Bram and I exchange glances, while Nick, Abby, and Garrett look on with interest.
“Okay,” he says. “She wanted me to tell you that your parents are about to invite you to some place called The Varsity, and you’re supposed to say you can’t go. And the magic words are that you need to catch up on homework.”
“What? Why?”
“Because,” Theo says, nodding, “apparently, it takes half an hour to get down there, and half an hour to get back, plus all the time spent ordering and eating.”
“Which is completely freaking worth it,” I inform him. “Have you had their Frosted Orange?”
“I have not,” Theo says. “Though, in fairness, I’ve spent a lifetime sum total of five hours in Atlanta. So far.”
“But why doesn’t she want me there?”
“Because she’s giving you two hours at home unsupervised.”
“Oh.” My cheeks are burning. Nick snorts.
“Yup,” Theo says, grinning briefly at Bram. “So, I guess I’ll see you guys out there.” He heads toward the atrium.
I look at Bram, and his eyes are lit with mischief. It’s very un-Bram-like.
“Oh, were you in on this?”
“No,” he says, “but I stand in support.”
“I mean, it’s a little creepy having my sister orchestrate the whole thing.”
He smiles, biting his lip.
“But kind of awesome,” I admit.
So, we head out to the atrium, and I make a beeline for Alice. Bram hangs back, standing with Nick, Abby, and Garrett.
“I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Well,” she says, “little Nick Eisner clued me in that something big was happening. But I’m sorry I missed the play last week, bub.”
“It’s fine. I met Theo,” I say, lowering my voice. “He’s cool.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She smiles self-consciously. “Which one’s yours?”
“Gray zippy sweater, next to Nick.”
“I’m lying. I’ve been stalking him on Facebook,” she says, hugging me. “He’s adorable.”
“I know.”
And then the side door swings open, and the girls of Emoji step into the atrium. Nora actually yelps when she sees us.
“Allie!” she says. She launches toward her. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in Connecticut?”
“Because you’re a rock star,” Alice says.
“I’m not a rock star,” Nora says, beaming.
My parents have a majorly Seussish bouquet for her, and they spend about five minutes gushing about her guitar skills. And then they want to gush about the rest of the band and Abby, so we sort of converge into one big group. And Nora is talking to Theo, and my parents are shaking hands with Bram, and Taylor and Abby are randomly hugging. It’s a surreal, wonderful scene.
I walk over to Leah, and she grins and shrugs. So I give her this crushing hug. “You are a freaking boss,” I tell her. “I had no idea.”
“They let me borrow some of the school drums. I’ve been teaching myself.”
“For how long?”
“About two years.”
I just look at her. She bites her lip.
“I guess I’m awesome?” she says.
“YES,” I say. And I’m sorry, but I just have to hug her again.
“All right,” she says, squirming a little. But I can tell she’s smiling.
So I kiss her on the forehead, and she turns unbelievably red. When Leah blushes, it’s so hardcore.
And then my parents walk over to propose a celebratory trip to The Varsity.
“I should probably catch up on homework,” I tell them.
“You sure, kid?” asks my dad. “Want me to bring you back a Frosted Orange?”
“Or two,” says Alice. And then she grins.
Alice tells me to keep my phone on, so she can text me when they’re on the way home.
“And you won’t forget the Frosties.”
“Simon. I believe this is known as having your cake and eating it, too.”
“Large ones,” I say. “Souvenir cups.”
There are probably a hundred people still walking toward the parking lot. I’m riding back with Bram. It’s too public to hold hands. This being Georgia. So, I walk next to him, leaving a space between us. Just a couple of guys hanging out on a Friday night. Except the air around us seems to crackle with electricity.
Bram is parked in the raised area of the parking lot, on the top level. He unlocks his car from the top of the stairs, and I walk around to the passenger side. Then the car next to me comes noisily to life, startling me. I wait for it to pull out before opening my door, but the driver doesn’t move. And then I look into the window and see that it’s Martin.
We lock eyes. I’m surprised he’s here, because he wasn’t in school today. Which means I haven’t seen him since he emailed me.
He rakes his hand through his hair, and his mouth sort of twists.
And I just sort of look at him.
I haven’t written back to his email. Not yet.
I don’t know.
But it’s chilly outside, so I slide into the car, and then watch through the window as Martin backs out.
“Are you warm enough?” Bram asks. I nod. “So, I guess we’re going to your place.”
He sounds nervous, and it makes me nervous. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, eyes flicking to me. “I mean, yeah.”
“Okay. Yeah,” I say. And my heart pounds.
Stepping into the entryway with Bram is like seeing it for the first time. The random painted wood dresser against the wall, overflowing with catalogs and junk mail. A creepy, framed drawing of Alvin and the Chipmunks that Nora made in kindergarten. There’s the muffled thud of Bieber jumping off the couch, followed by jangling and clicking as he skitters toward us.
“Well, hi,” Bram says, practically crouching. “I know who you are.”
Bieber greets him passionately, all tongue, and Bram laughs in surprise.
“You have that effect on us,” I explain.
He kisses Bieber on the nose and follows me into the living room. “Are you hungry?” I ask. “Or thirsty?”
“I’m fine,” he says.
“We probably have Coke.” I very badly want to kiss him, and I don’t know why I’m stalling. “Do you want to watch something?”
“Sure.”
I look at him. “I don’t.”
He laughs. “So, let’s not.”
“Do you want to see my room?”
He smiles his mischievous smile again. So maybe it is Bram-like. Maybe I’m still figuring him out.
Framed photographs line the wall by the staircase, and Bram pauses to look at each one. “The famous trash can costume,” he says.
“Nora’s finest hour,” I say. “I forgot you knew about that.”
“And this is you with the fish, right? So obviously thrilled.”
In the picture, I’m six or seven, sun-flushed, my arm extended as far away from my body as possible, dangling a caught fish from a piece of twine. I look like I’m about to burst into horrified tears.
“I’ve always loved fishing,” I say.
“I can’t believe how blond you were.”
When we reach the top of the stairs, he takes my hand and squeezes it. “You’re really here,” I say, shaking my head. “So, this is it.”
I open the door, and try to kick some of the clothes aside as we walk in. “Sorry about . . . all of this.” There’s a dirty-clothes pile next to the empty hamper, and a clean-clothes pile next to the empty dresser. Books and papers everywhere. An empty bag of Goldfish crackers on the desk, next to a nonfunctioning Curious George alarm clock, my laptop, and a plastic robotic arm. Backpack on the desk chair. Framed vinyl album covers hanging askew on the walls.
But my bed is made. So that’s where we sit, leaning against the wall with our legs stretched forward.
“When you email me,” he says, “where are you?”
“Usually here. Sometimes at the desk.”
“Huh,” he says, nodding. And then I lean over and kiss him softly on the neck, just below his jaw. He turns to me and swallows.
“Hi,” I say.
He smiles. “Hi.”
And then I kiss him for real, and he kisses me back, and his hands fist my hair. And we’re kissing like it’s breathing. My stomach flutters wildly. And somehow we end up horizontal, his hands curved up around my back.
“I like this,” I say, and my voice comes out breathless. “We should do this. Every day.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s never do anything else. No school. No meals. No homework.”
“I was going to ask you to see a movie,” he says, smiling. When he smiles, I smile.
“No movies. I hate movies.”
“Oh, really?”
“Really, really. Why would I want to watch other people kissing,” I say, “when I could be kissing you?”
Which I guess he can’t argue with, because he pulls me in closer and kisses me urgently. And suddenly, I’m hard, and I know he is, too. It’s thrilling and strange and completely terrifying.
“What are you thinking about?” Bram says.
“Your mom.”
“Noooo,” he says, laughing.
But I actually am. Specifically, her Every Time Including Oral rule. Because it only now occurs to me that the rule might apply to me. At some point. Eventually.
I kiss him briefly on the lips.
“I really do want to take you out,” he says. “If you didn’t hate all movies, what would you want to see?”
“Anything,” I say.
“But probably a love story, right? Something Simonish, with a happy ending.”
“Why does no one ever believe I’m a cynic?”
“Hmm.” He laughs.
I let my body relax on top of his, my head tucked into the crook of his neck. “I like no endings,” I say. “I like things that don’t end.”
He squeezes me tighter and kisses my head, and we lie there.
Until my phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans. Alice. Exiting the highway. Be ready.
Roger that. Thanks, Paul Revere. I rest my phone on Bram’s chest while I type.
Then I kiss him again quickly, and we both stand up and stretch. And then we each spend some time in the bathroom. But by the time my family gets home, we’re sitting on the love seat in the living room with a pile of textbooks between us.
“Oh, hi,” I say, looking up from a work sheet. “How was it? Bram came over to study, by the way.”
“And I’m sure you were very productive,” my mom says. I press my lips together. And Bram quietly coughs.
I can tell from her expression that a conversation is coming. Some kind of awkward discussion about ground rules. Some kind of big deal.
But maybe this is a big deal. Maybe it’s a holy freaking huge awesome deal.
Maybe I want it to be.
Acknowledgments
There are so many people who left beautiful fingerprints all over this book, and who deserve more thanks and recognition than I can possibly express. I am forever grateful to . . .
. . . Donna Bray, my genius editor, who completely gets Simon’s sense of humor, and who knows this story inside and out. Thank you for adoring and embracing Simon from day one. I was so blown away by the depth, texture, and wisdom of your feedback. It strengthened this book to a degree I didn’t imagine was possible.
. . . Brooks Sherman, the extraordinary agent who was the first to believe in this book, and who sold it in four days like a ninja. You are part oracle, part editor, part psychologist, and part living proof that Slytherins are wonderful people. Thanks for being such a tremendous champion for my work, such an all-around badass, and such an amazing friend.
. . . Viana Siniscalchi, Emilie Polster, Stef Hoffman, Caroline Sun, Bethany Reis, Veronica Ambrose, Patty Rosati, Nellie Kurtzman, Margot Wood, Alessandra Balzer, Kate Morgan Jackson, Molly Motch, Eric Svenson, and the rest of the team at B+B and Harper, for your endless enthusiasm and incredibly hard work (and for Suman Seewat, for championing me so hard at Harper Canada!). Many thanks, too, to Alison Klapthor and Chris Bilheimer, for the cover of my dreams.
. . . the awesome and amazingly collaborative team at the Bent Agency, especially Molly Ker Hawn and Jenny Bent. Thanks, too, to Janet Reid and the gang at FinePrint—plus Alexa Valle, who got the ball rolling. Also so grateful for my wonderful publicist, Deb Shapiro.
. . . my brilliant and incredibly supportive team at Penguin/Puffin UK, including Jessica Farrugia Sharples, Vicky Photiou, Ben Horslen, and especially Anthea Townsend (with extra whoops). Wildly thankful, too, to all of my foreign publishing teams for believing in this book and working so hard to bring it to life overseas.
. . . Kimberly Ito, my very first reader and my platonic Blue. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for your wisdom, support, and sense of humor.
. . . Beckminavidera (which includes the following geniuses: Adam Silvera, David Arnold, and Jasmine Warga). Worming my way into your cult was the smartest thing I ever did. How would I have survived without our epic email threads, Oreo debates, and collective Elliott Smith worship?
. . . Heidi Schultz, for supplying endless sisterly wisdom and making me crave all the desserts.
. . . the Atlanta Writers Club for the opportunity to attend your extraordinary conference and critique groups—especially George Weinstein and the hilarious, brilliant minds of Team Erratica: Chris Negron, Emily Carpenter, and Manda Pullen.
. . . the Fearless Fifteeners and my many other friends in the writing community who laughed with me, supported me, advised me, and kept me sane. Many thanks, too, for the incredible librarians, bloggers, publishing professionals, and booksellers who have blown me away with their support—with extra Oreos for Diane Capriola! Thanks for making me feel so welcome in this community from day one.
. . . my heroes, Andrew Smith, Nina LaCour, Tim Federle, and Alex Sanchez, who slayed me with their books, and then slayed me again by blurbing mine.
. . . the brilliant teenagers, kids, adults, and families I’ve worked with during my years as a practicing psychologist. Thanks in particular to the students at Kingsbury, who never let me get away with being old and out of touch.
. . . the extraordinary teachers I’ve had over the years, especially Molly Mercer, for being more than moderately badass, and for being the best, most important teacher of my life.
. . . my Riverwood High School theater friends, whose influence on my life and on this book cannot be overstated (especially Sarah Beth Brown, Ricky Manne, and Annie Lipsitz). Thanks, too, to the many other friends who inspired and supported me more than they even know: Diane and the entire Blumenfeld family, Lauren Starks, Jaime Hensel and the entire Hensel family, Jaime Semensohn, Betsy Ballard, Nina Morton, the Binswangers, the Shumans, and so many others—and to the Takoma Mamas, who saved my life in five million tiny ways.
. . . My family: Molly Goldstein, Adele Thomas, Curt and Gini Albertalli—plus so many more Goldsteins, Albertallis, Thomases, Bells, Bermans, Wechslers, Levines, and Witchels. Thanks, too, to Gail McLaurin and Kevin Saylor for ongoing support. Finally, huge thanks to my stepmother, Candy Goldstein, and my stepbrothers, William Cotton and Cameron Klein.
. . . Eileen Thomas, my mom, who has always treated my life like a holy awesome big deal; to Jim Goldstein, the original badass, hardcore, hipster dad; to my sister, Caroline Goldstein, who rocked the trash can costume for Purim and knows about Coke bottle mouth; and to my brother, Sam Goldstein, whose preschool-era Pokémon stories are better (and more vulgar) than anything I could ever write.
. . . my sons, Owen and Henry Albertalli, whom I love wholly and ridiculously. Learning who you are and watching you grow are the greatest privileges of my life.
. . . my husband, Brian Albertalli, who is my absolute best friend and partner in crime, and who owns the other half of my brain. There wouldn’t be a
book without you. You are my shore worth swimming to. You are my big deal.
. . . Edgardo Menvielle, Cathy Tuerk, Shannon Wyss, and the many other clinicians and volunteers who change lives daily through the CNMC Gender and Sexuality program. Thanks for all that you do, and thanks for welcoming me with open arms.
. . . and to the extraordinary LGBT and gender-nonconforming children and teens in my life (and your extraordinary families): you blow me away with your wisdom, humor, creativity, and courage. You probably already guessed this, but I wrote this book for you.
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About the Author
Photo by Decisive Moment Events
BECKY ALBERTALLI is a clinical psychologist who has had the privilege of conducting therapy with dozens of smart, weird, irresistible teenagers. She also served for seven years as co-leader of a support group for gender nonconforming children in Washington, DC. She now lives with her family in Atlanta. Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda is her first novel. You can visit Becky online at www.beckyalbertalli.com.
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Credits
Cover art © 2015 by Chris Bilheimer
Cover design by Alison Klapthor
Copyright
Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
SIMON VS. THE HOMO SAPIENS AGENDA. Copyright © 2015 by Becky Albertalli. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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