Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

by Becky Albertalli

  I’m glad that you find me distracting. It wouldn’t be fair, otherwise.

  —Blue

  13

  IT’S THURSDAY, AND I’M IN history class, and apparently Ms. Dillinger just asked me a question, because everyone is looking at me like I owe them something. So now I’m blushing and trying to bullshit my way through it, and judging by her twisty, teacherly frown, I don’t think it’s going very well.

  I mean, when you think about it, it’s a little fucked up that teachers think they get to dictate what you think about. It’s not enough if you just sit there quietly and let them teach. It’s like they think they have a right to control your mind.

  I don’t want to think about the War of 1812. I don’t want to know what the hell was so impressive to a bunch of freaking sailors.

  What I want is to sit here and think about Blue. I think I’m starting to get a little obsessed with him. On one hand, he’s so careful all the time about not giving me details about himself—and then he turns around and tells me all kinds of personal stuff, and it’s the kind of stuff that I could totally use to figure out his identity if I really wanted to. And I do want to. But I also don’t. It’s just so totally confusing. He’s confusing.

  “Simon!” Abby taps me frantically from behind. “I need a pen.”

  I hand one back to her, and she thanks me under her breath. I look around and realize that everyone is writing. Ms. Dillinger has written a website address down on the board. I don’t know what the heck it’s for, but I guess I’ll find out when I get around to looking it up. I copy the address into the margin of my notes, and then outline it in zigzags like a comic book POW!

  I’m a little hung up on Blue’s parents being religious. I feel like a freaking moron, honestly, because I’m basically the most blasphemous person in the world. Like, I don’t even know how not to use the Lord’s name in vain. But maybe it’s not a big deal to him. Him being Blue, not the Lord. I mean, Blue’s still emailing me, so I guess he couldn’t have been too offended.

  Ms. Dillinger gives us a break, but it’s not the kind of break where you can go anywhere, so I just sit and stare into space. Abby comes over and kneels and rests her chin on my desk. “Hey. Where are you today?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re like a million miles away.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Martin climbing over someone’s chair to join us. Every time. I swear to God.

  “What’s up, guys?”

  “Haha,” says Abby. “Your shirt is hilarious.” Martin is wearing a T-shirt that says “Talk nerdy to me.”

  “Are you guys going to rehearsal today?”

  “Oh, it’s optional now?” I ask. And then I do this thing I picked up from Leah, where you kind of cut your eyes to the side and narrow them. It’s more subtle than rolling your eyes. Much more effective.

  Martin just looks at me.

  “Yeah, we’re going,” Abby says, after a moment.

  “Yeah. Spier,” Martin says suddenly, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” His cheeks have gone pink, and a red blotch unfurls around the collar of his T-shirt. “I’ve been thinking. I really want to introduce you to my brother. I think you guys have a lot in common.”

  Blood rushes to my face, and I feel that familiar fucking prickle behind my eyes. He’s threatening me again.

  “That’s so cute,” Abby says. She looks back and forth from Martin to me.

  “Oh, it’s adorable,” I say. I stare Martin down, but he turns away quickly, looking miserable. Seriously? That asshole deserves to feel miserable.

  “Yeah, well.” Martin shuffles his feet, still staring at this random point over my shoulder. “I’m just going to . . .”

  I’m just going to talk about your sexual orientation now like it’s my business, Simon. I’m just going to tell the whole goddamned school right here, right now, because I’m an asshole, and that’s just how it’s going to go down.

  “Hey, wait,” I say. “This is random, but I was just thinking. Do you guys want to go to Waffle House tomorrow, after school? I could quiz you on your lines.”

  I hate myself. I hate myself.

  “I mean, if you can’t—”

  “Oh my gosh. Seriously, Simon? That would be awesome. Tomorrow after school, right? I actually think I can get my mom’s car.” Abby smiles and pokes me in the cheek.

  “Yeah, thanks, Simon,” Martin says quietly. “That would be great.”

  “Great,” I say.

  I’m officially doing it. I’m letting Martin Addison blackmail me. I don’t even know how I feel. Disgusted with myself. Relieved.

  “You’re seriously amazing, Simon,” says Abby.

  I’m not. At all.

  And now it’s Friday night, and I’m on my second plate of hash browns, and Martin won’t stop asking Abby questions. I think it’s his way of flirting.

  “Do you like waffles?”

  “I do like waffles,” she says. “That’s why I got them.”

  “Oh,” he says, and there’s a lot of wild, unnecessary nodding. He’s basically a Muppet.

  They’re sitting next to each other, and I’m across from them, and we’ve managed to get the booth back near the bathrooms where no one really bothers you. It’s not all that crowded for a Friday night. There’s a pissed-off-looking middle-aged couple in the booth behind us, two hipster guys at the counter, and a couple of girls in private school uniforms eating toast.

  “Aren’t you from DC?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s cool. What part?”

  “Takoma Park,” she says. “You know DC?”

  “I mean, not really. My brother’s a sophomore at Georgetown,” Martin says.

  Martin and his freaking brother.

  “Are you okay, Simon?” asks Abby. “Drink some water!”

  Can’t stop coughing. And now Martin’s offering me his water. Pushing it toward me. Martin can freaking bite me. Seriously. Like he’s so calm and collected.

  He turns back to Abby. “So, you live with your mom?”

  She nods.

  “What about your dad?” he says.

  “He’s still in DC.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Abby says, with a short laugh. “If my dad lived in Atlanta, I wouldn’t be hanging out with you guys right now.”

  “Oh, is he really strict?” asks Martin.

  “Yup,” she says. Her eyes cut toward me. “So, do you think we should start Act Two?”

  Martin stretches and yawns in this weird vertical maneuver, and I watch as he attempts to position his arm next to Abby’s on the table. Abby pulls her arm away immediately and scratches her shoulder.

  I mean, it’s pretty terrible to watch. Terrible and fascinating.

  We run through the scene. Speaking of disasters. I don’t have a speaking part, so I shouldn’t judge. And I know they’re trying. But we’re having to stop at every freaking line, and it’s getting a little ridiculous.

  “He got took away,” Abby says, covering her script with one hand.

  I nod at her. “Got took away in a . . .”

  She squeezes her eyes shut. “In a . . . coach?”

  “You got it.” She opens her eyes, and I see her lips moving silently. Coach. Coach. Coach.

  Martin stares into space, grinding his knuckle into his cheek. He has extremely prominent knuckles. Martin has prominent everything: huge eyes, long nose, full lips. Looking at him is exhausting.

  “Martin.”

  “Sorry. My line?”

  “Dodger just said he got took away in a coach.”

  “A coach? What coach? Where coach?”

  Almost. Never perfect. Always almost. We start the scene over again. And I think: it’s Friday night. In theory, I could be out getting drunk. I could be at a concert.

  I could be at a concert with Blue.

  But instead, it’s Oliver getting taken away in a coach. Again and again and again.

 
“I’m never going to learn this,” Abby says.

  “Don’t we have until the end of Christmas break?” Martin asks.

  “Yeah, well. Taylor has everything memorized already.”

  Abby and Martin both have huge parts in the play, but Taylor is the lead. As in, the play is Oliver! and Taylor plays Oliver.

  “But Taylor has a photographic memory,” Martin says, “allegedly.”

  Abby smiles a little bit.

  “And a very fast metabolism,” I add.

  “And a natural tan,” says Martin. “She never goes out in the sun. She was just born tan.”

  “Yeah, Taylor and her tan,” says Abby. “I’m so jealous.” Martin and I both burst out laughing, because Abby definitely wins for melanin.

  “So would it be weird if I ordered another waffle?” asks Martin.

  “It would be weird if you didn’t,” I say.

  I don’t really understand it. I almost think he’s growing on me.

  14

  FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

  TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com

  DATE: Dec 6 at 6:19 PM

  SUBJECT: Coming Out Thing

  Did you do it, did you do it, did you do it?

  —Jacques

  FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com

  TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

  DATE: Dec 6 at 10:21 PM

  SUBJECT: Re: Coming Out Thing

  Okay. I didn’t exactly do it.

  I got there, and my dad had everything set up for Hotel Hanukkah: the menorah, presents wrapped and lined up on the nightstand, and a plate of latkes and two glasses of chocolate milk (my dad has to have chocolate milk with all fried stuff). Anyway, it looked like he put a lot of effort into it, so that was kind of nice. My stomach was churning, because I was really planning on telling him. But I didn’t want to do it straight out of the gate, so I figured I’d wait until we finished opening presents.

  So, you know how you hear stories about people coming out to their parents, and the parents say they already knew somehow? Yeah, my dad isn’t going to say that. I’m officially certain that he has no idea I’m gay, because you will not believe what book he picked out to give me. History of My Life by Casanova (or, as you would say, by “freaking” Casanova).

  Looking back, there was probably a perfect opportunity hiding in there somewhere. Maybe I should have asked him to exchange it for Oscar Wilde. I don’t know, Jacques. I guess it kind of stopped me in my tracks. But now I’m thinking it might be a blessing in disguise, because in a weird way, I think it would have hurt my mom’s feelings if I told my dad first. It can be a little complicated with divorced parents. This whole thing is really overwhelming.

  Anyway, my new plan is I’m going to tell my mom first. Not tomorrow, because tomorrow is Sunday, and I just think it would be better if I don’t do it right after church.

  Why is it so much easier talking about this stuff with you?

  —Blue

  FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

  TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com

  DATE: Dec 7 at 4:46 PM

  SUBJECT: Re: Coming Out Thing

  Blue,

  I can’t believe your dad got you a book by freaking Casanova. Just when you think your parents couldn’t be more clueless, right? No wonder you couldn’t tell him then. I’m sorry, Blue. I know you were kind of excited to do it. Or maybe you were just nauseated, in which case I’m sorry you got nauseated over nothing. I can’t even wrap my mind around the politics of coming out to divorced parents. I was basically planning to sit my parents down on the couch at some point and get it over with in one go. But you really can’t do that, can you? It makes my heart hurt for you, Blue. I just wish you didn’t have to deal with that extra layer of awfulness.

  As for why it’s easier to talk to me about this stuff—maybe it’s because I’m so cute and grammatical? And do you really think I’m grammatical? Because Mr. Wise says I have a thing about sentence fragments.

  —Jacques

  FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com

  TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

  DATE: Dec 9 at 4:52 PM

  SUBJECT: Re: Coming Out Thing

  Jacques,

  Just so you know, your being cute isn’t the reason you’re easy to talk to, because it really should be the opposite. In real life, I go totally silent around cute guys. I just freeze up. I can’t help it. But I know the real reason you were asking was because you wanted to hear me call you cute again, so I will. You’re cute, Jacques. And I guess you do have a thing about sentence fragments, but I sort of love it.

  So, I’m not sure whether you meant to tell me your English teacher’s name. You’re dropping a lot of clues, Jacques. Sometimes I wonder if you drop more clues than you mean to.

  Anyway, thanks for listening. Thanks for everything. It was such a strange, surreal weekend, but talking to you about it made it so much better.

  —Blue

  FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

  TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com

  DATE: Dec 10 at 7:11 PM

  SUBJECT: Re: Coming Out Thing

  Blue,

  Arg—yeah. Mentioning Mr. Wise was not intentional. I guess you can really narrow things down in a major way, if you choose to. I feel kind of strange about that. Sorry I’m such a huge freaking idiot.

  So, who are all these cute guys who make you so nervous? They can’t be that cute. You better not love THEIR sentence fragments.

  Keep me posted about all forthcoming conversations with your mom, okay?

  —Jacques

  15

  I GUESS WE’RE MAKING THIS our thing. Reading Dickens at the WaHo. Abby doesn’t have a car tonight, so she comes home with me after school on Friday and brings her overnight bag. I know it must suck for Abby living so far away, but I kind of love our sleepovers.

  Predictably, we arrive before Martin. It’s more crowded tonight. We get a table, but it’s near the entrance, so it already feels like we’re under a spotlight. Abby sits down across from me and immediately gets to work building this fussy little house out of jam and sugar pouches.

  Martin bursts in, and within sixty seconds, he changes his drink order twice, burps, and manages to level Abby’s sugar house with an overly enthusiastic finger poke. “Arg. Sorry. Sorry,” he says.

  Abby shoots me a quick smile.

  “And I forgot my script. Crap.”

  He’s on a freaking roll tonight.

  “You can look on with me,” says Abby, scooting closer to him. The look on Martin’s face. I almost start laughing.

  We dive straight into Act Two, and it’s a little bit less of a disaster than it was a week ago. At least I don’t have to prompt every single line this time. My mind starts to wander.

  I’m thinking about Blue—always Blue—because really, my mind only wanders in one direction. I got another email from him this morning. Lately, we’ve been emailing almost every day, and it’s a little crazy how much he’s been on my mind. I almost fucked up a chem lab today because I was emailing Blue in my head and I kind of forgot I was pouring nitric acid.

  It’s weird, because Blue’s emails used to be this extra thing that was separate from my actual life. But now I think maybe the emails are my life. Everything else sort of feels like I’m slogging through a dream.

  “Oh my gosh, Marty. No,” says Abby, “just no.”

  Because, suddenly, Martin is kneeling in the booth, head flung back, clutching his chest, and singing. He’s just launched into this big awesome number from the second act of the play. I mean, it’s his full-on Fagin voice—low and trembly and vaguely British. And he’s completely swept away in the moment.

  People are gaping at us. And I’m speechless. Abby and I just stare at each other in the most stunned holy awkward silence that’s ever unfolded.

  He sings the entire song. I guess he’s been practicing. And then—I’m not even kidding. He slides back down into his seat like nothing happened and starts pouring syrup
on his waffle.

  “I don’t even know what to say to you,” says Abby. And then she sighs. And then she hugs him.

  Honest to God, he’s like a freaking anime character. I can almost see hearts popping out of his eyes. He catches my eye, and his big banana mouth is just beaming. I can’t help but grin back at him.

  Maybe he’s my blackmailer. Maybe he’s also becoming my friend. Who the hell knows if that’s even allowed.

  Or maybe it’s just that I’m feeling weirdly amped up and excited. I don’t know how to explain it. Everything is funny. Martin is funny. Martin singing at Waffle House is entirely, incomprehensibly hilarious.

  Two hours later, we wave good-bye to him in the parking lot, and Abby tucks into my passenger seat. The sky is dark and clear, and we shiver for a minute while we wait for the heat to kick in. I back out of the spot and pull onto Roswell Road.

  “Who’s this?” Abby asks.

  “Rilo Kiley.”

  “I don’t know them.” She yawns.

  We’re listening to the birthday mix Leah made me, which includes three Rilo Kiley songs from their first two albums. Leah has a girlcrush on Jenny Lewis. You can’t not have a crush on Jenny Lewis. I’m twenty years younger than her and unquestionably gay, but yeah. I’d make out with her.

  “Martin tonight,” Abby says, shaking her head.

  “What a weirdo.”

  “Kind of a cute weirdo,” she says.

  I make the left onto Shady Creek Circle. The car has warmed up, and the streets are almost empty, and everything feels quiet and cozy and safe.

  “Definitely cute,” she decides, “though, sadly, not my type.”

  “Not my type either,” I say, and Abby laughs. I feel this tug in my chest.

  I should really just tell her.

  Blue is coming out to his mom tonight—at least that’s the plan. They’re having dinner at home, and he’s going to try to make sure she has a little wine. And then he’s just going to suck it up and do it. I’m nervous for him. Maybe a little jealous of him.