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

with Anderson. It’s one of those things I can’t say out loud, because people will just think I’m in love with him or something. But it’s not a romantic feeling at all. I think it’s more like how some people feel about their parents. Not that there’s anything wrong with my parents. It’s just hard to feel like home with them when everything’s split in two. But Andy’s like this little island between them.

Which makes the Matt thing so much harder.

I keep expecting Andy to bring the topic up somehow, at least to ask about Matt’s visit to Dad’s house. It’s kind of weird that he hasn’t. A month ago, we’d be sitting here obsessively analyzing every detail of an encounter like that. I’d be diving deep into the nuances of Matt’s facial expressions, so we could breathlessly decode them. But all of that feels so far away. I can’t imagine mentioning Matt right now, rubbing the whole encounter in Anderson’s face. But you’d think Andy would at least be curious about it. Especially with the weird vibe he’s been giving me all night. I mean, I know he’s curious. But it’s like he’s pretending it never happened.

“Little G, you made it!” I glance up, and there’s Noah, looking so pleased, I can’t help but smile a little.

“I guess my reign of ignorance is over.”

“Oh, well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He plops down on the bleachers, hugging me sideways. Then he leans forward, beaming down at the squad. “Sup, my buds?”

“Your buds?” Anderson says, but Noah’s already turned back to the center aisle, waving down my brother.

“Hey,” Ryan says, scooting in next to Noah.

“Okay, eyes on the field, Katy. I’m gonna walk you through the rules.”

“Nah, I’m good.” I tilt my head. “You sure you don’t want to sit with those guys?” I gesture across the aisle, where a group of boys have taken over. It’s not even that many of them—maybe a dozen or so—but the manspreading’s so intense, they practically take up a whole section.

Noah shakes his head vehemently, without even sparing them a glance. “No, I hate them. I hate those guys.”

“Pshh. You don’t even know who I’m talking about.”

“I don’t need to know.”

Raina snorts. “I officially like him,” she says, leaning forward. She points to Noah. “You’re the only f-boy I accept.”

“Thank you!” says Noah.

Ryan squints. “Did you just say f-boy?”

“It means fuckboy,” says Raina.

Brandie freezes, eyes comically huge, while Andy and I clap our hands over our mouths. F-boys can’t know that they’re f-boys. It’s like the fundamental rule of being an f-boy. But Raina just did that. She made the f-boys self-aware, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to feel about it.

It’s f-ception.

“I’m a fuckboy?” Noah asks.

“Eh.” Anderson tilts his hand back and forth the way French teachers do when they say comme ci, comme ça.

Raina leans over and points to Noah’s phone screen. “Are you or are you not about to Instagram a grainy-ass picture of the field with the hashtag ‘FNL’?”

“Um—”

“Caption: ‘whatta night.’”

Noah turns his phone facedown.

“Fuckboy,” says Raina. “I rest my case.”

Scene 56

Ryan’s up early on Saturday, zoned out with his phone and a literal mixing bowl of Frosted Flakes. But as soon as I settle in across from him, he looks up.

“So.” He sets his phone down and stretches. “I guess your friends think I’m a fuckboy.”

My mouth falls open. “No! Absolutely not.”

He shoots me a look that’s equal parts skeptical and amused.

“You really think I’d let anyone call you an f-boy?”

He leans back in his chair. “So they don’t think I’m a fuckboy? Or you won’t let them call me a fuckboy?”

“Both. Because you’re not one.” I bite back a smile. “Not exactly.”

He takes a bite of cereal. “So how do you know if you’re a fuckboy? What are the fuckboy identifiers?”

“Okay, no.” I blush. “You’re taking this too seriously. It just means someone’s a jock. It’s not personal. It’s like a shorthand we use. It’s dumb.”

“So fuckboys are just jocks.”

“Yes.”

“And all my friends are fuckboys.”

“Well, sometimes we call them f-boys if we’re feeling classy.”

“Whoa, that is classy,” says Ryan. He pauses for a moment. “But I’m not sure I get it.”

“Okay . . .”

“Like, how am I not a fuckboy?”

I narrow my eyes. “Do you want to be one?”

“It’s just a question.”

“I think the real question is, why are you friends with fuckboys,” I say breezily.

Except it doesn’t come out breezy. It lands like an anvil.

Ryan just looks at me.

My cheeks go warm. “Sorry. Yeah, that was a shitty thing to say. I shouldn’t police your friends.”

“No, I get it—”

The doorbell rings, and I practically leap from my chair. “Oh! That’s Brandie.”

“Just Brandie? Where’s the rest of the geek squad?”

“Geek squad?”

He tilts his palms up, spoon in hand. “What about g-squad? Is that classier?”

Normally Ryan’s got this magic trick where he vanishes into thin air whenever my friends show up. But when Brandie and I swing back through the kitchen, he’s right where I left him.

“Okay, Tony Tiger,” I say, “we’re heading up to rehearse.”

Ryan points his spoon at me. “You mean Tony the Tiger.”

I scowl at him, but Brandie smiles as sweetly as ever. “Want to come be our Minstrel?”

“Your what?” He looks horrified.

“Not the racist kind,” Brandie says quickly. “Like those medieval musicians who walk around playing the mandolin.”

“Hashtag: jammin’,” I add.

Ryan side-eyes me intensely.

I pat his head and turn back to Brandie. “You ready?”

“Okay, wait, what do you need me to do?” Ryan starts to stand.

I stare at him, stunned. He’s not . . . serious. Right?

But Brandie just nods, like this is just some normal occurrence. Ryan. My brother. Filling in for Lana freaking Bennett. “Yeah. I mean, if you want to give us our cues, that would be great. You don’t have to sing or anything.”

Ryan shrugs. “Okay, sure.”

Nope. This is too weird to be real. Either Ryan’s trolling us, or I’m dreaming. Unless—

It hits me with the force of a volcano. Holy shit. Holy holy HOLY shit.

I have to text Andy. Right