Kate in Waiting

by Becky Albertalli

  Noah steps closer. “You sure you don’t want anything? Water even? Or OJ—I think Maddie said her sister’s bringing some more.” He pours some rum into a red plastic cup, and then empties the end of a Coke bottle on top. He takes a sip then gasps. “You know what we should do? Right now?”

  Leave. We should leave. We should go drink herbal tea with my dad and watch eighties movies on Netflix.

  “We should sing!” Noah claps my shoulder emphatically. “Not me. Just you. Like at set design.”

  I stare straight in his face. I might actually be speechless.

  “Come onnnn.” He takes a big gulp of his drink. “I know, I know, Sir Harry’s not here. But you don’t need him. I’m telling you. We can find background tracks on YouTube. Wait, doesn’t your dad have a karaoke machine—”

  “Noah, I literally can’t tell if you’re making fun of me, or if you’re actually that clueless—”

  “What? Kate! I just like your voice. Hold on. I need a refill.”

  I can’t do this. I can’t be here. I’m so far out of my depth, I don’t even know how I’m still breathing. I need Andy. I can’t do this without Andy. God knows Noah’s not helping. I don’t even know what he’s thinking. Me, singing along to YouTube karaoke tracks at an f-boy party. I mean, why stop there, right? How about I climb on top of the booze table and belt “Somebody to Love”?

  And to make the moment that much more perfect, Mira Reynolds bursts in, cradling a carton of orange juice and a two-liter Coke bottle. She promptly steps on my foot. “Oops, sorry, boo,” she says.

  I blink up at her, speechless.

  “You’re probably looking for these, huh? Ohhhh boy.” She lifts up the carton.

  I feel almost dizzy. Mira Reynolds with the mixers.

  I knew Mira lived in my neighborhood. And I knew she had sisters. But those sisters are twelve, right? Maybe the older one’s thirteen or fourteen.

  But then again, that might have been a thing that got locked into my head freshman year. Which was two years ago. Which would make the middle sister—

  Madison. Madison Reynolds, who sent her sister to pick up mixers. Her sister Mira.

  I’m in Mira Reynolds’s house.

  “There you are.” Noah sidles up, flushed and smiling. “You sure you don’t want anything? You know drunk karaoke is a thing, right?”

  I shake my head slowly. Mira’s house. Noah wants me to sing in Mira’s house.

  “Okay, but Ryan wants me to tell you that if you want to drink, it’s fine, and he has your back, and also he’d rather you drink while he’s here to, like, keep an eye on you. So if you did want to drunk anything, I mean drink, ha—”

  “Where’s Ryan?”

  “Playing Fortnite.” He shrugs toward the couch. “But he said—”

  “Okay, well. I’m leaving.”

  “What? We just got here.”

  “You don’t have to come with me. Stay with Ryan.”

  “I don’t want to stay with Ryan. I want to stay with you.” There’s this fluid softness to Noah’s voice I’ve never heard before. “Kate, don’t leave. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—oh man. Little Garfield. I shouldn’t have had anything to drink. I made you uncomf—”

  “Noah, you didn’t make me uncomfortable, okay? You’re fine. Drink whatever you want.”

  He takes my hand. “But you’re leaving? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine! Noah, I’m fine. I just don’t want to be here.”

  “Because of all the fuckboys, right?” Noah says. “Too many fuckboys.”

  He’s smiling expectantly, and yeah, I get it. There’s nothing my squad loves more than ranting about f-boys. We observe them and categorize them and quietly mock them, and we don’t care what they think of us. Why would we care? The f-force is basic and awful and we don’t play by their rules.

  But it’s all bullshit.

  The realization hits me so suddenly and forcefully, I almost lose my breath.

  I say I don’t care what they think of me—and yet, their faces pop into my head every time I press post on Instagram. Every time I walk down the hallway at school.

  Every time I sing.

  Especially when I sing.

  It’s a reflex, seeing your dorky, cringey life through their eyes, picking it apart to try to anticipate where they’ll cut you. It’s like having a tiny Greek chorus of people who hate you. Except they never shut up, and they live in your brain.

  yikes lol

  this is so embarrassing, I literally can’t watch

  I die a little

  The truth is, fuckboys terrify me. Mira Reynolds terrifies me. And I’m not strong enough to withstand it without Anderson.

  “I know Mira’s awful,” Noah says, tilting his head. “But I just think of it as Madison’s house, and Madison’s a cinnamon sweetheart. A roll. A cinnamon roll. I mean, if you want to leave, we can leave, but I’m just saying. Madison’s—”

  “She’s amazing. I know. Got it. You guys are friends.”

  “What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What?”

  “Friends. With air quotes.”

  “I didn’t do air quotes.”

  “You did them with your voice.”

  “Noah.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “It’s nothing. Just—forget it. I have nothing against Madison, okay? I just want to go.”

  “Oh,” says Noah, eyes softening. “Then we should go.”

  “I’ve been trying to make this point for the last five minutes.”

  “Come on.” He grins. “I’ll walk you.”

  “Pretty sure I’m the one walking your drunk butt home, but okay.” I bite back a smile. “Should we tell my brother we’re leaving?”

  “He’s fine,” Noah says quickly. “Look at him. Look at our boy. Playing Fortnite. So happy. Come on.” He tugs my hand. “Let’s go.”

  Scene 64

  Walking home with Tipsy Noah is an experience. He swears he only had four drinks, even though four doesn’t feel very only to me. And he’s clearly feeling every drop of them. It’s not that he’s staggering around or falling on his face or anything. He’s kind of like Regular Noah, only more so. The main thing about Tipsy Noah is that he doesn’t. Stop. Talking.

  “I’m serious,” he says, veering closer. “This fucker is a land fish. It can walk—”

  “Absolutely not. Doesn’t exist.”

  “It does exist, and it’s a cursed demon hellspawn.” He lights up. “Okay, marry, bury, or fuck? The snakehead fish—”

  “Bury.”

  “Okay. A cockroach—”

  “Also bury—”

  “And the naked mole rat.”

  “Peaceful, platonic coexistence.”

  “Okay, I feel like you’re stretching the rules a little bit, but I’ll allow it.” Noah pauses. “Hey, speaking of naked mole rats, what’s the deal with you and Matt Olsson?”

  “Do I even want to know how you went from naked mole rats to Matt?”

  “Because Matt rhymes with rat, and Olsson half rhymes with Mole. Anyway, I’m just asking,” he says, “if you and Matt Olsson twins are bf-gf.”

  He actually says bf-gf. Not even the whole words.

  “We’re not bf-gf,” I say flatly.

  Noah’s face lights up. “Has anyone ever told you about your initials?”

  “I know my initials.”

  “Kate Eliza Garfield,” he says. “Keg!”

  “Very exciting.”

  “But,” he says, leaning so close our arms are touching. “The ironic thing is, you don’t drink. That’s what’s ironic. And iconic.”

  I just look at him, shaking my head slightly. I should be so annoyed right now. I mean, Noah’s being objectively annoying. Those are just the facts. But I find him so weirdly charming, it’s almost infuriating.

  “I’m not really that drunk, Kate. Katypie. Hey, why do people keep calling you Katypie?” He turns toward me, wide-eyed. “Is it because you like pie?”

  “Do you actually
want to know?”

  “Yes!” He turns to face me head-on, his face gleaming in the lamplight. We’re almost home, just a few houses away from our cul-de-sac.

  “Okay, well. My mom’s name is—”

  “Maggie,” he says. “Maggie Garfield. She never changed her last name back, did she? Why not? Is that weird of me to ask? Garfield’s a good name, though. It reminds me of the cat.”

  “It reminds everyone of the cat. Do you want to hear this or not?”

  “Yes! Yes, I’m ready.” He frowns solemnly. “Go.”

  “You don’t have to make that face. It’s not a sad story.”

  He beams. “It’s a happy story?”

  “It’s not even a story. It’s just that people used to call my mom Magpie, so I made everyone call me Katypie. I was like five.”

  “So it’s a cute story.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so.” He smiles down at me. And then before I can entirely process what’s happening, he reaches forward with his right hand, trailing his fingertips along my cheekbone.

  Like a Disney movie. Like Rapunzel.

  His fingertips fall still, and he stares at me, smile faltering. It’s wild. He doesn’t look like Drunk Noah the fuckboy. He looks like an earnest-eyed geek with his heart on his sleeve.

  “Hey, Kate?” he says softly, and my cheek burns hot beneath his fingers. I open my mouth to reply, but I think my lungs have stopped working.

  He smiles slightly. “I’m really glad we’re friends again.”

  Friends. He’s standing here cupping my cheek, but we’re friends. Then again, friend was his word to describe Madison Reynolds, and that was definitely more than fingertips on cheekbones. So maybe that’s just how Noah operates. Maybe it’s how f-boys operate in general. A little bit of eyegasm and some calculated face touching, and suddenly you’re expressing your friendship all over Sean Sanders’s refrigerator.

  I take a step back, and Noah’s face falls. He pulls his hand back, letting it drop to his side.

  “Sorry.” He swallows. “Kate—”

  “You’re good. We’re good.” For a minute, I just stand there with my arms crossed while my heart dials slowly back down to normal.

  “Kate. I’m so sorry.”

  My mind’s spinning. He’s got this wide-open, purely smitten, totally un-Noah look on his face. But who am I to say he’s smitten? It’s not like you can actually know how a person’s feeling just from their face. Because for one thing, they could always be acting. And acting itself is kind of bullshit. It all comes back to the idea that certain gestures show certain feelings. Ms. Zhao’s always saying how the emotion of the scene should be readily apparent, even without dialogue. But it’s all a fucking joke. It’s a bunch of stupid associations we make because we’ve always made them, and because everyone else makes them.

  I mean, just the idea that you could read on someone’s face that they’re in love with you? That’s ridiculous. In real life, we’re a bunch of fucking messes who have no idea what our own faces are telegraphing, much less anyone else’s. I could stand here right now and convince myself Noah’s in love with me. And then, watch, he’ll turn around and announce he’s been dating Madison for a month.

  Not to mention—

  “And what about Mira?” I blurt.

  Noah’s brow furrows. “Mira? What do you mean?”

  “You want to be friends again? Why’d you bring me to Mira’s house, Noah?”

  “Kate, seriously. I wasn’t thinking—”

  “And then you tried to pressure me to sing in front of her? After what she did?”

  He looks down at his feet, before meeting my eyes again. “You mean the variety show thing?”

  “The variety show thing.” I laugh flatly. “You mean, when she posted a video to mock me? And then took screenshots and made a whole new account just to mock me even more?”

  “Kate. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking—”

  “Whatever. It was a long time ago.” My throat goes tight, and I start walking again, quickly. I feel—God. I feel so stupid already.

  He rushes to catch up. “Wait—”

  “Forget I said anything.”

  “It’s not fine.” He rakes his hand through his hair. “Kate, I swear. I swear to God, I wasn’t—”

  “Just stop! Okay?” I try to swallow, and it hurts. “I get it. You were just drunk and trying to be funny.”

  “Kate—”

  “Can we just stop talking? Please?”

  He snaps his mouth shut and nods.

  And all the rest of the way home, there’s this silence, hanging like a force field between us. Noah lingers for a moment when we reach my door, and it strikes me all over again how uncertain he looks. He’s half hugging himself, right arm crossing his body to his shoulder.

  “So I guess I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow?” He glances down at me nervously. “Sorry I made things weird—”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Seriously, I’m so fucking sorry.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.” He bites his lip. “I’m . . . gonna go.” He takes a few steps back, toward the cul-de-sac.

  A part of me wants to watch him go, just to fully absorb this weirdly off-brand, off-his-game version of Noah. But even more than that, I want to lock myself in my room and forget this whole week ever happened.

  Scene 65

  By the time I wander downstairs in my sweatpants, Dad’s already camped out at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading his iPad. “Hiya, Peapod. How was the party?”

  “Fine,” I say. “Ish.”

  “Fine-ish?” Dad says.

  “Yup.”

  “Well, your brother got in late,” Dad adds, obviously grasping around to keep the conversational ball in the air. He can be cringey like that when it comes to human interaction. When you meet my dad, you no longer have to wonder what all the nervous, chatty boys you know from Hebrew school will be like when they’re older. “Sounds like it was a real rager.”

  “It was mostly just people playing video games.”

  I join him at the table with a bowl of dry Honey Nut Cheerios, watching a whole stream of apologetic Noah texts come in. He seems convinced I’m mad at him. Luckily, Dad’s already sucked back into his iPad and therefore not asking me more questions about the party. Or why I keep rereading the same texts over and over without replying to them. Not because I’m trying to make a statement or anything by not replying. I just need to come up with something appropriately casual, because this is a deeply casual texting situation. One that happens to be occurring at eight a.m. on a Saturday morning.

  How are you even awake? I write finally.

  He writes back immediately: Sleep is for the week.

  Then, a moment later: WEAK. It’s for the weak. Followed by a whole stream of face-palm emojis. Maybe I should get more sleep or something???

  Better hurry, rehearsal starts in two hours. I add a snoring emoji, press send, and retreat to my room for some quality guitar time. But the minute my fingers touch the frets, there’s a knock. Then the door creaks open, revealing a sleepy, bed-headed Ryan. “Hey.” He yawns.

  “You’re up early.”

  “So are you. You have fun last night?” He settles onto the edge of my bed, rubbing his eyes. “Wish you’d told me you were leaving.”

  I press my fingertips hard against the frets, without strumming. “You seemed like you were fine.”

  “I was. I just didn’t know where you were. You know I would have walked you home, right?”

  “It’s fine. I had Noah.”

  “I know.” Ryan pauses. “He’s kind of freaking out about it. You guys okay?”

  “What? Of course.” My face goes warm.

  “He feels so shitty about bringing you to Mira’s house. I don’t think he made the connection. I didn’t either, and I should have. I’m sorry—”

  “No, seriously, you’re fine. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the on
e who needs to learn how to stop obsessing over drama from eighth grade. I’m sure Mira’s super nice now. I know she’s your friend—”

  “She’s not my friend.” Ryan shakes his head slowly. “You think I’d be friends with Mira Reynolds after what she did to you?”

  “Ryan, we were at her house. I watched her hug you.”

  “She hugged you, too. She was just drunk. Trust me, we’re not friends.”

  “You don’t have to boycott Mira Reynolds for me. Just don’t, like, start dating her or anything.”

  “Not a problem.” Ryan yawns. “You know, she’s not exactly my biggest fan either. I kind of . . . lost my shit at her after the variety show thing. And Eric.”

  I almost drop my guitar. “Wait, you fought them?”

  “No. God. No. I don’t fight little kids—”

  “They’re one year younger than you.”

  “They were in middle school. And come on. I don’t fight people. I just . . . sent a few strongly worded DMs.”

  “Wait, really?” He nods, and I just stare at him, flabbergasted. “Did they write back?”

  “Well, Mira blocked me.”

  “No she did not.” I set my guitar down. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m still blocked.” He rubs his neck. “And I guess Eric kind of came after me.”

  “What do you mean, came after you?”

  “I mean.” He leans back on his hands. “I’ll tell you, but you have to promise you won’t tell Mom.”

  “Promise.”

  Ryan glances up at my door, like he’s worried Mom might just happen to be hanging out at Dad’s house for the first time in four years. “Okay, remember that neck thing I had for a while in ninth grade?”

  “The one Mom thought was a hickey?”

  “Wasn’t a hickey.”

  I smile slightly. “And it wasn’t a curling wand injury?”

  “Um. What?” Ryan looks at me like I’m speaking Martian. “No, it wasn’t a curling wand injury. Is that a thing?”

  “You’d be surprised.” I nod soberly. “So what was it?”

  Ryan bites his lip. “Seriously, you can’t tell Mom—”

  “I won’t. I promise. I double promise.”

  Ryan takes a deep breath. “Okay, so. Eric Graves shot me—”