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

“Definitely feeling it,” says Emma.

Anderson scowls. “Pretty sure that’s called acting.”

“Pretty sure that’s called Kate and Matt are going to be married by tech week,” says Emma. “Mark my words.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Brandie and Raina exchange glances.

“You never know.” Lindsay beams. “Lots of intensive rehearsals coming up on that schedule.”

“Wow,” Anderson says, opening a bag of chips with unnecessary force. “And here I thought it was possible for actors to—I don’t know—act? And be professional? You guys are like those blogs that analyze paparazzi pictures for evidence of actors hooking up.”

Raina snorts. “That’s not a thing.”

“Uh, yeah it is.” He whips out his phone.

“Hey,” I say, and my voice sounds hollow and bright. Because apparently I can’t even land the delivery of one syllable. I plow ahead regardless, desperate for a subject change. “Do y’all know when set design is?”

“I don’t know. Not till September, I think,” says Raina. “Why?”

Andy’s still tapping on his phone, peering intently at the screen. And there’s this empty-ache feeling inside me, all of a sudden. Everything just feels so strange. Maybe the air pressure dropped.

Maybe Anderson’s mad at me.

Even though he can’t be mad at me. We already talked about this. About how the Matt stuff doesn’t matter. And how we love each other too much to cave to f-force bullshit. We’re not clichés. We’re better than that.

But maybe there’s some unspoken contingency here I’m not understanding. I should crowdsource for answers. Easy peasy. I’ll just google: Is it cool to let your best friend’s crush put his face on your stomach?

Yeah. Probably not.

Scene 29

Anderson leaves lunch ten minutes early, looking mopey and cross. Which means I spend the next few minutes staring at the door, trying to decide if I should go find him.

I almost do.

But just as I start to stand up, a crash from across the cafeteria stops me in my tracks. A tray clambering to the ground, plastic bottle thudding, fork spinning to a stop in the awful silence that follows. And then there’s the inevitable oooooooh. Completely synchronized, almost choral.

It’s the kind of moment that makes my stomach twist. I can’t stand watching people get embarrassed, even strangers. Even fictional strangers. I honestly can’t watch certain TV shows. I get this visceral secondhand shame reaction. It’s like my brain can’t tell where someone else’s humiliation ends and mine begins.

And that feeling. You know that moment when your phone’s front camera catches you looking like a swamp monster? Or when the bathroom smells bad, and then you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. That little spike of wait-holy-shit-I’m-actually-horrible-and-gross.

It’s like that. But applied to your whole entire being.

“Noah Kaplan. What a surprise,” Raina says.

I twist around to follow her gaze, and there he is. Smack-dab in the middle of the cafeteria. His arms are still out in tray-holding position, and if he wasn’t grinning his face off, I’d think he was in shock. A few f-boys have absconded with his water bottle—they’re kicking it around the cafeteria like a soccer ball. But otherwise, Noah’s tray’s just sitting there, overturned at his feet.

“Do you think he’s just going to leave it there?” asks Raina.

I open my mouth and then close it. I guess I don’t quite know what to say. I mean, on the one hand, Noah seems absolutely delighted with himself, really basking in the attention. And yeah, as far as I can tell, he’s made no move to pick up his tray.

But then again, I don’t know if Noah’s arm situation is entirely ideal for picking corn kernels off the floor. Don’t get me wrong, he could at least try. But I guess it bugs me that he’s blatantly injured and nobody’s helping him.

I stand abruptly and grab a fistful of napkins. “I’m going in.”

Walking up the aisle toward Noah, it feels like the whole cafeteria’s staring at me. It’s awful. I feel prickly and self-conscious, and I’ll never understand it. When I’m in a play, being watched makes me feel invincible, flooded with light.

But every other time, it’s feels like—

yikes lol

this is so embarrassing, I literally can’t watch

I die a little

I die a little

I die a little

“Little Garfield.” Noah peers at me, twinkly-eyed. “I finally got your attention.”

I’m sorry, but he’s unbearable. This is totally a thing he does—this fakey lovesick banter he whips out of nowhere, just to unsettle me. Of course the punchline is that we all know an f-boy like Noah would never actually be lovesick. Or if he were, he’d be lovesick over some mega-hot queen bee f-girl. The kind who’s destined for modeling or Hollywood or at least the Bachelor franchise. But f-boys don’t exactly pine for flannel-wearing theater girls. Thus the joke. The absolutely side-splittingly hilarious joke of Noah pretending he wants to impress me. And that’s not even touching the question of who would be impressed by a tray dropping.

“Kate. I’m just messing with you.”

I don’t respond. I just kneel down on the floor, collecting corn kernels into a napkin. And for once—for once in Noah’s life—his little wiseass mouth is shut. I glance up at him finally. “Just so you know.” I ball the napkin up forcefully. “I’m doing this for the custodians. Not you.”

And before he can reply, I grab his hand, open it, and shove the corn napkin into his palm. His fingers close around it, but other than that, he doesn’t move.

I look up at him. “Are you saving that for later or something?”

“Uhhhh, nope.” He blinks. “Throwing it away. Right now.”

“There you go.”

I move on to Noah’s chaotically scattered french fries—but suddenly, someone squats down beside me. “Hey.”

I look up from the floor. “Oh. Hey.”

It’s a girl I’ve never spoken to, but I know I’ve seen her around the hallways. I think she might be a cheerleader. She definitely has that faintly floral smell that cheerleaders are prone to. And she has super-straight hair, like Raina’s, but darker. More black than brown.

Pretty sure I’ve seen that hair before, actually. Pretty sure