Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

by Becky Albertalli

  In English class, Martin won’t look at me.

  But all through the day, Leah and Abby are like freaking pit bulls, throwing down the stink-eye in all directions whenever anyone even looks at me funny. I mean, it’s really pretty sweet. And it isn’t a total disaster. Some people sort of whisper and laugh. And a couple of people randomly give me these huge smiles in the hallway, whatever that means. These two lesbian girls I don’t even know come up to me at my locker and hug me and give me their phone numbers. And at least a dozen straight kids make a point of telling me that they support me. One girl even confirms that Jesus still loves me.

  It’s a ton of attention. It kind of makes my head spin.

  At lunch, the girls take it upon themselves to discuss and evaluate the fifty million guys they apparently think are boyfriend prospects for me. And it’s all perfectly fucking hilarious until Anna makes some joke about Nick being gay. Which causes Nick to drape himself all over Abby. So then Leah’s irreparably pissed off.

  “We should find Leah a boyfriend, too!” says Abby, which honestly makes me cringe. I love Abby, and I know she’s just trying to lighten the mood, but Jesus Christ. There are times when she manages to say the exact opposite of the right thing.

  “No fucking thank you, Abby,” Leah says, in this sickeningly pleasant tone. Except her eyes are like crackling fireballs of rage. She stands up abruptly, pushing her chair in without a word.

  As soon as she leaves, Garrett looks at Bram, and Bram bites his lip. Which I’m pretty sure is straight-dude code for Bram likes Leah.

  And I don’t know why, but it pisses me the fuck off.

  “If you like her, just ask her out,” I say to Bram, and he immediately starts blushing.

  I don’t even know. I’m just so sick of straight people who can’t get their shit together.

  Somehow, I manage to survive until rehearsal. It’s the first day without scripts, and we jump right into running some of the big group scenes. There’s an accompanist at rehearsal now, and people are really focused and energized. I guess it’s just dawned on everyone that opening night is in less than a month.

  But partway through the pickpocket song, Martin suddenly stops singing.

  And then Abby says, “You’re fucking kidding me.”

  And everyone is quiet for a minute, looking at each other. Looking everywhere but at me. For a minute, I’m confused, but then I follow Abby’s gaze to the back of the auditorium. And there’s this pair of random dudes in front of the double helixes who look a little familiar. I think they were in my health class last year. One of them is wearing a hoodie and fake glasses and a skirt over his khakis, and they’re both holding giant poster board signs.

  The first guy’s sign says, “How u doin’ Simon?”

  And the guy in the skirt’s sign says, “WHAT WHAT—IN THA BUTT!”

  The guys are grinding and some other people peek through the doorway laughing. This one girl laughs so hard she’s clutching her stomach, and someone says, “Stop, y’all! Oh my God, y’all are so bad.” But she’s laughing, too.

  It’s strange—I’m not even blushing. I feel like I’m watching this happen from a million miles away.

  Then, suddenly, Taylor freaking Metternich, of all people, runs down the steps at the side of the stage and down the aisle of the auditorium. And Abby is right behind her.

  “Aww shit,” says the guy in the skirt, and the other guy giggles. And then they haul ass out of the auditorium, letting the door slam shut.

  Taylor and Abby burst through behind them, and there’s this huge commotion of yelling and footsteps. Ms. Albright runs after them and the rest of us just kind of stand there. Except somehow I end up sitting on one of the platforms, smushed in between two senior girls who have their arms around my shoulders.

  I catch a glimpse of Martin, and it looks like he’s been crumpled. His hands are covering his face.

  A few minutes later, Abby bursts back through the door, followed by Ms. Albright, who has her arm around Taylor. And Taylor is splotchy and flushed, like she’s been crying. I watch as Ms. Albright guides Taylor to the front row, lets her sit next to Cal, and then kneels down in front of them for a minute to talk to them.

  Abby walks straight back up the stairs to me, shaking her head.

  “People suck,” she says.

  I nod slowly.

  “I honestly thought Taylor was going to hit one of those guys.”

  Taylor Metternich. Seriously. Almost hitting some guy.

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “No, really,” Abby says. “I almost did, too.”

  “Good,” says one of the senior girls, Brianna.

  I look briefly at Taylor. She’s leaning back in her chair with her eyes closed, just breathing. “But she didn’t hit him, right? I don’t want her to get in trouble because of me.”

  “Oh my gosh. Don’t even say that. None of this is your fault, Simon,” Abby says. “Those guys are douchebags.”

  “They can’t get away with that,” says Brianna. “Don’t we have a zero tolerance policy?”

  But Creekwood’s zero tolerance bullying policy is enforced about as strictly as the freaking dress code.

  “Don’t worry,” says Abby. “They’re sitting in Ms. Knight’s office right now. I think their mommies are getting called.”

  And sure enough, moments later, Ms. Albright gathers everyone in a circle on the stage. “So, I’m sorry you guys had to see that.” She’s looking at me especially. “It was beyond disrespectful and inappropriate, and I want you to know that I take this extremely seriously.” She pauses for a moment, and I look at her. And I realize that Ms. Albright is absolutely livid. “So, unfortunately, we’re going to have to end here for the day so I can deal with this. I know this is unexpected, and I apologize to all of you. We’ll pick back up tomorrow.”

  Then she walks over to me and squats down in front of my platform. “You okay, Simon?”

  I feel myself blush a little bit. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay, well,” she says quietly. “Just know that those assholes are getting suspended. I’m not even kidding. I will make it my hill to die on.”

  Abby, Brianna, and I just stare at her.

  It’s the first time I’ve ever heard a teacher cuss.

  So, Abby’s stuck at school until the late bus leaves, and I feel really terrible about that. I don’t know. It just feels like all of this is a little bit my fault. But Abby tells me not to be ridiculous, and that she can kill the time by watching the soccer tryouts.

  “I’ll come with you,” I say.

  “Simon, seriously. Go home and relax.”

  “But what if I want to heckle Nick?”

  She can’t argue with that. We cut through the science hallway and down the back stairs, toward the music room, where there appears to be some pretty badass drum and guitar business going on behind closed doors. They almost sound professional, except the vocals are strange and random, like the lower part of a harmony. Abby dances to the drumbeat for a minute as we pass, and then we bust out the side door near the soccer fields.

  It’s really freaking chilly out, and I have no idea how these soccer kids are surviving with their shorts and bare legs. The girls are on the close field, and it’s dozens of ponytails in motion. We walk past them to get to the boys, who are running around orange cones and kicking soccer balls back and forth to each other. Abby lets her arms hang over the side of the fence, leaning in to watch. A lot of the guys are wearing these long-sleeved spandex shirts under their soccer shirts, and a few of them are wearing shin guards. And they all have those soccer calves. So it’s kind of a nice view.

  The coach blows his whistle and all the guys gather around him for a minute while he talks. And then they disperse, passing around bottles of water and dribbling balls and stretching their legs. Nick jogs over to us right away, pink-faced and grinning, and then Garrett and Bram come, too.

  “It’s weird that they’re making you try out again,” says Abby. />
  “I know,” says Garrett, panting. He’s sweaty and red, and his eyes look electric blue. “It’s like a formality. Kind of. Just to see”—he pauses to catch his breath—“like, where he wants to put us.”

  “Oh, okay,” she says.

  “So, what, you’re just blowing off rehearsal?” Nick says, smiling at Abby.

  “Pretty much,” she says. “I was like—yeah. I’m gonna go ogle soccer boys now.” She leans in closer to Nick, grinning up at him.

  “Oh, really?” says Nick.

  It’s starting to feel like I shouldn’t be listening in on this.

  “So, it’s going well?” I ask, turning to Garrett and Bram.

  “Pretty well,” says Garrett, and Bram nods.

  It’s funny that I eat lunch with these guys five days a week, but we never really hang out apart from the group. I kind of wish I knew them better. Even if Bram doesn’t have his shit together about Leah. I don’t know. For one thing, both Garrett and Bram have been totally cool about the gay thing all day, which I guess I didn’t expect from a bunch of athletes.

  Also, Bram is cute. Like, really, really cute. He stands a foot or so back from the fence, totally sweaty, with a white turtleneck under his soccer shirt. And he’s not really talking, but he has very expressive brown eyes. And light brown skin and soft dark curls and cute, knobbly hands.

  “What happens if you really screw up the audition?” I ask. “Can they kick you off the team?”

  “Audition?” asks Bram, smiling so quietly. And when he looks at me, I feel this happy sort of ache.

  “Tryouts.” I blush. And I smile back at him. And then I feel a little guilty.

  Because of Blue. Even though he’s still not ready. Even though he’s just words on a laptop screen.

  It’s just that I also kind of feel like he’s my boyfriend.

  I don’t even know.

  So, maybe it’s the winter air or maybe it’s soccer boy calves, but after everything that’s happened today, I’m actually in a pretty decent mood.

  Until I get to the parking lot. Because Martin Addison is leaning against my car.

  “Where have you been?” he says.

  I wait for him to move. I mean, I don’t even want to look at him.

  “Can we talk for a second?” he asks.

  “I don’t have anything to say to you,” I say.

  “Okay, well.” He sighs, and I can actually see his breath. “Simon, just—I seriously owe you an apology.”

  I just kind of stand there.

  He stretches his arms forward, cracking his knuckles under his gloves. “God, I’m just. I’m just so sorry. What happened in there. I didn’t know that would—I mean, I didn’t think people still did shit like that.”

  “Right, who’d have guessed? Because Shady Creek is just so progressive.”

  Martin shakes his head. “I just seriously didn’t think it would be such a big thing.”

  I don’t even know what to say to that.

  “Look, I’m sorry, all right? I was pissed off. The whole Abby thing. I wasn’t thinking. And then my brother basically ripped me a new one, and I was just . . . I just feel like shit, okay. And I deleted those screenshots ages ago. I swear to God. So can you please just say something?”

  I mean, I almost start laughing. “What the fuck do you want me to say?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I’m just trying—”

  “Okay, how about this? I think you’re an asshole. I think you’re a huge fucking asshole. I mean, don’t even fucking pretend you didn’t know this would happen. You blackmailed me. This was—I mean, wasn’t that the whole goddamn point? Humiliating me?”

  He shakes his head and opens his mouth to reply, but I cut him off.

  “And you know what? You don’t get to say it’s not a big thing. This is a big fucking thing, okay? This was supposed to be—this is mine. I’m supposed to decide when and where and who knows and how I want to say it.” Suddenly, my throat gets thick. “So, yeah, you took that from me. And then you brought Blue into it? Seriously? You fucking suck, Martin. I mean, I don’t even want to look at you.”

  He’s crying. He’s trying not to, but he’s seriously, full-on crying. And my heart sort of twists.

  “So can you just step away from my car,” I say, “and leave me the fuck alone?”

  He nods, puts his head down, and walks away quickly.

  I get in my car. And turn it on. And then I just start sobbing.

  24

  FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

  TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com

  DATE: Jan 5 at 7:19 PM

  SUBJECT: Snow!

  Blue,

  Look outside! I can’t believe it. Actual flurries on the first day back at school. Any chance this will turn into another Snowpocalypse? Because I’d be really, really cool with having the rest of the week off. God, it’s been a weird fucking day. I don’t even know what to tell you other than the fact that being out to the universe is completely exhausting.

  Seriously, I’m just totally spent.

  Do you ever get so angry you start crying? And do you ever feel guilty for getting angry? Tell me I’m not weird.

  Love,

  Jacques

  FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com

  TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

  DATE: Jan 5 at 10:01 PM

  SUBJECT: Re: Snow!

  I don’t think you’re weird. It sounds like you’ve had a shitty day, and I wish there was a way for me to make it better. Have you tried eating your feelings? I hear Oreos can be therapeutic. Also, I’m not really one to talk here, but you really shouldn’t feel guilty for getting angry—especially if I’m right about what’s making you angry.

  Okay. I have to tell you something, and I think it may be something upsetting. I actually don’t think my timing could be worse, but I can’t think of any way around it, so here goes:

  Jacques, I’m almost positive I know who you are.

  Love,

  Blue

  FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

  TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com

  DATE: Jan 6 at 7:12 PM

  SUBJECT: Really?

  Wow. Okay. Not upsetting. But this is kind of a big moment, right?

  Actually, I think I know who you are, too. So, just for fun, I’m guessing:

  1. You share a first name with a former US president.

  2. And a comic book character.

  3. You like to draw.

  4. You have blue eyes.

  5. And you once pushed me down a dark hallway in a rolling chair.

  Love,

  Jacques

  FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com

  TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

  DATE: Jan 6 at 9:43 PM

  SUBJECT: Re: Really?

  1. Actually, yes.

  2. Kind of an obscure character, but yes.

  3. Not really.

  4. No.

  5. Definitely not.

  I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’m the person you think I am.

  —Blue

  FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

  TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com

  DATE: Jan 6 at 11:18 PM

  SUBJECT: Re: Really?

  Well, I was doing great there until the end.

  So yeah. Wow. I guess I was dead wrong. I’m sorry, Blue. I hope that doesn’t make things weird between us.

  Anyway, maybe you’ll guess wrong about me, too? And then we would be even? Though I’m guessing you saw the thing on the Tumblr. God, I feel like such an idiot.

  Love,

  Jacques

  FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com

  TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

  DATE: Jan 7 at 7:23 AM

  SUBJECT: Re: Really?

  On the Tumblr—you mean creeksecrets? I honestly don’t think I’ve looked at it since August. What was on there? Anyway, you don’t have to feel like an idiot. It’s fine. But I really don’t think I’m wrong. />
  Jacques a dit. Right?

  —Blue

  25

  SO, YEAH. I’VE BEEN CARELESS. I guess I left a trail of clues, and I shouldn’t be surprised that Blue put them together. Maybe I kind of wanted him to.

  Jacques a dit is “Simon Says” in French, by the way. And it’s obviously not as clever as I thought it was.

  But I really fucked it all up with the Cal thing. I mean, honest to God, I’m a freaking moron. I seriously don’t know what I was thinking. Blue-green eyes and a gut feeling that Blue was Cal? It’s classic Simon logic. No surprise that I was horribly, epically wrong.

  I spend about twenty minutes staring at Blue’s email on my laptop that morning before writing back. And then I sit there refreshing the browser over and over again until Nora bangs on my door. We get to school five minutes early anyway. So I spend five more minutes sitting in my parked car staring at my email again on my phone.

  I mean, he didn’t see the Tumblr post. So that’s something. That’s a huge something, actually.

  I walk in just as the bell is ringing, and I’m in a serious daze. It’s lucky that my hands seem to know my locker combination, because my brain has checked out. People talk to me, and I nod along, but absolutely nothing penetrates. I think a couple of pickup truck guys change my name to Semen Queer. I don’t know. I don’t even think I care.

  All I can think about is Blue. I guess a part of me is hoping for something today. Some kind of reveal. I can’t believe Blue wouldn’t tell me, now that he knows who I am. Which means I’m looking for it everywhere. Leah passes me a note in French class, and my heart starts pounding, thinking it could be a message from him. Meet me by your locker. I’m ready. Something like that. But it turns out to be an impressively realistic, manga-style drawing of our French teacher performing fellatio on a baguette. Speaking of things that remind me of Blue.

  And when someone taps me on the shoulder in history class, my heart is a pinball. But it’s just Abby. “Shh, listen to this.”

  I listen, and it’s Taylor explaining to Martin that she wasn’t necessarily trying to get a gap between her thighs, but it’s just her metabolism, and she didn’t even realize that some girls try to get the gap on purpose. Martin nods and scratches his head and looks bored.