid the chaos. He slides gingerly into his seat, cupping his chin in one hand.
“Matt wants to get together and rehearse,” he says, and my heart—
Just.
Plummets.
Wow. Matt and Andy. Rehearsing together. And making out, probably. Romantic multitasking. My best friend and my crush.
It’s just weird. Our communal crushes have always been so safely contained. Like a row of dolls on a shelf. We take them down when we want them and put them back when we’re done.
But Matt’s Pinocchio. He’s this real-life guy who walks and talks and makes plans, and apparently those plans are with Anderson. Just Anderson. Not me.
It’s just great. Absolutely great.
“Have fun with that,” I say, aiming for casual. But it comes out spiky and short.
Anderson rolls his eyes. “Okay, sourpuss, it’s not a date. Y’all are all invited. Right after school, my house.”
Raina holds up her notebook. Hell the fuck yes.
“Oh, fun. I’ll bring snacks,” says Brandie.
“Nothing dairy,” Andy says firmly. “None of us are having dairy until after auditions. Actually, Katy, can you bring tea? Your dad has all that herbal tea, right?”
My chest feels tight. “I can’t come.”
Kate in Waiting Page 6