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

“Come onnnn.” He takes a big gulp of his drink. “I know, I know, Sir Harry’s not here. But you don’t need him. I’m telling you. We can find background tracks on YouTube. Wait, doesn’t your dad have a karaoke machine—”

“Noah, I literally can’t tell if you’re making fun of me, or if you’re actually that clueless—”

“What? Kate! I just like your voice. Hold on. I need a refill.”

I can’t do this. I can’t be here. I’m so far out of my depth, I don’t even know how I’m still breathing. I need Andy. I can’t do this without Andy. God knows Noah’s not helping. I don’t even know what he’s thinking. Me, singing along to YouTube karaoke tracks at an f-boy party. I mean, why stop there, right? How about I climb on top of the booze table and belt “Somebody to Love”?

And to make the moment that much more perfect, Mira Reynolds bursts in, cradling a carton of orange juice and a two-liter Coke bottle. She promptly steps on my foot. “Oops, sorry, boo,” she says.

I blink up at her, speechless.

“You’re probably looking for these, huh? Ohhhh boy.” She lifts up the carton.

I feel almost dizzy. Mira Reynolds with the mixers.

I knew Mira lived in my neighborhood. And I knew she had sisters. But those sisters are twelve, right? Maybe the older one’s thirteen or fourteen.

But then again, that might have been a thing that got locked into my head freshman year. Which was two years ago. Which would make the middle sister—

Madison. Madison Reynolds, who sent her sister to pick up mixers. Her sister Mira.

I’m in Mira Reynolds’s house.

“There you are.” Noah sidles up, flushed and smiling. “You sure you don’t want anything? You know drunk karaoke is a thing, right?”

I shake my head slowly. Mira’s house. Noah wants me to sing in Mira’s house.

“Okay, but Ryan wants me to tell you that if you want to drink, it’s fine, and he has your back, and also he’d rather you drink while he’s here to, like, keep an eye on you. So if you did want to drunk anything, I mean drink, ha—”

“Where’s Ryan?”

“Playing Fortnite.” He shrugs toward the couch. “But he said—”

“Okay, well. I’m leaving.”

“What? We just got here.”

“You don’t have to come with me. Stay with Ryan.”

“I don’t want to stay with Ryan. I want to stay with you.” There’s this fluid softness to Noah’s voice I’ve never heard before. “Kate, don’t leave. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—oh man. Little Garfield. I shouldn’t have had anything to drink. I made you uncomf—”

“Noah, you didn’t make me uncomfortable, okay? You’re fine. Drink whatever you want.”

He takes my hand. “But you’re leaving? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine! Noah, I’m fine. I just don’t want to be here.”

“Because of all the fuckboys, right?” Noah says. “Too many fuckboys.”

He’s smiling expectantly, and yeah, I get it. There’s nothing my squad loves more than ranting about f-boys. We observe them and categorize them and quietly mock them, and we don’t care what they think of us. Why would we care? The f-force is basic and awful and we don’t play by their rules.

But it’s all bullshit.

The realization hits me so suddenly and forcefully, I almost lose my breath.

I say I don’t care what they think of me—and yet, their faces pop into my head every time I press post on Instagram. Every time I walk down the hallway at school.

Every time I sing.

Especially when I sing.

It’s a reflex, seeing your dorky, cringey life through their eyes, picking it apart to try to anticipate where they’ll cut you. It’s like having a tiny Greek chorus of people who hate you. Except they never shut up, and they live in your brain.

yikes lol

this is so embarrassing, I literally can’t watch

I die a little

The truth is, fuckboys terrify me. Mira Reynolds terrifies me. And I’m not strong enough to withstand it without Anderson.

“I know Mira’s awful,” Noah says, tilting his head. “But I just think of it as Madison’s house, and Madison’s a cinnamon sweetheart. A roll. A cinnamon roll. I mean, if you want to leave, we can leave, but I’m just saying. Madison’s—”

“She’s amazing. I know. Got it. You guys are friends.”

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What?”

“Friends. With air quotes.”

“I didn’t do air quotes.”

“You did them with your voice.”

“Noah.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “It’s nothing. Just—forget it. I have nothing against Madison, okay? I just want to go.”

“Oh,” says Noah, eyes softening. “Then we should go.”

“I’ve been trying to make this point for the last five minutes.”

“Come on.” He grins. “I’ll walk you.”

“Pretty sure I’m the one walking your drunk butt home, but okay.” I bite back a smile. “Should we tell my brother we’re leaving?”

“He’s fine,” Noah says quickly. “Look at him. Look at our boy. Playing Fortnite. So happy. Come on.” He tugs my hand. “Let’s go.”

Scene 64

Walking home with Tipsy Noah is an experience. He swears he only had four drinks, even though four doesn’t feel very only to me. And he’s clearly feeling every drop of them. It’s not that he’s staggering around or falling on his face or anything. He’s kind of like Regular Noah, only more so. The main thing about Tipsy Noah is that he doesn’t. Stop. Talking.

“I’m serious,” he says, veering closer. “This fucker is a land fish. It can walk—”

“Absolutely not. Doesn’t exist.”

“It does exist, and it’s a cursed demon hellspawn.” He lights up. “Okay, marry, bury, or fuck? The snakehead fish—”

“Bury.”

“Okay. A cockroach—”

“Also bury—”

“And the naked mole rat.”

“Peaceful, platonic coexistence.”

“Okay, I feel like you’re stretching the rules a little bit, but I’ll allow it.” Noah pauses. “Hey, speaking of naked mole rats, what’s the deal with you and Matt Olsson?”

“Do I even want to know how you went from naked mole rats to Matt?”

“Because Matt rhymes with rat, and Olsson half rhymes with Mole. Anyway, I’m just asking,” he says, “if you and Matt Olsson twins are bf-gf.”

He actually says bf-gf. Not even the whole