Kate in Waiting Becky Albertalli (best way to read books TXT) š
- Author: Becky Albertalli
Book online Ā«Kate in Waiting Becky Albertalli (best way to read books TXT) šĀ». Author Becky Albertalli
But Mom can be kind of a bulldozer when she wants you to do something. And I guess she got it in her head that I should do Ella.
Okay, thatās not entirely it.
She wanted me to, yeah. And at first I said no. But then I kept picturing Eric Graves in the audience, staring up at me, entranced. Heād be in the front row. Heād think, how have I never noticed Kate Garfield before?
It was pure clichƩ nonsense.
I guess I let myself be bulldozed.
My hair was so long back then, it took me an hour to dry and straighten it. I dressed like Ella, tooāat least the second-rate mall version of Ella: white peasant top, blue maxi skirt, thick belt. The variety show was just one night, always a Friday. But we did our dress rehearsal as an assembly during the day for the school. I was so wrecked with nerves, Mom had to play the opening notes twice. My voice trembled at first, but I shut my eyes and kept going.
And then the song did what songs do. It took over. It pushed me out of the driverās seat. I was Freddie Mercury and I was Ella and even Rachel from Glee, and Iād never felt so beautiful, ever. I opened my eyes after the first chorus, and there was Eric. Front row, center. The house lights were down, and I couldnāt quite make out his expression. But he wasnāt sleeping or whispering or even texting, like Mira Reynolds was doing beside him. He was paying attention. And when I finished, he clapped and whistled.
I just about bubbled over with joy.
For the rest of the day, I floated through the halls, feeling quietly triumphant. I didnāt breathe a word to the squad. But I could just picture Eric on the walk back to homeroom, trying to explain it to his friends. Her voice. I think Iām falling for her.
I kept thinking heād text me. Not that we were on texting terms. But maybe he knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who had my number. Maybe heād look me up. Maybe heād follow my Instagram. Itās funnyāI remember almost nothing about the variety show itself. I just remember being backstage, checking my phone over and over.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
But as soon as we got home, my brother followed me straight to my room. Thatās how I knew something was up. He passed me his phone, already open to Miraās finsta page.
There I was.
Thirteen-year-old me, my peasant shirt coming untucked, and a crease I hadnāt noticed on the side of my hair. It was the shittiest possible angleātilted up from below, making me look like a front-facing camera meme in motion. And my painstakingly modulated Ella voice sounded as high as a six-year-old, with round choir-girl vowels and overly enunciated consonants.
There were already thirty-two comments.
yikes lol
saw it live, that was some good shit wow
IāM SCREAMING
Is that Ryan garfieldās sister??
What is her face doing at the 32 sec mark? haha
this is so embarrassing, I literally canāt watch
āDonāt read those,ā Ryan had said, snatching the phone away.
I could hardly form words. āMira filmed me?ā
Ryan showed me the caption.
Shoutout to e-dawg @sirEricGeneric for this cinematic masterpiece
Everything froze.
E-dawg. Eric Graves.
āDonāt sweat it, okay?ā Ryan shifted awkwardly beside me. āIt only has a hundred and three views.ā
āA hundred and three people have seen this?ā
I remember I could barely breathe. I remember wondering if you could puke your own heart out.
āItās not actually that bad,ā Ryan said.
I didnāt reply.
āI mean, at least you soundāā
āOh my God, just stop.ā
Ryan stopped.
I flopped backward on my bed, arms crossed over my chest like a corpse.
The next day, someone started a new account on Instagram called Kate Garfield Singing. It consisted entirely of ugly screenshots of me from Ericās video. Square after square of my jaw hanging open, lips curled, eyes half closed. The bio said simply: I die a little. I cried, texting the link to the squad.
FUCK THIS, Raina wrote. I WILL DESTROY THEM. HOLY SHIT
This is garbage, sweetie, Iām so sorry, Brandie wrote.
Anderson never wrote back to the text, because he was already at my door.
āThat fucking monster,ā he said. He didnāt even pause to say hello.
I wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand. āWhich one?ā
āEric. Mira. Both of them. Every single fucking fuckboy who followed the page.ā
By then, there were seventy-eight. I couldnāt stop checking. Some were faces I recognized from the f-force, but some were strangers.
Ryan was on the living room couch, but I plopped down anyway, peering up at Anderson. āIām never singing again. Ever.ā
Ryan didnāt even look up from his phone.
But I woke up Sunday to find Momās old guitar propped outside my door.
Ryan was in bed still, but awake, thumbing through a textbook. He didnāt exactly look surprised to see me.
I gripped the door frame. āYou know I donāt play guitar, right?ā
āIāll text you a tutorial.ā He stretched his arm sideways, expertly plucking his phone from its charger. A moment later, my phone buzzed.
I glanced down at it and then back up at him, glaring.
āāSomebody to Love?āā I asked. āYeah, thatās notāā
āItās a good song. Donāt let a bunch of assholes ruin it for you.ā
I pressed play, and the video was pretty basicājust some guy running through the chords and finger positions on an acoustic guitar. But there was something about how the threads of sound came together.
My eyes were glued to the screen. āWho would I even play for?ā
āWhat do you mean, who would you play for?ā Ryan said, shrugging. āJust play for yourself.ā
Scene 11
I think Momās self-destructing. Cause of death: Shabbat dinner. Sheās got no fewer than eight printed recipes fanned out on the table, and sheās making everything from scratch. I donāt know if she realizes we have one oven. And sheās one person.
Needless to say, we Garfields arenāt exactly Shabbat-dinner-level Jews.
āKaty, stick the mini soufflĆ©s in the toaster oven. Can we do that? Theyāll cook, right?ā
I survey the kitchen:
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