“Nothing dairy,” Andy says firmly. “None of us are having dairy until after auditions. Actually, Katy, can you bring tea? Your dad has all that herbal tea, right?”
My chest feels tight. “I can’t come.”
“Oh no! No, I’ll drive you. Don’t worry about the tea. We’ll leave straight from school.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just—I promised . . . Noah.”
Raina snorts. “Noah Kap—” she starts to say but quickly clamps her mouth shut, flipping frantically through her notebook. Bye, f-boy. Bye, f-boy. Bye, f-boy. She stabs the words repeatedly with her pointer finger.
I cover my face. “I knooooooow.”
“I don’t get it,” says Anderson.
“I’m supposed to teach him how to sing.”
“Okay, that’s random.” Andy reaches for my hand across the table. “Can you get out of it?”
“No. I don’t know.”
God. Of fucking course. The one day—literally the one day I make plans without the squad, Matt Olsson enters the picture. And yeah, I guess I could ditch Noah. One afternoon certainly won’t make or break his singing voice. But this kind of situation throws me. I’m allergic to making choices. At least I’m allergic to choosing between people. I mean, on the one hand, I have my best friends, my whole squad, and the cutest boy in the universe, all of whom would like me to spend my afternoon with them rehearsing for the musical I can’t stop daydreaming about. On the other hand, there’s Noah, a literal f-boy, who basically tricked me into hanging out in the first place.
The thing is, I’m not a person who blows off commitments.
Holy shit, though. The thought of the squad and Matt rehearsing without me.
I guess a tiny part of me is relieved it’s not just Andy and Matt. Raina and Brandie will keep things cockblocked. But even that thought is so strange. Cockblocking Anderson. It’s never even crossed my mind before. Why would it? It would be like tripping my own dance partner. Pointless and absurd, practically a self-own. But maybe it’s different with Matt. I don’t know what the rules are here. We’ve never had a communal crush turn into a real crush before.
“I’m so mad at myself right now.” I sigh into the sleeve of my flannel.
“You’ll be fine. Just remember, no dairy.” Anderson narrows his eyes slyly. “Noah can have dairy.”
“You’re evil,” says Brandie.
“What? I don’t care if he’s Kate’s protégé. He’s my competition.”
“Noah’s not my protégé.” I can’t help but smile, just a little. “And he’s definitely, definitely not your competition.”
Scene 18
In fact, Noah’s even worse than I thought.
“Middle C,” I say. “Just—” I sing a quick quarter note, no frills or vibrato.
Noah’s perched on the edge of my bed, arm tucked into his sling. And yeah, his back is straight, so he gets points for posture. But vocally?
“Ahhhhh . . .”
“You sound like you’re getting a strep test.”
Noah beams. “Is that good?”
“No.”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .”
“Maybe just hum it.”
“Mmmmmmmmm.” He glances up at me. “How’s that?”
“Better.”
It’s not better. He’s basically picking notes at random. If I hadn’t been in choir with him, I’d swear he was messing with me.
“This room’s so different from your mom’s house.” He leans back on his good elbow, peering up at my canopy. “It’s like a little kid’s room.”
“Um, okay. No one asked—”
“I don’t think this room has changed since middle school. Like, you haven’t moved a single piece of paper on the desk, have you?”
“So what?”
It’s true—my room at Dad’s house is a museum of me. I’ve got my most loved teddy bear twins, Amber and Ember. The walls are pink, still covered with Rapunzel decals, and the bed’s a canopy, because I was That Kid. There’s a ceramic tea set on my dresser, a massive bookcase, plus a giant bin full of doll clothes, featuring a few too many hand-sewn togas from Brandie and Raina’s short-lived American Girl Fashion Designer phase. I mean, it’s nothing Noah hasn’t seen before. If it were Matt, though, I’d die.
Of course, Matt’s currently at Anderson’s house without me.
“Let’s try singing along with the soundtrack,” I say quickly.
“Aye-aye, Captain.”
“All right. Which one are you using for your audition?”
“No idea.”
“Okay . . .” I hook my phone to my speaker and start flipping through my music library. “Which songs do you know the lyrics to?”
But when I glance back at Noah, he’s lying all the way back, with his arm behind his head and his eyes closed.
“Noah?”
He sits up with a start. “Wait, what?”
“Did you just fall asleep?”
“Nooooo.” He smiles crookedly. “Maybe.”
“Noah!”
I just gape at him. This is unreal. I’m missing the ultimate squad rehearsal for this. For this f-boy, who’s literally sleeping through the favor I’m doing for him. Seriously? I’m not asking you to be Josh Groban. Just be, like, physically awake. Not a high bar to pass.
“I’m up!” He nudges my arm. “Come on. Katy. What was the question?”
I blink slowly. “Which songs do you know the lyrics for?”
“Which songs in general?”
“From Once Upon a Mattress.”
“Oh, right.” He nods. “None. Haven’t listened to it yet.”
I laugh flatly. “You’re joking.”
“No one told me I had to memorize it.”
“Well you don’t, but.” I just look at him. I mean, it’s baffling. Maybe this is just that aggressively casual f-boy mentality. But if you’re going to be that unprepared, why bother auditioning? Okay, technically, he’s required to audition, for Senior D. But Noah’s the one who was so dead set on getting a singing part.
Which isn’t happening, by the way. Like, super not happening.
I shake my head. “Noah, how—”
But I’m drowned out by squealing tires and a deep thudding bass, followed by a car door slamming shut.
“Sounds like someone’s home from practice,” I say.
A minute later, Ryan appears in my doorway, wearing a baseball hat that he promptly takes off. “How’s the lesson going?” He smooths his hair down and sits gingerly at my desk, like he’s trying to minimize the sweat-to-chair contamination.
“You mean how hard am I nailing this?” Noah says, and then he pauses like he’s really considering it. “Pretty hard,” he concludes.
I just shake my head. Nope.
“Did you get a ride from Sean?” asks Noah, and Ryan nods.
Wow. Sean Sanders, a true fuckboy icon. A boy who spends most of his time posting shirtless selfies that show his V-line, with captions that use “your” and “you’re” completely interchangeably.