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

of a wireless microphone. Standing ovations. Booming applause. Every year I get entranced all over again by the idea of it.

Every year I fall short.

It’s such a stupid thing to want. A leading role. A singing part. I’ve barely even had a speaking part before. I don’t even think I could pull it off. Who cares if I sound good when I’m alone in my room. Everyone knows I’m a mess under pressure.

Everyone knows.

But I can’t seem to turn off the daydreams. Every time I close my eyes, I can picture it. Me as Princess Winnifred the Woebegone. Me, center stage, in an artfully bedraggled medieval dress, singing about swamps. Me perched on top of a stack of mattresses, the rest of the cast fanning out around me.

Me, standing in the shoes of giants. Carol Burnett. Sarah Jessica Parker. Tracey Ullman. My mom. It’s the kind of daydream I love to live in.

Inconveniently, Mr. Edelman wants to spend AP US History learning AP US History, and today, that’s worksheet packets. You can tell a lot about a teacher’s desperation level from how quickly he resorts to worksheets.

It’s the third day of school.

At least he’s got us in groups. But the groups aren’t great. I’ve got Brandie, but instead of Raina and Anderson, we’ve got this random f-boy, Jack Randall. Needless to say, the worksheets aren’t going so well. Partially because Jack’s a douchebag and Puritans are insanely boring, but also because Brandie and I are lost to our research.

“How do we know if it’s the original version or the revival?” asks Brandie.

“I’ll revive you,” Jack says. Because vaguely sexual nonsense is the native language of all fuckboys. Brandie doesn’t look up from her phone. He leans closer, dramatically inhaling. “Brandie Reyes. That hair perfume. Me likey.”

Okay, anyone who says “me likey”? Should be punched in the balls. That is my hill to fucking die on.

“It’s called shampoo,” says Brandie.

Out of all of us in the squad, Brandie’s the most patient with f-boys, as evidenced by the fact that she did not, in fact, punch Jack in the balls. Raina’s the opposite, of course—at this point, she really just has to glance at an f-boy, and the ball-punch is implied. It’s pretty funny to watch it happen in the wild. There’s just something about the sight of Raina and Brandie together that appeals to fuckboys on some sort of chemical level—my theory is that it’s because they’re both really cute, but in completely different ways. Raina’s got one of those poreless cheekbone faces, and she basically looks like the sensible younger sister of every white brunette actress on the CW. Whereas with Brandie, it’s the unpretentious girl-next-door energy and the dreamy boho wardrobe. Plus Brandie’s pretty much oblivious to all flirting, in a way that’s completely irresistible to a certain kind of fuckboy. Which is how we’ve arrived at this blissful scene of Jack doggedly inquiring about Brandie’s hair routine. And absolutely none of us have cracked open the worksheet packet.

Jack peers over my shoulder. “Are you looking at porn?”

“Excuse me?”

“Upon a mattress. Daaaaaamn.”

“It’s a musical.” I start digging in my backpack for my headphones. Something tells me I’ll need a little help making Jack’s voice disappear.

“A porn musical?” he asks, totally unfazed. I hear Anderson snicker.

“You don’t think I’m funny, Garfield?” Jack tilts his head, grinning. “Your boyfriend thinks I’m funny.”

He means Andy, of course—though he doesn’t actually think Andy’s my boyfriend. At this point, Anderson’s out to everyone at school. Except, the funny thing is, Anderson and I did date once, in seventh grade. He realized he was gay after our second kiss.

It kind of bugs me, though, the way people get weird about our closeness. If we were a couple, no one would even blink. But people are always saying that if they didn’t know Andy was gay, they’d never believe we were just friends.

It’s such bullshit. First of all, we’re best friends.

Second of all, there’s no just. Friendship isn’t a just. Yes, Andy’s gay. No, we’re not a couple. But Anderson Walker is the most important person in my life, hands down.

“Once Upon a Mattress.” Jack grins. “That can’t be a real musical.”

I shove my earbuds in and scroll through my music library. Better be Lizzo. She’s the only one who could drown out this level of fuckitude.

“Google it,” I say.

Then I press play.

Scene 7

Raina smacks her palms down on the lunch table. “Final inventory.”

“Spotify has the soundtrack.” I settle in beside her, unloading my paper bag. “We’ve got two versions of the movie—”

“Karaoke tracks?”

“All over YouTube,” says Andy. “Plus Kate’s mom was in it, so—”

Laughter erupts behind me and I don’t even have to turn around to know which cluster of tables it’s coming from. I’m not saying Roswell Hill’s like one of those teen dramas where the camera pans around the cafeteria, zooming in on every perfectly differentiated clique.

But the f-force.

I don’t know how to explain it. One on one, they’re not so bad. Jack Randall is a human dildo, and I’m pretty sure Mira Reynolds and Eric Graves are actual supervillains, but the vast majority of them are fine in isolation.

When they’re together, though, it’s a whole different story.

I don’t mean to be a judgmental asshole. I know I’m holding on to stuff that happened years ago. Middle school. Elementary school, even. But f-force wounds are no joke.

“Um,” Andy says, staring at some point over my shoulder. “I think Chris Wrigley just violated your brother’s hoodie.”

“He just—what?” I whip my head around, spotting Ryan in an instant. I’d know his slouch anywhere. He’s facing away from us, sandwiched between Vivian Yang and Chris Wrigley. “I’m not seeing this violation—”

Andy tilts his chin up. “Just watch.”

For almost a minute, there’s nothing—but then it happens, lightning fast. Chris Wrigley, fuckboy on a mission, stretches his arm out toward Ryan like he’s going in for a side hug. But he’s holding something—a french fry? I stare in bewilderment as Chris’s hand hovers over Ryan’s