Text from Anderson: UMMMMMMM
I text back: trespasser!!!!!!!!!
INFILTRATOR. HOW DARE, Andy writes, and I giggle before I can stop myself.
The pee stream stops abruptly.
For a moment, it’s dead silent.
“You can keep peeing,” Anderson says finally.
This time I clap my hands over my mouth to keep from laughing.
The infiltrator clears his throat. “Am I . . .”
“You’re in the right place,” Anderson says. “Carry on with your business and have a wonderful day.”
HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY?? I text Andy. You sound like a cult leader.
Okay but why isn’t he peeing?!!
Because you scared him and now he doesn’t want to join your “wonderful day” cult
You’re just jealous that it’s a wonderful day in my cult, he writes. Anyway you’re the one who giggled from the stall. Who does that??
Uh obviously me.
Katy he’s not leaving, what do we do???
Who do you think it is? I write.
OMG
WAIT
For a moment, it’s just ellipses. And then nothing. And then a lightbulb emoji, followed by a close-up selfie of just Anderson’s wide-open eyes.
Then: Is it MATT???
“Did I interrupt something?”
That’s not Matt’s voice, I write back.
“Nope,” Andy says brightly. “Not at all. We’re just. You know.”
“Peeing,” I say quickly. “Just peeing.”
“Kate?” asks the interloper.
And just like that, I recognize the voice, though I doubt Andy does. I dethrone and unlock the door, pausing before opening it. “Are your pants up?”
“That is quite a question, Little Garfield.”
Mmm. Guess how much I love being called Little Garfield by someone who’s six weeks younger than I am?
“Verbal confirmation, Noah.”
“Yes, my pants are up.”
I crack the door open, peering out. “Why are you here?”
“In the men’s room? Why are you here?”
Noah Kaplan, the f-boy next door. Okay, technically, he’s the f-boy across the street, and just at Dad’s house. He and my brother are basically inseparable, even though Ryan’s a senior. I guess it’s one of those baseball team bro friendships that know no age limits.
“This isn’t the locker room,” Anderson calls out from the stall.
Andy has no patience for f-boys. Or f-girls. Or anyone even remotely allied with the f-force. But who could blame him? The school fuckboy population didn’t exactly throw a Pride parade when Andy came out. Noah’s not so bad—he’s the slutty kind of f-boy, not the homophobic kind. He’s one of those guys who’s always ostentatiously flirting, or PDA-ing, or getting loudly dumped in the hallway. Last year he had two homecoming dates, and it wasn’t even a secret. He had two boutonnieres.
Once, Andy looked at Noah, apropos of nothing, and asked, “Are straight boys okay? Do they need help?”
The age-old question.
Noah smiles wryly. “Not looking for the locker room.” He pulls up the sleeve of his hoodie—which is when I notice he’s wearing a bright-white fiberglass cast, almost to his elbow.
“Whoa. What happened?” I ask.
“Distal radius fracture.”
“Sportsball injury?”
“Something like that.”
Anderson cracks his door open, peering out at us. “Too bad we’re not doing Dear Evan Hansen,” he says.
“That’s a theater reference,” says Noah.
“Noah Kaplan,” says Andy. “I’m impressed.”
“I’m just getting warmed up for first-period drama,” Noah says.
“Hold up.” I step out of my stall, shutting it fast behind me. “Like Senior D?”
“Whose D?”
“Senior D. The class. Advanced Drama. Andy, get out here.” I lean against my stall door, staring Noah down. “You’re a junior.”
Anderson steps primly out of his stall like he’s stepping out of a limo. He looks Noah straight in the eye. “How?”
“I was . . . assigned into it?” He looks from Anderson to me, brown eyes crinkling. Classic Noah expression. You know how people freeze-frame into your brain, almost like your mental contact photo? That’s Noah in my head. Perpetually twinkly-eyed. It’s not like we’re friends anymore. But he’s always around—at Dad’s neighborhood block parties, or with Ryan, sprawled out in our living room on rainy TV-watching days.
Anderson, who has apparently transformed into a TV lawyer, begins his cross-examination. “Did they say anything about you being a junior?”
“Nope.”
“Or the fact that you’ve never done theater? Ever?”
Noah shrugs. “Had to move out of PE, and there were spots available—”
“What?” Andy inhales sharply. “Why are there spots available?”
“There are never spots available,” I say.
“Unless—” Andy cuts himself off, frantically typing on his phone. Then he shoves the screen in front of my face. “Kate, look, look, look!”
It’s the Roswell Hill High School website. Music department. News and updates.
I look up at Andy. “Glee club is a class now?”
“Brand-new. Saw a flyer, but didn’t put it together.” Anderson sounds breathless. “Katy, it’s first period—”
“So it conflicts with—”
“Yes! Okay, yes. No wonder—”
“You guys okay?” Noah asks.
“Never been better.” Anderson takes my hand and tugs it, and the next thing I know, we’re halfway to the counseling office.
Scene 4
“I’m not sure I follow,” says Mr. Merced, the counselor. He’s new—which is promising—and he’s young. So maybe he’s pliable. “You’re both asking to be transferred into Advanced Drama.”
My heart pounds. “Yes.”
He pushes his glasses up, peering at the monitor. “I’m not sure the system will let me.”
“But you’ll try?” Anderson asks.
Mr. Merced’s already typing. “Andrew . . . Walker?”
“Anderson Walker.”
“Ah. Okay. Yup, here you are.” Mr. Merced purses his lips, scrolling. “First period, I see you’ve got—”
“Study hall,” Andy says. “Just study hall. Throwaway class. I mean, first-period study hall. Who’s actually going to show up for that?”
Mr. Merced raises his eyebrows.
“ME. I would show up for that. Because I would never skip class,” Anderson says quickly. “I would never do that.”
“Never. Me too.” I nod.
Anderson scoots to the edge of his seat and plants his elbows on Mr. Merced’s desk. “And actually, studies have shown that participation in the arts helps students—”
Mr. Merced cuts him off. “Okay, Mr. Walker. You’re good to go.”
“Wait—what?”
“First period, Advanced Drama, Zhao, room—”
“No, I know. But . . . I’m in?”