Kate in Waiting by Becky Albertalli (ereader with android txt) 📕

Raina looks as gobsmacked as I feel. Zhao told Matt the musical. Wow. So much for tradition. So much for pomp and circumstance and secrecy. She just . . . told him. She told Matt.

Coke-Ad Matt. Who goes here now.

Okay, help me out here, yoga warm-up exercises. Let’s do a subtle inhale. Hold for ten. Subtle exhale. Kate Garfield, you are cool as a cucumber. Totally not freaking out. Nope. No overload in this brain.

Matt looks at me and smiles.

Okay, yeah, now I can’t think straight, can’t even breathe straight, can’t even hold my head up, can’t even—

“I have to pee,” Andy whispers.

I nod slowly, finally catching my breath.

I have to pee.

It’s our magic escape code.

Scene 3

Okay, it’s not much of a code.

It means private meeting in the bathroom. Specifically, the men’s bathroom at the end of the theater hallway, also known as the Bathroom Time Forgot. The BTF. We’re the only ones who ever use it. All things considered, though, it’s a decent bathroom. Minimal wall graffiti, and the stuff that’s there is pleasantly vintage—mostly Sharpied penises and pointy stylized iterations of the letter S. We head straight for our favorite stalls, side by side, using the toilets as chairs. I don’t even remember how we settled on this arrangement. I just know it’s strangely intimate, sitting like this—side by side in a pair of bathroom stalls, talking through the partial wall that divides them. I’m Jewish, but maybe this is what confession feels like. When we’re in here, I always say a little more than I think I’ll say.

“What. The. Fuck. Is happening?” Anderson says. Even though I can’t see him, I can picture him perfectly—awkwardly straddling the toilet seat, like he’s riding a donkey.

“Wait, are we freaking out about the play or about—”

“Coke-Ad Matt. I didn’t just dream that, right? He’s here? At our fucking school?”

“Coke-Ad Matt is at our fucking school,” I confirm.

“But why?”

“Because he moved here?”

Andy exhales. “Why would he move here?”

“Maybe he followed us?” I slide my feet forward on the tiles.

“Oh my God. He fell in love with us and followed us home from camp.”

“WAIT—”

“I mean, he had to have known, right?” Andy says.

“Right, no. Definitely. That’s just too big of a—”

“But,” Andy points out. “But, but, but. He was clearly surprised to see us.”

“He could have been acting.”

“He is taking Advanced Drama.”

“This is so weird,” I say, for what feels like the millionth time this morning.

“SO weird.”

“How are we even—”

But my voice evaporates, because out of nowhere, the bathroom door creaks open. And then, a moment later, there’s the sound of someone peeing in a urinal.

Text from Anderson: UMMMMMMM

I text back: trespasser!!!!!!!!!

INFILTRATOR. HOW DARE, Andy writes, and I giggle before I can stop myself.

The pee stream stops abruptly.

For a moment, it’s dead silent.

“You can keep peeing,” Anderson says finally.

This time I clap my hands over my mouth to keep from laughing.

The infiltrator clears his throat. “Am I . . .”

“You’re in the right place,” Anderson says. “Carry on with your business and have a wonderful day.”

HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY?? I text Andy. You sound like a cult leader.

Okay but why isn’t he peeing?!!

Because you scared him and now he doesn’t want to join your “wonderful day” cult

You’re just jealous that it’s a wonderful day in my cult, he writes. Anyway you’re the one who giggled from the stall. Who does that??

Uh obviously me.

Katy he’s not leaving, what do we do???

Who do you think it is? I write.

OMG

WAIT

For a moment, it’s just ellipses. And then nothing. And then a lightbulb emoji, followed by a close-up selfie of just Anderson’s wide-open eyes.

Then: Is it MATT???

“Did I interrupt something?”

That’s not Matt’s voice, I write back.

“Nope,” Andy says brightly. “Not at all. We’re just. You know.”

“Peeing,” I say quickly. “Just peeing.”

“Kate?” asks the interloper.

And just like that, I recognize the voice, though I doubt Andy does. I dethrone and unlock the door, pausing before opening it. “Are your pants up?”

“That is quite a question, Little Garfield.”

Mmm. Guess how much I love being called Little Garfield by someone who’s six weeks younger than I am?

“Verbal confirmation, Noah.”

“Yes, my pants are up.”

I crack the door open, peering out. “Why are you here?”

“In the men’s room? Why are you here?”

Noah Kaplan, the f-boy next door. Okay, technically, he’s the f-boy across the street, and just at Dad’s house. He and my brother are basically inseparable, even though Ryan’s a senior. I guess it’s one of those baseball team bro friendships that know no age limits.

“This isn’t the locker room,” Anderson calls out from the stall.

Andy has no patience for f-boys. Or f-girls. Or anyone even remotely allied with the f-force. But who could blame him? The school fuckboy population didn’t exactly throw a Pride parade when Andy came out. Noah’s not so bad—he’s the slutty kind of f-boy, not the homophobic kind. He’s one of those guys who’s always ostentatiously flirting, or PDA-ing, or getting loudly dumped in the hallway. Last year he had two homecoming dates, and it wasn’t even a secret. He had two boutonnieres.

Once, Andy looked at Noah, apropos of nothing, and asked, “Are straight boys okay? Do they need help?”

The age-old question.

Noah smiles wryly. “Not looking for the locker room.” He pulls up the sleeve of his hoodie—which is when I notice he’s wearing a bright-white fiberglass cast, almost to his elbow.

“Whoa. What happened?” I ask.

“Distal radius fracture.”

“Sportsball injury?”

“Something like that.”

Anderson cracks his door open, peering out at us. “Too bad we’re not doing Dear Evan Hansen,” he says.

“That’s a theater reference,” says Noah.

“Noah Kaplan,” says Andy. “I’m impressed.”

“I’m just getting warmed up for first-period drama,” Noah says.

“Hold up.” I step out of my stall, shutting it fast behind me. “Like Senior D?”

“Whose D?”

“Senior D. The class. Advanced Drama. Andy, get out here.” I lean against my stall door, staring Noah down. “You’re a junior.”

Anderson steps primly out of his stall like he’s stepping out of a limo. He looks Noah straight in the eye. “How?”

“I was . . . assigned into it?” He looks from Anderson to me, brown eyes crinkling.