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

hood, pausing the way a claw machine does before releasing its prize.

Ryan doesn’t notice in the slightest.

“He’s put, like, fifteen fries in there,” says Andy.

“But why?”

Andy shrugs. “To be an asshole?”

I twist around in my chair, peering back toward Chris and Ryan. I don’t get it. I seriously don’t. I mean, for one thing, Ryan’s cool with Chris. He’s cool with everyone. He’s cool in general.

“Should I go rescue him?”

“From french fries?” asks Raina.

I shake my head, glaring fiercely at Chris. “From being trolled by some fuckboy.”

“You mean his teammate?” asks Raina. “The one he’s choosing to sit with?”

“He didn’t choose to wear Chris Wrigley’s lunch.” I scoot my chair back. “I’m sorry, but this is bullying.”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Raina says. “I think it’s just f-boys messing with each other.”

“Ryan’s not an f-boy.” I swipe her arm, and she grins.

I can’t help but grin back. It’s kind of a running squad joke at this point. No one—I mean no one—gets to call my brother a fuckboy. I don’t care if Ryan looks like an f-boy or plays baseball with f-boys. I don’t care if he carves a big red F on his chest. Doesn’t matter.

And yeah, if I’m honest, it bugs me that Ryan hangs out with assholes like Chris Wrigley. Or Eric Graves and Mira Reynolds. Especially Eric Graves and Mira Reynolds. I don’t like it. I don’t get it. But it’s not like those are his best friends. I’d say Ryan lives in the hazy borderlands of the f-zone. He’s vaguely allied with the f-force. But he’s not a jerk. He’s just a jock who doesn’t like to make waves.

Chris, apparently all out of fries, tosses a napkin wad into the hood like it’s a basketball. Ryan doesn’t even flinch. But the move catches Vivian Yang’s attention—and a moment later, she’s scooping the fries and trash from Ryan’s hoodie, dumping it all back on Chris’s tray. Ryan laughs and shoves Chris in the shoulder, but Vivian scoots her chair out and stands. Somehow, she catches my eye and smiles faintly, and I can’t help but smile back. Honestly, Vivian’s not so bad for an f-girl. I don’t even know if she counts as an f-girl. Maybe she’s like Ryan, living in the borderlands.

The funny thing is, up until ninth grade or so, she was pretty close friends with Anderson. Not that Andy ever talks about that friend breakup. All I know is they were in church choir together, and they shared voice lessons twice a week, and their parents carpooled to auditions and singing competitions. But then Vivian joined the track team and ditched singing altogether. I guess she ditched Anderson altogether, too.

I twist back around, mostly just to see if Andy noticed her, but he’s grinning down at his phone.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh. I’m just.” He holds his phone up to show me. “Lindsay sent me a meme.”

“Lindsay Ward?” I look at him. “Didn’t know you guys text.”

The meme itself is one I’ve seen a million times before, with some anime guy and a butterfly. But the text doesn’t quite compute.

Anderson looks at me sheepishly. “Inside joke.”

“Oh.”

“From Senior D. But it’s not—yeah. Sorry.” He sets his phone down. “Sorry, we’re not really supposed to talk about it.”

“Right.” My chest squeezes in a way I can’t quite explain. Raina and Brandie have moved on to speculating about auditions, but my eyes are locked on Andy’s. It’s like there’s a tiny force field around us.

“Kate, it’s not . . . no.” Andy leans forward. “We just all kind of agreed not to talk about it, you know? Like what happens in Senior D stays in Senior D. It’s a circle of trust thing.”

“I’m not part of the circle?”

Andy doesn’t say anything.

“Wow.”

“Katy, it’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?”

“It’s not like anything. It would be shitty for me to talk about that class when we specifically agreed not to. That’s all.”

“Right.” I exhale, more loudly than I mean to. “It’s just that you said you’d—”

“I’m sorry, okay? I know I said I’d give you the play-by-play, but I’m literally not allowed to. It’s not—”

“Andy! Okay, I get it. Sheesh.”

He smiles at me tentatively. “You’re not pissed?”

“No, I’m not pissed.” I bite my lip. “It’s just weird, you know? I’m not used to being on the outside of your inside jokes.”

“I know—”

“And I’m not used to there being off-limit topics between us.”

I mean, Anderson knows when I’m on my period. I know his glasses prescription and his top five Chrissy Teigen tweets. He knows my wavy hair type. By number. I don’t even know my own hair number. And not to be morbid, but we know each other’s Instagram passwords, just in case one of us dies. Seriously. We know everything about each other.

Anderson reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I’m not used to it either.”

And maybe it’s just a reflex, but I can’t help but squeeze back.

Scene 8

Andy has a voice lesson after school, and my brother’s ghosting my texts. Which makes it a bus day for me. The one downside to not driving.

I’ve got my laptop crammed in my bag on top of my school stuff. I used to carry around this neon duffel on Dad’s house days, big enough to hold three nights’ worth of stuff. At this point, though, I barely have anything to drag around with me. Ryan and I tend to have two of most things—two phone chargers, two toothbrushes, two closets of clothes. And my guitar pretty much stays in the trunk of Ryan’s car. It’s pretty seamless by now.

When the bell rings, I get caught behind a pack of f-boys kicking a textbook across the floor. So I end up running to catch the bus, which leaves me breathless. Of course, I’m the last one on board.

Of all people, Noah Kaplan’s in the front seat, cheated out with his back to the window. He’s got his arm in a navy sling today, tucked up tight to his chest. Normally, Noah drives. And