Home > Kate in Waiting(7)

Kate in Waiting(7)
Author: Becky Albertalli

“Google it,” I say.

Then I press play.

 

 

Scene 7


Raina smacks her palms down on the lunch table. “Final inventory.”

“Spotify has the soundtrack.” I settle in beside her, unloading my paper bag. “We’ve got two versions of the movie—”

“Karaoke tracks?”

“All over YouTube,” says Andy. “Plus Kate’s mom was in it, so—”

Laughter erupts behind me and I don’t even have to turn around to know which cluster of tables it’s coming from. I’m not saying Roswell Hill’s like one of those teen dramas where the camera pans around the cafeteria, zooming in on every perfectly differentiated clique.

But the f-force.

I don’t know how to explain it. One on one, they’re not so bad. Jack Randall is a human dildo, and I’m pretty sure Mira Reynolds and Eric Graves are actual supervillains, but the vast majority of them are fine in isolation.

When they’re together, though, it’s a whole different story.

I don’t mean to be a judgmental asshole. I know I’m holding on to stuff that happened years ago. Middle school. Elementary school, even. But f-force wounds are no joke.

“Um,” Andy says, staring at some point over my shoulder. “I think Chris Wrigley just violated your brother’s hoodie.”

“He just—what?” I whip my head around, spotting Ryan in an instant. I’d know his slouch anywhere. He’s facing away from us, sandwiched between Vivian Yang and Chris Wrigley. “I’m not seeing this violation—”

Andy tilts his chin up. “Just watch.”

For almost a minute, there’s nothing—but then it happens, lightning fast. Chris Wrigley, fuckboy on a mission, stretches his arm out toward Ryan like he’s going in for a side hug. But he’s holding something—a french fry? I stare in bewilderment as Chris’s hand hovers over Ryan’s hood, pausing the way a claw machine does before releasing its prize.

Ryan doesn’t notice in the slightest.

“He’s put, like, fifteen fries in there,” says Andy.

“But why?”

Andy shrugs. “To be an asshole?”

I twist around in my chair, peering back toward Chris and Ryan. I don’t get it. I seriously don’t. I mean, for one thing, Ryan’s cool with Chris. He’s cool with everyone. He’s cool in general.

“Should I go rescue him?”

“From french fries?” asks Raina.

I shake my head, glaring fiercely at Chris. “From being trolled by some fuckboy.”

“You mean his teammate?” asks Raina. “The one he’s choosing to sit with?”

“He didn’t choose to wear Chris Wrigley’s lunch.” I scoot my chair back. “I’m sorry, but this is bullying.”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Raina says. “I think it’s just f-boys messing with each other.”

“Ryan’s not an f-boy.” I swipe her arm, and she grins.

I can’t help but grin back. It’s kind of a running squad joke at this point. No one—I mean no one—gets to call my brother a fuckboy. I don’t care if Ryan looks like an f-boy or plays baseball with f-boys. I don’t care if he carves a big red F on his chest. Doesn’t matter.

And yeah, if I’m honest, it bugs me that Ryan hangs out with assholes like Chris Wrigley. Or Eric Graves and Mira Reynolds. Especially Eric Graves and Mira Reynolds. I don’t like it. I don’t get it. But it’s not like those are his best friends. I’d say Ryan lives in the hazy borderlands of the f-zone. He’s vaguely allied with the f-force. But he’s not a jerk. He’s just a jock who doesn’t like to make waves.

Chris, apparently all out of fries, tosses a napkin wad into the hood like it’s a basketball. Ryan doesn’t even flinch. But the move catches Vivian Yang’s attention—and a moment later, she’s scooping the fries and trash from Ryan’s hoodie, dumping it all back on Chris’s tray. Ryan laughs and shoves Chris in the shoulder, but Vivian scoots her chair out and stands. Somehow, she catches my eye and smiles faintly, and I can’t help but smile back. Honestly, Vivian’s not so bad for an f-girl. I don’t even know if she counts as an f-girl. Maybe she’s like Ryan, living in the borderlands.

The funny thing is, up until ninth grade or so, she was pretty close friends with Anderson. Not that Andy ever talks about that friend breakup. All I know is they were in church choir together, and they shared voice lessons twice a week, and their parents carpooled to auditions and singing competitions. But then Vivian joined the track team and ditched singing altogether. I guess she ditched Anderson altogether, too.

I twist back around, mostly just to see if Andy noticed her, but he’s grinning down at his phone.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh. I’m just.” He holds his phone up to show me. “Lindsay sent me a meme.”

“Lindsay Ward?” I look at him. “Didn’t know you guys text.”

The meme itself is one I’ve seen a million times before, with some anime guy and a butterfly. But the text doesn’t quite compute.

Anderson looks at me sheepishly. “Inside joke.”

“Oh.”

“From Senior D. But it’s not—yeah. Sorry.” He sets his phone down. “Sorry, we’re not really supposed to talk about it.”

“Right.” My chest squeezes in a way I can’t quite explain. Raina and Brandie have moved on to speculating about auditions, but my eyes are locked on Andy’s. It’s like there’s a tiny force field around us.

“Kate, it’s not . . . no.” Andy leans forward. “We just all kind of agreed not to talk about it, you know? Like what happens in Senior D stays in Senior D. It’s a circle of trust thing.”

“I’m not part of the circle?”

Andy doesn’t say anything.

“Wow.”

“Katy, it’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?”

“It’s not like anything. It would be shitty for me to talk about that class when we specifically agreed not to. That’s all.”

“Right.” I exhale, more loudly than I mean to. “It’s just that you said you’d—”

“I’m sorry, okay? I know I said I’d give you the play-by-play, but I’m literally not allowed to. It’s not—”

“Andy! Okay, I get it. Sheesh.”

He smiles at me tentatively. “You’re not pissed?”

“No, I’m not pissed.” I bite my lip. “It’s just weird, you know? I’m not used to being on the outside of your inside jokes.”

“I know—”

“And I’m not used to there being off-limit topics between us.”

I mean, Anderson knows when I’m on my period. I know his glasses prescription and his top five Chrissy Teigen tweets. He knows my wavy hair type. By number. I don’t even know my own hair number. And not to be morbid, but we know each other’s Instagram passwords, just in case one of us dies. Seriously. We know everything about each other.

Anderson reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I’m not used to it either.”

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