Kate in Waiting

by Becky Albertalli

  “The ground rules weren’t working.”

  Anderson sputters. “Since when?”

  “Well, let’s see. What was that second rule? Oh right. Be honest with each other. Yeah, how’d that go for you?”

  “Are you serious right now?” I hear Andy step out of his stall, slamming the door behind him. “What was I supposed to do? Matt wasn’t out! How could I have told you?”

  “You said you thought I knew!”

  “I did! But I wasn’t sure. And, Katy, it wasn’t my thing to tell.”

  My cheeks flush. “Yeah, well, you could have waited until he was ready to tell before you decided to hook up—”

  Anderson laughs incredulously. “Are you listening to yourself? So you’re saying I should have told my boyfriend, hey, I’ll kiss you, but we’re going to have to loop in Kate first. Just FYI—”

  “So now he is your boyfriend!”

  “Wow, you really can’t be happy for me, can you?”

  “I am happy for you.” I stand up, yanking the stall door open. “Okay? There you go. You win, Andy. You get the guy. You get the guy we were both half in love with all summer—”

  “We barely knew him this summer!” Andy’s crying now. We both are.

  “Well I know him now. I like him just as much as you do, okay? Just as much.” I can’t catch my breath. “But I’m supposed to be happy for you? So if it were reversed, if he were my boyfriend, you wouldn’t feel any sort of way about that?”

  Andy’s face crumples. “Of course I would.”

  “Then congratulations! Your ground rules are bullshit.” I storm over to the sinks, trying to scrub my face clean of tears. But they just keep coming. “So, what, you didn’t think this would break my heart? Or you just didn’t care?”

  “Of course I care! But—God. I thought we talked about this—”

  “You could have gone for any other guy, Andy. Any other guy.”

  “That’s not how it works—”

  “Oh believe me, I know.” I laugh harshly.

  “I mean that’s not how it works when you’re me, okay?” Andy’s voice comes out choked. “Do you even get that? I’m gay and I’m Black, and, Kate, we live in the deep fucking South. You think we’re treated the same? You think we’re playing the same odds?”

  “This isn’t a game—”

  “I know! I know it’s not a game. Can you just listen—”

  “No, you listen.” I whirl back around to face him. I look him right in the eyes. “I was a wreck when I thought I was hurting you. Okay? I agonized over how I was gonna break the news to you. And you? You don’t even give a shit. Just drop that bomb before algebra, right? Cool, I’ll take the whole day to savor it.” For a moment, I just stare at him, shaking my head. “So, thanks for that.”

  Then I burst out of the bathroom, leaving Anderson tear-soaked in my wake.

  Scene 61

  I don’t know how I’m ever going to look Matt in the eye again.

  I mean, if Matt and Andy tiptoeing around my oblivious self for two weeks wasn’t humiliating enough, Andy’s about to walk right back into Senior D looking like Niagara Falls hit his face. I can just picture it. Matt will wrap his arms around him and kiss his forehead until he stops crying. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Tell me what happened.

  The crazy thing is, I don’t even think Matt will be mad at me for yelling at his boyfriend. He’ll just pity me. Stupid Kate and her pointless, pathetic crush. Maybe Matt and Andy will even hash out the issue with everyone in Senior D. Circle of trust, right? They can all just sit there discussing what an absolute steaming-hot desperate mess of a human being I am. It’ll be like the real-life version of the Kate Garfield Singing Instagram page.

  I mean, it’s seriously the longest school day of my life. Hands down. I can’t bear to go to history. I’ll start crying if I see Anderson. So I tell Mr. Edelman I have a meeting to discuss college applications, and then I walk straight past the guidance office and spend all of second period hiding in an empty locker room shower. And then I spend lunch there, too.

  But even eavesdropping on Genny Hedlund’s locker room conversations is barely a distraction. The mortification comes in waves. Every time I catch my breath, an even worse thought smacks me down.

  Like all those rides I took with Andy and Matt. I was so unbearably naïve. The way I curled up smugly in the back seat, thinking I was just a good friend for giving Anderson the front. Letting him pretend he was the center of the story.

  Guess there wasn’t much pretending involved after all.

  By eighth period, I’m downright spiraling. I can’t stop thinking about how terribly sorry Matt must feel for me now. And how sorry he’s felt for me for weeks. How he and Anderson must have talked about me. I bet every time I was away, every night I spent at Dad’s house, they were wincingly speculating that I’d lose my shit when they told me. And then, lo and behold, here I am proving them right.

  I want to run away. I just want to walk out the atrium door, break into my brother’s car, and drive all the way home. Or I could walk home. Andy and I used to walk to and from football games when we were in middle school. Two and a half miles. I could be at Mom’s house in less than an hour.

  But in the world’s greatest example of laughably ironic bullshit, I’m stuck here for an intensive rehearsal. For the song “Normandy.” Which is literally about Lady Larken trying to run away from the castle.

  The dismissal bell rings, and I lurch toward the auditorium like a zombie. I can’t make eye contact with anyone in the hallways. Because everyone must know the whole story by now. Everyone. The whole school. Kate Garfield? Yeah, isn’t she that girl who constantly deludes herself into thinking gay guys are in love with her?

  Except—okay.

  Maybe a handful of people have missed the memo that I’m a pathetic shameball loser. Everyone in rehearsal’s acting so normal, I could weep. Lana’s being snotty with the tech kids about stage left versus stage right. Brandie plops into the chair next to me, all excited about some viral video about baby wombats, so we watch that for a while. And then, the minute she gets up to pee, Noah steals her seat and starts babbling about some little kid’s YouTube channel.

  “That’s all he does. They send him new toys every day, and he films his reactions. I’m not even kidding. The kid’s like eight. What a lifestyle. I stan.”

  I smile, but it feels rigid and forced, like a marionette dummy. It’s been six hours since Andy’s bombshell, and I barely know what smiles feel like anymore. “You have so many opinions about children’s media,” I say.

  “To be fair, I have a younger sister.” He pokes me. “Question. Madison’s having, like, a very lowkey party tomorrow.”

  “That’s not a question.”

  He just smiles. “Want to come?”

  “I don’t even know Madison. Why would I go to her party?”

  “Because it’s going to be fun. And because you’d be going with me. And,” he says emphatically, “you have no excuse not to go, because it’s right in our neighborhood.”

  “I’ll be at my mom’s house.”

  And as soon as I say it, it hits me. Mom’s house. Which is where Matt lives. That’s going to be a fucking joyride. Just a fun weekend at home with a boy who knows all about my former sad, pathetic crush on him. Oh wait, let’s make it even more fun by adding a Saturday all-day run-through rehearsal where I get to kiss the boy I had a sad, pathetic crush on. Wow. This won’t be awkward at all. And then tech week. And then opening night next Friday. Can’t wait to see how many times Matt pulls me aside this week with gentle pitying eyes because he just wants to make sure I’m okay.

  Thankfully Noah—oblivious Noah—doesn’t even seem to realize I’m on the edge of a meltdown. He’s still talking. “—this Tuesday. Finally—”

  “Hey, Noah?” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Sorry. When’s this party again? Tomorrow?”

  “You’re coming? Oh, sweet!” And he looks so genuinely psyched that I feel bad for every mean thou
ght I’ve ever had about f-girls and partying and about Noah. Especially about Noah. “It’s gonna be really chill. You’ll love it.”

  “Good. Chill sounds good,” I say, trying to ignore my ricocheting heart.

  Scene 62

  I don’t know why telling my brother I’m going to a party feels weird, but it does. It feels—kind of thirsty, I guess? Like I’m trying to weasel my way into the f-force. But when I bring it up on the way home from school on Friday, he doesn’t even blink. “Yeah, I was thinking about going to that. It’s supposed to be chill.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Who are you going with?” Ryan asks, which makes me melt a little, because I know he wants me to say Brandie. But then I mostly just feel awful, since I totally could invite Brandie if I wanted to. And I do want to. Of course I do. But it’s just complicated.

  I bite my lip. “Um. I think just Noah.”

  Here’s the thing: if I invite Brandie, I have to invite Raina, and if I’m inviting the girls, I have to invite Anderson, and at that point I’d definitely have to invite Matt, and avoiding Anderson and Matt is the whole reason I’m even going.

  I mean, it’s most of the reason.

  As soon as we’re home, I make a beeline for my room. Matt’s not home yet, if he’s even coming home tonight. It’s highly possible he has better plans. But I shut the door just in case. Ryan doesn’t want to leave for Dad’s house until eight, and he says we should shower and get ready before we go.

  There’s nothing lonelier than getting dressed without the squad—if nothing else, we’ve usually got the group text chain going. But it’s that weird squad thing again, where if I text Raina and Brandie, they’ll wonder why Anderson’s not on the thread. And if I tell them Andy and I are fighting, they’ll want to know why. Of course, it’s possible Andy and Matt have already told them, in which case I’m sure they think I’m pathetic and problematic. But if they haven’t, there’s no way to even talk about the situation without outing Matt. And that flat out can’t happen. I won’t let it.

  So I just have to keep my distance. Just like how last weekend, Anderson kept his distance from me.

  The thing is, I really do get it. I do. I get why Andy was so weird and restrained. And I know it’s downright ridiculous to want him to wait until they had my blessing. The more I think about it, the more I’m embarrassed I said that. I guess in the moment, it felt like every single choice Anderson made was designed to destroy me.

  But I know that’s not true. And if I didn’t already know that, I now have a wall of texts to prove it.

  Katy I’m so sorry. I never expected this to happen.

  I never wanted to hurt you

  Please say something

  Kate I love you. You know that right?

  I know you were blindsided. I feel awful about that.

  I hate that we’re fighting

  Please text me

  It’s so Anderson. He’s a monster about grudges. He really is. Except when it comes to me. Whereas I’m just awful at staying mad at anybody, ever.

  But every time I start to type a reply, I fall short. It just feels insurmountable. I keep picturing Andy receiving my apology text. He’ll show Matt, of course. And Matt will scoot closer, resting his chin on Andy’s shoulder. “Told you she’d come around,” he’ll say. I’m sure I’m a regular topic of discussion between them. I wonder if they bonded over pitying me, and if my rage brought them even closer. All my inconvenient feelings.

  Every time I think about it, it stings even harder.

  Whatever. I’m a grown girl. I can dress myself for a party, even an f-boy party. But when I thumb through my closet, all my clothes feel cringingly overdone. Everything feels like I wore it just yesterday. But I don’t have the energy to be creative. God forbid I attempt to layer things and end up looking like a toddler. Maybe I should just wear jeans and a T-shirt and a flannel. Probably the whole f-force would faint from the sheer underwhelmingness.

  In the end, I go for a dress—one I’ve never worn, even though I saved all of last year’s birthday money to buy it. I always feel like it looks really try-hard, which is ironic, because it’s probably the lowest-effort clothing item I own. I mean, you don’t even have to zip it. It wraps and ties around you. But it’s just a little more fitted than what I usually wear, mostly under the boobs, with all these dainty-looking printed flowers. And it’s red, which can feel very WHOA. But maybe whoa is a good thing. Who knows?

  I throw a jacket on over it and hope for the best.

  Scene 63

  By the time Ryan and I get to Dad’s house, Noah’s already waiting, stiff-backed on our living room couch. It’s not weird that he’s here; the only weird thing is that he’s sitting, not sprawled. But then I realize Dad’s there too, sipping bourbon in his recliner like he and Noah are having an old-timey meeting of gentlemen.

  We chat with Dad for a bit, and the boys tell him about the party—how it’s just a few streets down, near the clubhouse, and how Madison and her sisters are fine, upstanding girls. I mostly just nod along, trying not to think about Madison and Noah being upstanding together against Sean Sanders’s refrigerator.

  By nine or so, we step out into the September evening stillness. Just like the block party, it’s a little bit surreal to be spending a Saturday night with Noah and Ryan. Especially Ryan. By the time we reach the end of our block, the boys are already deep into a conversation about sports. I drift a few steps behind them. My mind keeps circling back to Andy and Matt, and whether they’re together, and what they’re up to, and whether they’re talking about me, and how much they pity me, and—

  “Hey, space cadet, we’re here,” Noah says.

  I realize with a start that ten minutes have passed.

  Madison really does live just a few blocks from us, in the kind of house you always see here—overly large, with stucco exteriors, big windows, and potted plants on the doorstep. But there are absolutely none of the usual party trappings. No plastic cups littering the yard, no loud music, no one spilling out of the driveway. Not even a line of parked Jeeps on Madison’s street—that classic f-boy calling card. There’s just a handful of cars parked in her driveway. I squint at Noah and Ryan. “Are you sure this is her house?”

  “Told you it was going to be chill,” Noah says. Then he opens the door without knocking. “Hello?” he calls out. “Madison?”

  “She’s in the basement,” someone calls back—and her voice, though muffled through a wall, is familiar. I try to place it, with no luck—but then there’s a toilet flush, followed by hand-washing noises, and then the bathroom door opens. It’s Mira Reynolds.

  “Oh, hey, y’all!” she says, her voice obnoxiously musical. She’s wearing high-waisted shorts and a shirt so cropped it could legit be a bra, dark hair softly wavy. She leans forward to hug Noah, which feels wrong, and then Ryan, which feels wronger, and then me, which is straight-up nonsensical. I mean, Mira Reynolds. The worst and meanest f-girl of all. Is she trolling me right now? Ella-gate wasn’t even three full years ago, and it was one of the worst days of my life. Does she even remember who I am?

  “Maddie’s downstairs. Y’all are kind of early, but no biggie. I just talked to Sean and everyone, and I think people are coming around eleven?”

  Gotta love f-girls. Three sentences, and Mira’s already managed to make me feel like the world’s most overeager, irrelevant loser.

  “Hey.” Noah grabs my hand. “Should we head down?”

  I freeze in place. Because this isn’t the maybe-accidental backswipe hand contact from the block party. This is my hand. Being held by Noah Kaplan’s hand. But in a way that can’t possibly mean anything, seeing as we’re standing inside the house of a girl Noah sometimes makes out with against refrigerators. But still. I like the way his fingers look, curved around mine. It’s our cast-free hands. I mean, all my hands are cast-free. Both. Both my hands. Anyway, it’s Noah’s right hand. And my left hand, which is the one with all the guitar calluses. Great. That’s j
ust great. I bet Noah’s super into calluses.

  And just like that, he lets go, and I don’t know what to make of any of it. On the bright side, obsessing over the presence and absence of Noah’s hands makes for a more than decent distraction. I make it all the way down Madison’s staircase without a single thought about Matt and Andy. So props to Noah, I guess, for that.

  I follow the boys into the party, which turns out to be . . . legitimately very chill. Besides us, there are only about a dozen people here. Everyone’s tucked onto this curved, wraparound couch, drinking from plastic cups and calmly watching two f-boys play a video game. No grinding or puking or staggering around drunk. Just a quiet, poignant f-boy moment. I really am like an anthropologist. The secret life of fuckboys. Fuckboys: they’re just like us! I honestly should collect field notes. I could get a PhD in Fuckboy Studies.

  A moment later, Madison appears, looking unicorn-level gorgeous in one of those tight bodycon dresses. She’s curled her hair for the occasion, and it swings around like a shampoo commercial when she moves in to hug us. Up close, that perfumey floral smell is even stronger than I remember. With girls like Madison, that flowery scent always feels somehow essential, like it’s part of their very humanity. I’m sure I smell like Mom’s laundry detergent.

  “Drinks are back there on the table,” Madison says. “We’re low on mixers, but I think my sister just restocked.”

  She has this proud-hostess gleam that’s kind of endearing. I don’t think she’s particularly relaxed, or even enjoying herself, but she looks pleased and satisfied. Like a wedding planner surveying her perfectly executed reception. I think Madison’s actually the only one not drinking.

  Of course, Ryan and Noah head straight to the booze table. “Little G, Katy Kate, do you want something?” asks Noah.

  I shake my head dazedly, watching Ryan throw back a shot, like he’s some teen movie frat bro. Which somehow seems to summon Chris Wrigley, who appears out of the ether to give Ryan a fist bump.