“My help with what?” I say flatly.
I refuse to succumb to the eyegasm.
But man. Noah’s got these huge, gold-brown eyes, and his eyelashes are ridiculous. It’s honestly unfair. F-boys should be required by law to have that muscly jock hotness that does nothing for me. Like, I truly, sincerely don’t care about six-packs. Six-packs are meh.
But pretty eyes? Those are not meh.
“Well, I was thinking,” says Noah. “Maybe you could teach me how to sing.”
“How to sing?”
“Preferably by Thursday.”
“You’re trying out for the play?” I raise my eyebrows.
“For Senior D. They’re making me.”
“Right.”
“I just kept thinking yesterday, like. Wow. Kate’s such a good singer. Maybe she could tell me her secrets. But I was like, no, you can’t really teach someone singing.” He rubs his hands along the length of his cast. “But then I remembered what you said on the bus—”
“Oh. Noah. No, that’s not—”
“And I thought, you know what? I’m not great, but maybe I could get better with some training. Right? Always room for improvement.”
“Yeah. There’s room.”
I don’t quite know what to say. I don’t even know if he’s serious.
Here’s what I do know: Noah’s not one of those guys like my brother, holding back wells of untapped talent. Noah Kaplan singing sounds like a goose slowly dying. We were in Temple choir together for over two years, and even the cantor gave up on him. She flat out stopped in the middle of “Oseh Shalom” and asked Noah to mouth the words. And instantly, the whole choir sounded fifty times better. If it were me, I’d have been mortified, but Noah seemed to find the whole thing hilarious.
“Are you actually required to try out for a singing part?”
“No idea. I didn’t ask.”
“I think you should ask.”
“What if I want to try out for a singing part?”
I laugh. “Why?”
“Because.”
“What, is there a hot girl in that class or something?”
“Is there a hot girl.” Noah pats my shoulder. “Kate. It’s theater. I’m basically swimming in hot girls.”
“But do you mean hot girls like hot girls, or hot girls like your mom’s limo—”
“Nope. Nope. That’s gross.” He shakes his head firmly. “I’m talking about hot girls. Just regular old—okay, not old hot girls. Age-appropriate hot girls. It’s a class full of age-appropriate hot girls.”
“And Anderson and Matt,” I point out, feeling suddenly nauseated.
Matt. And hot girls. I was so busy being jealous of Andy, I didn’t even consider the hot girls.
“So you’ll do it?” Noah asks.
“Wait—what?”
“This afternoon sound good? I’ll get Garfield to drive us—other Garfield, I mean. Big Garfield. Bro Garfield—”
“Noah.” My lips tug at the corners. “I can’t teach you to sing.”
He looks stricken. “Why not?”
“Because you couldn’t carry a tune if it jumped into your arms?”
“Little Garfield. Wow. Tell me how you really feel—”
“Okay, remember when you and Ryan tried to teach me sports?”
Sixth grade, right after Noah moved here from Texas. He and I used to hang out a lot, but it’s not like we were ever really in sync. Noah always wanted to do stuff. But not my kind of stuff. Not stuff like reading with color-coded sticky tabs or singing the Les Mis soundtrack from start to finish. Noah just wanted to kick soccer balls and run drills with my brother, and I could never keep up, no matter what I did. So I tried to make them teach me.
He nods gravely. “That was so sad.”
“Okay, no. You’re sad. This isn’t about sports. That was an analogy. That was me trying to explain to you why I can’t teach you to sing.”
“Really? Because it actually sounds like a reminder that you owe me one.” Noah flips his palm up, the one with no cast. “So. This afternoon?”
“I’m at my mom’s house.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Mom’s house.”
“Wednesday?”
I pause—for like a split second, not even—and Noah lights up. “Wednesday it is! Sweet. We’ll make Ryan drive us.”
“He can’t. Dad’s taking his car in for an oil change. Also, doesn’t Ryan have baseball on Wednesday?”
“Ohhh. Right, he does. Yup.”
“So Wednesday’s out.”
“Oh no it’s not. Little Garfield, come on. We’ll live the bus life. Wednesday’s perfect.” He wrestles his bag onto his shoulder and glances back before he leaves. “Seriously, you’re the best. Thanks for offering this.”
“I didn’t.”
“See you Wednesdaaaaaaay,” he warbles.
Scene 17
All week, I’m a yarn ball of nerves. I can’t focus on anything. On the drive to school Wednesday, I’m so queasy, Anderson has to pull over.
“Breathe in and out.” He rubs my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Why am I always like this?”
“Oh, Katy. It’s just theatrical morning sickness. You know that.”
I make it through algebra, which is a miracle under the circumstances. Not that Ms. Evans cares in the slightest. She is all about polynomials today. Teachers never get it. Like, come on. It’s audition week. In a just world, they’d turn off the lights, skip the academic bullshit, and just let us all curl up in fetal positions with the Once Upon a Mattress soundtrack on repeat.
By lunchtime, the squad has officially descended into panic mode. All of us. Brandie’s too nervous to eat. Raina’s convinced she’s losing her voice, so she’s taken a vow of silence. She’s actually carrying around a spiral-bound notebook with common Raina phrases to flip to, like: Nope. Hell the fuck yes. I’m judging you. Bye, f-boy.
But for whatever reason, Anderson’s the eye of the hurricane today. Calm amid the chaos. He slides gingerly into his seat, cupping his chin in one hand.
“Matt wants to get together and rehearse,” he says, and my heart—
Just.
Plummets.
Wow. Matt and Andy. Rehearsing together. And making out, probably. Romantic multitasking. My best friend and my crush.
It’s just weird. Our communal crushes have always been so safely contained. Like a row of dolls on a shelf. We take them down when we want them and put them back when we’re done.
But Matt’s Pinocchio. He’s this real-life guy who walks and talks and makes plans, and apparently those plans are with Anderson. Just Anderson. Not me.
It’s just great. Absolutely great.
“Have fun with that,” I say, aiming for casual. But it comes out spiky and short.
Anderson rolls his eyes. “Okay, sourpuss, it’s not a date. Y’all are all invited. Right after school, my house.”
Raina holds up her notebook. Hell the fuck yes.
“Oh, fun. I’ll bring snacks,” says Brandie.