Kate in Waiting Becky Albertalli (best way to read books TXT) 📖

the way he keeps rushing through his lines to keep from giggling. It’s not working.

Also, when he giggles, I giggle.

Which makes for some very giggly Larken/Harry arguments.

I swear, this is why I do theater. It’s not about the tiny spotlights or the attention or the final bow or any of that.

I mean, maybe it is sometimes. A little bit.

But mostly it’s this. This filled-to-the-brim feeling, this absolute rightness. I don’t know what it is about play rehearsals, but it’s really like that sometimes. You get these moments that feel rare and gifted and almost too good to be real. That exact perfect half point between giddiness and contentment. Half roller coaster, half rocking chair.

And just when I think this moment couldn’t possibly get any sweeter, there’s Matt, scooting in beside me at the edge of the stage, our legs dangling down over the orchestra pit. Matt’s jeans next to my jeans. “Hey, let me know if you need a ride home,” he says. “You’re right on my way.”

I look up, turning to face him. “Oh!”

I mean. This can’t be real, right? Did that actually just happen? Did Matt Olsson just offer me a ride home from rehearsal?

A ride home. Me. Kate Eliza Garfield.

But then again—

Anderson. Who’s staring past us, stiff-backed and stoic, clutching his messenger bag a little too tightly.

“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t have minded.”

Anderson’s eyes are glued to the road. He’s squeezing the wheel so hard, I swear his knuckles might burst through his skin.

“You wouldn’t have minded? Andy, you look like you’re trying to choke the steering wheel.”

“Excuse me for being a safe driver.”

“Andy, come on.” I poke him. “Come on! Stop being mad. I’m right here. With you. Do you really think I would have ditched you?”

“To ride with Matt Olsson?” he asks. Then he shrugs, like I dunno, you tell me.

And wow. Wow.

“Okay, when have I ever ditched you for Matt. Ever?”

Like, for real? Is Andy even serious right now? I could have had Matt completely to myself that night at Mom’s house, but no. The second I found out he would be there, I texted Anderson. But Andy? Practiced for auditions with Matt when I couldn’t be there. Joined Senior D with Matt. Exchanged numbers with Matt.

But somehow Andy’s pissed at me because Matt offered me a ride home from rehearsal? A ride that I turned down?

You can kind of see Anderson putting all of that together—the way he exhales, the way his jaw clenches. And sure enough, when the light ahead of us turns red, he turns briefly to face me. “Katypie, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I get it. It’s weird.”

“It’s insane. I feel like this jealous monster. Every time he looks at you, I’m just like, fuck my whole life.” He does this choked little laugh, and his lip trembles just barely, and oh. He looks so much like seventh-grade Andy right now, it makes my chest hurt.

It’s a full minute before either of us speak.

“Kate, I like him,” Andy says finally. “I think I really, really like him.”

Scene 25

When we were younger, Anderson used to cry over everything—spiders and splinters and overly loud fireworks. Once he sobbed for an hour when he bit into a chunk of Oreo fudge that turned out to be blue cheese.

But by the beginning of seventh grade, the tears mostly stopped.

I’m not saying Anderson stopped being dramatic. He’s like the sovereign king of rants. No one—literally no one—knows how to give a rant like Anderson. I’ve seen him obliterate GOP senators, racist beauty gurus, Gone With the Wind, you name it. And his takedown of Rachel Dolezal could legit be a TED Talk. My favorite is always the halfway point, where Andy says, “Okay, whatever, I’m done. I’m over it.” But then, a split second later: “Okay, but ALSO, can I just say—”

I don’t know. It’s like somewhere along the line, Andy figured out you could be funny and upset all at once. And that people are way less weird about hilarious rants than they are about crying boys. But the wobbly lip thing is another beast entirely. That I’ve only seen him do once before.

It was the Saturday after Eva Cohen’s bat mitzvah. Anderson and I had been kind of bashful around each other all week. No one knew about the kiss. Definitely not Raina or Brandie, and I know Andy didn’t tell Vivian. The whole thing seemed so surreal. The morning after the kiss, we kept sneaking our phones out in Sunday school and church. Andy asked me to be his girlfriend in a paragraph-long text, riddled with adverbs and nervous disclaimers. I said yes with an “I’ll be your Batman” gif from Teen Wolf, Andy’s obsession at the time. And I really meant it. I was on cloud nine the whole day.

But school the next day was like stepping into a funhouse. Everything was off-kilter. We tried holding hands on the bus on Monday, but it felt ridiculous, so we stopped. And then we mostly just hung out the same way we normally did, other than being a little bit shyer and more smiley with each other. It wasn’t exactly what I’d expected. But I remember thinking, maybe that’s how getting a boyfriend always feels. Maybe romantic relationships are just friendships gone weird.

Of course, it wasn’t until Saturday that we were actually alone together. Normally I’d wander over to Andy’s house after breakfast in sweatpants, but this time I’d blow-dried my hair and even whipped out my new cherry ChapStick.

But Andy was in the strangest mood that day—quiet and preoccupied, almost broody. We ended up watching The Maze Runner on his laptop, and when it ended, he jumped up to brush his teeth. Then he asked if he could kiss me again.

And the kiss was nice. Calm and sweet. But when I opened my eyes, his lower lip was trembling. He looked like he was trying not to cry. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Oh.” My