“I’ll print you a revised schedule, and you can head down there right now. Do you need a hall pass?”
Anderson’s eyes flick toward me, jaw hanging open.
“What about me?” I say. “Kate Garfield.”
Mr. Merced starts typing. “And you’d like to make the same move as Mr. Walker, correct? You’re withdrawing from study hall and—”
“Well, I’ve got study hall seventh period. First period is Algebra II with—”
“Oh.” Mr. Merced frowns. “Ms. Garfield, if your first-period class is a core academic subject—”
“Right, I know.” The words tumble out. “But if I could switch into the third-period section—”
“That’s not really—”
“Or if we moved chemistry to fourth period, maybe—”
There’s a knock, and Mr. Merced stands. “There’s my nine o’clock.”
“Wait—”
“Right!” Mr. Merced points with finger guns. “Hall passes.” He pulls a bright-pink pad and a pen out of his drawer. “Okay . . . Ms. Garfield.” He uncaps the pen, still standing. “Time: 8:57 . . . pass to Algebra II . . . with . . . Ms. Evans. Here you go.” He hands it to me, and my heart sinks all the way down to my sneakers. “And Mr. Walker . . . let’s say 8:58 . . . pass to Advanced Drama . . . with . . . Ms. Zhao.”
“Wait—wait—wait,” Anderson says, shooting out of his seat. “There has to be something—”
But Mr. Merced’s already walking us to the door. “I’ll notify your study hall supervisor of the change. Don’t worry.”
Then, in one smooth move, he opens the door and directs us into the counseling lobby, where this boy Frank Gruber is waiting with a half-crumpled schedule sheet. I don’t actually know Frank all that well, though we used to get paired together a lot for alphabetical reasons. But I had one of those blink-and-you’ll-miss-it crushes on him in ninth grade. We’d talk in homeroom sometimes, and he had this way of trailing off mid-word while staring at my mouth. Like a satellite dipping out of orbit. And the fact that I, Kate Eliza Garfield, had the ability to throw a cute boy off his orbit was electrifying.
Except . . . Anderson didn’t think Frank was cute at all, which made him instantly a hundred times less appealing. I know that’s awful. But that’s just how it is for me. If a crush is really going to take hold, Andy has to like the guy too. Otherwise, this switch in me flips—and suddenly it’s not electrifying and the boy isn’t cute and the whole situation goes sour. And Andy’s almost as bad when it comes to me. Raina says it’s yet another example of us being codependent, and that’s why neither of us has ever dated anyone but each other.
Of course, Frank Gruber just drifts past us toward Mr. Merced’s office. Doesn’t even spare us a glance.
The door closes, and Anderson looks like he might burst into tears. “Katy, I’m so—so sorry. This is bullshit. I can switch back—”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. This is Senior D. We were going to take it together.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug, and he winces. And okay. I’m not proud of this, but a tiny secret part of me is glad he feels shitty. I know it’s not his fault. And I know it’s just a class. Up until ten minutes ago, I never dreamed I’d be able to take Advanced Drama this year. But I can’t help but feel like something got snatched away from me, right under my nose.
Because it’s not just Senior D. It’s Senior D with Matt.
Anderson’s going to have a class with Matt.
“Katy. Seriously.” Anderson takes both my hands. “I’ll get Mr. Merced to switch me back. We’ll take it together. Next year. You and me.”
“Andy, just stop.”
He furrows his brow.
“It’s fine. Take the class.” I force a smile. “Someone needs to get intel on Matt.”
He nods slowly. “That’s true.”
“And obviously you’ll tell me everything.”
“Everything. The full play-by-play. Promise.” Anderson hugs me. “You’re so—”
“Late for first period.” I hold up the Pink Hall Pass of Algebraic Doom. “Gotta go.”
Scene 5
It’s long past dismissal. But Andy and I, world-class suck-ups, end up taping Ms. Zhao’s audition flyers around the school for almost an hour. You know how there’s always that one teacher you’d do anything for? The one you swear would be your ride-or-die BFF in any other context?
Ms. Zhao. No joke. The whole squad seriously worships her. She’s in her forties or so, with a wife and kids and everything, but she’s always up-to-date on the news and pop culture and basically all our dumb memes. And not in a try-hard way. You can just tell she thinks her students are cool and interesting people. Which shouldn’t be a revolutionary stance for a teacher, but it kind of is.
By the time we get home, Mom’s car is in the garage, with Ryan taking up the whole driveway behind her. Doesn’t matter. Andy always just pulls into his own driveway next door, and we cut straight through our adjacent front yards, back to my house. We’re given a hero’s welcome by the dogs as soon as we walk through the door. Charles and Camilla, pupper and doggo, respectively.
Mom’s at the counter, working on a snack plate, and her face lights up when we walk in. “Oh, hey! Katy, you just missed your brother. He’s out on a run.”
Of course he is. I swear, Ryan’s a couch potato by nature, but you’d never know it these days, especially during baseball season. Full-on jock mode.
“Are you doing Goldfish cracker art?” Anderson asks.
I take a closer look at Mom’s plate, and sure enough: multicolored Goldfish splayed in spiraling rainbow order. Normally, Ryan and I are kind of latchkey kids. Same with Andy—his parents are doctors, so they’re usually seeing patients until dinner. And Mom’s a middle school music teacher, which means she’s on the hook for after-school choir and the variety show. But when Mom’s home early, she likes to be as extra as possible.
She carries her Goldfish masterpiece over but sneaks in a round of cheek kisses first. “My boychick. Mwah.”
It’s funny—when it comes to me and Ryan, Mom’s obsessed with not playing favorites. Everything’s painstakingly equal—equal allowance, equal-sized bowls of cereal in the morning. I’m half convinced she named us Ryan and Kate so she could spend the exact same amount of money on each set of custom wooden letters she ordered for the door signs outside our bedrooms. I mean, I technically own half of Ryan’s car, and I don’t even drive.
But all that goes out the window when it comes to Anderson, her true favorite. She goes full Jewish mom when he’s here. It’s slightly terrifying.
“So? What’s the musical?” she asks, setting the Goldfish spiral between us. Anderson sinks into a chair, swipes a layer of red ones off the outer edge, and stuffs them into his mouth like they’re popcorn. Followed by lots of vigorous chewing. All of this just to keep my mom in suspense for a minute, because this boy lives for dramatic pauses.