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

Classic Noah expression. You know how people freeze-frame into your brain, almost like your mental contact photo? That’s Noah in my head. Perpetually twinkly-eyed. It’s not like we’re friends anymore. But he’s always around—at Dad’s neighborhood block parties, or with Ryan, sprawled out in our living room on rainy TV-watching days.

Anderson, who has apparently transformed into a TV lawyer, begins his cross-examination. “Did they say anything about you being a junior?”

“Nope.”

“Or the fact that you’ve never done theater? Ever?”

Noah shrugs. “Had to move out of PE, and there were spots available—”

“What?” Andy inhales sharply. “Why are there spots available?”

“There are never spots available,” I say.

“Unless—” Andy cuts himself off, frantically typing on his phone. Then he shoves the screen in front of my face. “Kate, look, look, look!”

It’s the Roswell Hill High School website. Music department. News and updates.

I look up at Andy. “Glee club is a class now?”

“Brand-new. Saw a flyer, but didn’t put it together.” Anderson sounds breathless. “Katy, it’s first period—”

“So it conflicts with—”

“Yes! Okay, yes. No wonder—”

“You guys okay?” Noah asks.

“Never been better.” Anderson takes my hand and tugs it, and the next thing I know, we’re halfway to the counseling office.

Scene 4

“I’m not sure I follow,” says Mr. Merced, the counselor. He’s new—which is promising—and he’s young. So maybe he’s pliable. “You’re both asking to be transferred into Advanced Drama.”

My heart pounds. “Yes.”

He pushes his glasses up, peering at the monitor. “I’m not sure the system will let me.”

“But you’ll try?” Anderson asks.

Mr. Merced’s already typing. “Andrew . . . Walker?”

“Anderson Walker.”

“Ah. Okay. Yup, here you are.” Mr. Merced purses his lips, scrolling. “First period, I see you’ve got—”

“Study hall,” Andy says. “Just study hall. Throwaway class. I mean, first-period study hall. Who’s actually going to show up for that?”

Mr. Merced raises his eyebrows.

“ME. I would show up for that. Because I would never skip class,” Anderson says quickly. “I would never do that.”

“Never. Me too.” I nod.

Anderson scoots to the edge of his seat and plants his elbows on Mr. Merced’s desk. “And actually, studies have shown that participation in the arts helps students—”

Mr. Merced cuts him off. “Okay, Mr. Walker. You’re good to go.”

“Wait—what?”

“First period, Advanced Drama, Zhao, room—”

“No, I know. But . . . I’m in?”

“I’ll print you a revised schedule, and you can head down there right now. Do you need a hall pass?”

Anderson’s eyes flick toward me, jaw hanging open.

“What about me?” I say. “Kate Garfield.”

Mr. Merced starts typing. “And you’d like to make the same move as Mr. Walker, correct? You’re withdrawing from study hall and—”

“Well, I’ve got study hall seventh period. First period is Algebra II with—”

“Oh.” Mr. Merced frowns. “Ms. Garfield, if your first-period class is a core academic subject—”

“Right, I know.” The words tumble out. “But if I could switch into the third-period section—”

“That’s not really—”

“Or if we moved chemistry to fourth period, maybe—”

There’s a knock, and Mr. Merced stands. “There’s my nine o’clock.”

“Wait—”

“Right!” Mr. Merced points with finger guns. “Hall passes.” He pulls a bright-pink pad and a pen out of his drawer. “Okay . . . Ms. Garfield.” He uncaps the pen, still standing. “Time: 8:57 . . . pass to Algebra II . . . with . . . Ms. Evans. Here you go.” He hands it to me, and my heart sinks all the way down to my sneakers. “And Mr. Walker . . . let’s say 8:58 . . . pass to Advanced Drama . . . with . . . Ms. Zhao.”

“Wait—wait—wait,” Anderson says, shooting out of his seat. “There has to be something—”

But Mr. Merced’s already walking us to the door. “I’ll notify your study hall supervisor of the change. Don’t worry.”

Then, in one smooth move, he opens the door and directs us into the counseling lobby, where this boy Frank Gruber is waiting with a half-crumpled schedule sheet. I don’t actually know Frank all that well, though we used to get paired together a lot for alphabetical reasons. But I had one of those blink-and-you’ll-miss-it crushes on him in ninth grade. We’d talk in homeroom sometimes, and he had this way of trailing off mid-word while staring at my mouth. Like a satellite dipping out of orbit. And the fact that I, Kate Eliza Garfield, had the ability to throw a cute boy off his orbit was electrifying.

Except . . . Anderson didn’t think Frank was cute at all, which made him instantly a hundred times less appealing. I know that’s awful. But that’s just how it is for me. If a crush is really going to take hold, Andy has to like the guy too. Otherwise, this switch in me flips—and suddenly it’s not electrifying and the boy isn’t cute and the whole situation goes sour. And Andy’s almost as bad when it comes to me. Raina says it’s yet another example of us being codependent, and that’s why neither of us has ever dated anyone but each other.

Of course, Frank Gruber just drifts past us toward Mr. Merced’s office. Doesn’t even spare us a glance.

The door closes, and Anderson looks like he might burst into tears. “Katy, I’m so—so sorry. This is bullshit. I can switch back—”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. This is Senior D. We were going to take it together.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrug, and he winces. And okay. I’m not proud of this, but a tiny secret part of me is glad he feels shitty. I know it’s not his fault. And I know it’s just a class. Up until ten minutes ago, I never dreamed I’d be able to take Advanced Drama this year. But I can’t help but feel like something got snatched away from me, right under my nose.

Because it’s not just Senior D. It’s Senior D with Matt.

Anderson’s going to have a class with Matt.

“Katy. Seriously.” Anderson takes both my hands. “I’ll get Mr. Merced to switch me back. We’ll take it together. Next year. You and me.”

“Andy, just stop.”

He furrows his brow.

“It’s fine. Take the class.” I force a smile. “Someone needs to get intel on Matt.”

He nods slowly. “That’s true.”

“And obviously you’ll tell me everything.”

“Everything. The full play-by-play. Promise.” Anderson hugs me. “You’re so—”

“Late for first period.” I hold up