I shoot Andy my most violent death glare.
He bites his lip. “Um, it wasn’t really—”
“You know what?” I stand abruptly. “I need . . . something.”
“I’ll come with you.” Andy practically leaps out of his chair. “Be right back,” he calls over his shoulder, already well on his way to my bedroom.
I shut the door behind us. “What was that?”
“Katy, I’m sorry! She was having her own conversation over there. I didn’t think—”
“You realize she’s going to remember this forever, right? I’ll be hearing about Alexander from Michigan for the rest of my life.” I sink onto the edge of my bed.
“Do you think maybe you’re overreacting? Just a little?” He settles in beside me, hooking his arm around my back.
“No!” I lean my head on his shoulder and sigh. “Shut up. I just don’t like people knowing about my crushes. You know that. Come on, that’s privileged information.”
“Katy, it’s a two-year-old crush.”
“Yeah, well, the Code of Secrecy has no statute of limitations—”
“Technically, it’s not a code violation unless I tell Alexander.”
I glare at him.
“I still think that dude was gay,” Andy says. “Remember when he touched my hair?”
“Didn’t you say that was some racist microagressive bullshit—”
“Oh, it one hundred percent was.” He pats the top of his Afro and sends a side-eye out into the universe. “But the way he did it so tenderly? I was like, sir, you’re gay—”
“What? No. He was bi. He had that girlfriend!”
“In Lansing,” says Andy. “His fake-ass girlfriend from fake-ass Lansing—”
“Excuse me—”
“EXCUSE ME, LANSING, MICHIGAN, IS REAL, AND IT’S THE CAPITAL.”
I crack a smile.
He hugs me sideways. “I love your face, Katypie.”
“I love your stupid face, too.” I roll my eyes. “Come on, let’s go see if dessert’s ready.”
Scene 13
Saturday’s weather is pure liquid nonsense. I’m admittedly kind of a brat about rain. It’s essential, and that’s fine. I support its existence. I just don’t get why rain has to be so rude. It doesn’t care about your plans, your hair, anything. Rain just slides right in, like some ecological fuckboy in your DMs. No permission asked or granted, leaving you no choice but to roll with it.
Which is why today is a don’t-leave-the-house day. A pajama day. An official squad homework accountability day. Andy’s off doing audition prep with his voice teacher, but the girls are here, and Brandie’s even doing real work. She’s sprawled on my bed, thumbing through a massive paperback—Les Misérables in its original French. Brandie’s in her own league when it comes to languages. She’s always been fluent in English and Spanish, and even though she didn’t start French until middle school, she’s fluent in that now, too. She’s too advanced even for AP, so now she’s taking an independent study in French literature. But Madame Blanche lets her pick her own books, so Brandie can pick stuff she actually likes. You’d think other teachers could be that thoughtful, but weirdly, no one’s letting me pick Les Mis as my algebra textbook.
Raina’s got algebra due, too, so we’ve taken over my beanbag chairs in the corner. We’ve got our books in hand, but that’s about as far as we’ve gotten. I don’t mean to be a slacker. But it’s just hard to focus on math when there’s an audition to obsessively speculate about.
“No, there’s precedent,” Raina’s saying. “Harold’s school did Once Upon a Mattress freshman year. Female Jester and Minstrel. They just transposed a few notes.”
“And it’s all tenor, right? Brandie, you could probably sing the Jester stuff as is—”
“Confirmed. I’ve heard her do it,” says Raina. “But Minstrel goes a little low sometimes—”
“Okay, who do we think is gunning for the Minstrel? Probably Colin, right, but I don’t think he’ll be able to nail the dynamics—”
“Oh, it’ll be Lana Bennett,” says Raina.
“Ohhhhh. Yup. You’re right.”
“And Brandie, just think!” Raina says. “If you get Jester, you and Lana are going to get to spend so much time together! Yay!”
“Mm-hmm. That’s a lot of ifs, but okay,” Brandie says.
“Best friends.” Raina smiles slyly. “Best, best friends. You and Lana.”
Brandie ignores her, which is her general MO when we troll her about Lana Bennett. But trolling Brandie about Lana is the most delicious pastime on earth.
The problem is, Brandie gives off such buttercup angel energy. She can’t help it. It’s who she is. But Lana seems to take Brandie’s fundamental essence as a specific appeal for lifelong best friendship. So she’s always inviting Brandie to hang out and sending her long, confessional texts about boys, to which Brandie mostly just replies with periodic polite emojis. It’s pretty wild, because Lana seems to vaguely hate the rest of us.
Brandie sets down her book and covers her eyes. “We’re seeing a movie the Friday after next—”
“Brandie, no!” Raina gasps. “How did this happen?”
Brandie peeks through her fingers. “Well, okay. So, Emma was telling me about that movie with Kristen Wiig, and I was like, ‘Oh, I want to see that.’ And then Lana overhears that, and jumps in—”
“The ambush,” says Raina.
“Yeah. I didn’t really know what to say, so I just tried to be vague, like, ‘Yeah, maybe.’” Brandie bites her lip. “But then she starts suggesting specific dates—”
“Uh-oh.” I wince.
“And then you set polite but firm boundaries.” Raina raises her eyebrows at Brandie. “Because you don’t owe anyone your friendship.”
“Well I said I was busy, but then she kept suggesting alternative dates, so I felt kind of trapped . . .”
“Oh, that’s hard, B. I’m sorry.”
“And now she’s already ordered tickets, and I’m just like, okay. So, that’s happening.” Brandie frowns. “I feel so mean.”
“Brandie, oh my God. You’re the opposite of mean.” I shake my head.
“I’m just saying—”
There’s a knock on my bedroom door. “Come in!” I call out, expecting Mom.
It’s not Mom.
“Hey.”
It’s Matt. In my doorway.
“Hi!” I spring up from the beanbag chair and make a beeline for my bed, kicking approximately six pairs of underwear underneath it. And of course, my phone jumps out of my hands in the process. I don’t even just drop it like a normal person. Somehow it ends up skidding across the hardwoods like a hockey puck. I look up at Matt with my best I-meant-to-do-that smile. “Come on in!”
“Your mom said you were here. She told me to tell you something about . . . six inches?”
“The door,” I blurt, blushing. Why does the phrase six inches sound so . . . penile? Wow, I sure hope Matt thinks I’m speculating about his penis size. With my mom.