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

can be cringey like that when it comes to human interaction. When you meet my dad, you no longer have to wonder what all the nervous, chatty boys you know from Hebrew school will be like when they’re older. “Sounds like it was a real rager.”

“It was mostly just people playing video games.”

I join him at the table with a bowl of dry Honey Nut Cheerios, watching a whole stream of apologetic Noah texts come in. He seems convinced I’m mad at him. Luckily, Dad’s already sucked back into his iPad and therefore not asking me more questions about the party. Or why I keep rereading the same texts over and over without replying to them. Not because I’m trying to make a statement or anything by not replying. I just need to come up with something appropriately casual, because this is a deeply casual texting situation. One that happens to be occurring at eight a.m. on a Saturday morning.

How are you even awake? I write finally.

He writes back immediately: Sleep is for the week.

Then, a moment later: WEAK. It’s for the weak. Followed by a whole stream of face-palm emojis. Maybe I should get more sleep or something???

Better hurry, rehearsal starts in two hours. I add a snoring emoji, press send, and retreat to my room for some quality guitar time. But the minute my fingers touch the frets, there’s a knock. Then the door creaks open, revealing a sleepy, bed-headed Ryan. “Hey.” He yawns.

“You’re up early.”

“So are you. You have fun last night?” He settles onto the edge of my bed, rubbing his eyes. “Wish you’d told me you were leaving.”

I press my fingertips hard against the frets, without strumming. “You seemed like you were fine.”

“I was. I just didn’t know where you were. You know I would have walked you home, right?”

“It’s fine. I had Noah.”

“I know.” Ryan pauses. “He’s kind of freaking out about it. You guys okay?”

“What? Of course.” My face goes warm.

“He feels so shitty about bringing you to Mira’s house. I don’t think he made the connection. I didn’t either, and I should have. I’m sorry—”

“No, seriously, you’re fine. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who needs to learn how to stop obsessing over drama from eighth grade. I’m sure Mira’s super nice now. I know she’s your friend—”

“She’s not my friend.” Ryan shakes his head slowly. “You think I’d be friends with Mira Reynolds after what she did to you?”

“Ryan, we were at her house. I watched her hug you.”

“She hugged you, too. She was just drunk. Trust me, we’re not friends.”

“You don’t have to boycott Mira Reynolds for me. Just don’t, like, start dating her or anything.”

“Not a problem.” Ryan yawns. “You know, she’s not exactly my biggest fan either. I kind of . . . lost my shit at her after the variety show thing. And Eric.”

I almost drop my guitar. “Wait, you fought them?”

“No. God. No. I don’t fight little kids—”

“They’re one year younger than you.”

“They were in middle school. And come on. I don’t fight people. I just . . . sent a few strongly worded DMs.”

“Wait, really?” He nods, and I just stare at him, flabbergasted. “Did they write back?”

“Well, Mira blocked me.”

“No she did not.” I set my guitar down. “Are you serious?”

“I’m still blocked.” He rubs his neck. “And I guess Eric kind of came after me.”

“What do you mean, came after you?”

“I mean.” He leans back on his hands. “I’ll tell you, but you have to promise you won’t tell Mom.”

“Promise.”

Ryan glances up at my door, like he’s worried Mom might just happen to be hanging out at Dad’s house for the first time in four years. “Okay, remember that neck thing I had for a while in ninth grade?”

“The one Mom thought was a hickey?”

“Wasn’t a hickey.”

I smile slightly. “And it wasn’t a curling wand injury?”

“Um. What?” Ryan looks at me like I’m speaking Martian. “No, it wasn’t a curling wand injury. Is that a thing?”

“You’d be surprised.” I nod soberly. “So what was it?”

Ryan bites his lip. “Seriously, you can’t tell Mom—”

“I won’t. I promise. I double promise.”

Ryan takes a deep breath. “Okay, so. Eric Graves shot me—”

“WHAT?”

“—with a paintball. Kate, chill. A paintball.”

“In the neck?” I cover my throat. “Is that allowed? That can’t be allowed!”

“It’s not.”

“I’m just.” I blink. “When were you playing paintball?”

“I crashed the eighth-grade trip—”

“What? Aren’t there chaperones? And the coaches? Ryan, those were Mom’s coworkers—”

“My whole face was covered. You have to wear this helmet thing—”

“So you just showed up with a blatant paintball bruise the day after the eighth-grade paintball trip, which Mom obviously knows about—”

Ryan nods. “Yup.”

“Nope. There’s no way Mom wouldn’t have put that together. I don’t buy it—”

“I know. I couldn’t believe it. But I guess she was distracted.”

“Distracted?”

Ryan looks at me. “Do you even remember that week?”

“The variety show?”

“Kate, you couldn’t stop crying. It was brutal. And Mom’s there thinking it’s all her fault for talking you into it, and you wouldn’t even talk to her. And then you dyed your hair that toilet bowl color. I mean, you were a wreck, she was a wreck . . . so I took advantage of you being wrecks.”

“I mean, it’s not like you knew Eric was going to shoot you.” I exhale. “God, Ryan. Eric shot you! Because of me!”

“No. Kate. Not because of you. Because he’s an asshole.” Ryan straightens up and slides off the bed. “Anyway, you good here? I’m going back to bed—”

“Wait!”

He turns to me, yawning, his eyebrows raised. “Yup?”

“So. Um.” I rub my cheek. “I’m not really on speaking terms with Andy right now.”

Ryan winces. “Oh! Okay. Wow. Are you—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say quickly. “But I have one of those Saturday rehearsals today. So . . .”

“Let me guess. You need a ride.”

I shoot him my best pleading smile.

Scene 66

Half an hour later, we’re parked in Noah’s driveway, waiting for King Sextimus the Slowpoke to finish brushing his teeth.

I check the dashboard clock, glancing back up at Noah’s window. “What’s