“Me?”
He nods toward my phone. “With the picture you showed me.”
“Are you doing a Morgan’s bat mitzvah–themed promposal? Because that would be epic.”
“Good guess.” He grins. “But no. I mean, I don’t know. I think I need to pick your brain for a minute.”
“About what?”
“I need all your embarrassing Simon stories.” He takes a bite of s’more and smiles. There’s a tiny blob of marshmallow stuck to his lip.
“You realize this could take all day, right?” I say.
He laughs. “I’m here for it.”
“Also, totally unrelated, but I have to know. Did Baby Bram call graham crackers—”
“Bram crackers?” He smiles. “Maybe. Definitely.”
“That’s amazing.”
“I’m making another. You want one?” He stands.
“Obviously.” I tuck my chin into my hand. “Okay, so Simon.”
“Simon.”
There’s this tug in my chest. Because when Bram says Simon’s name, he pronounces every part of it. Like it’s worth being careful over. It’s really sweet and everything, but wow. I get so jealous sometimes. It’s obviously not just Simon and Bram. It’s couples in general. And it’s not about the kissing stuff. It’s just—imagine being Simon. Imagine going about your day knowing someone’s carrying you in their mind. That has to be the best part of being in love—the feeling of having a home in someone else’s brain.
I push away the thought. “All right. So I assume you’ve seen the jean shorts picture?”
“The one on their mantel?” He grins back at me from across the kitchen.
“Yup. Okay, what about when he puked in the wax hand?”
“He actually told me that himself.”
“Yeah, he’s probably proud of that one.” I bite my lip. “Huh. Like, it really shouldn’t be this hard to think of embarrassing Simon stories.”
“You would think,” Bram says. The microwave beeps, and I watch for a minute as he carefully presses the s’mores together. Only Bram could wrangle a giant puffed-up marshmallow so neatly. He carries the s’mores back to the table and slides the plate in front of me. And I’m just about to grab one, but I’m suddenly inspired.
“Wait, do you know about his thing with Love Actually?”
“I know his parents make him watch it every Christmas, and he hates it.”
“Yeah. He doesn’t hate it.” I take a giant bite of s’more, peeking up at him with my widest, most innocent eyes.
Bram grins. “It sounds like there’s a story here.”
“Oh, there’s a story. Simon wrote the story.”
Bram opens his mouth to reply, but then Garrett pops his head up over the back of the couch. “Hey, Burke. Question. So, I’m trying to figure out the plan for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“The play,” calls Morgan from the armchair.
“Oh, I knew that.”
“Are you going?” Garrett asks.
“I was planning on it.”
Bram and Garrett glance at each other quickly, whatever that means. “Want to come with us?” Bram asks. “We want to get there early and get good seats.”
“In other words, Greenfeld wants an unobstructed view of his boyfriend’s ass.”
Bram shakes his head, smiling.
“Maybe we can grab dinner or something beforehand,” Garrett adds.
“I guess so.”
“You guess so? Leah. Leah.” Garrett shakes his head.
I force a giant, cheesy smile. “Oh. My. God. I can’t wait!”
“Better,” he says, sinking back into the couch.
But all night, at home, I’m not thinking about the play. I collapse onto the couch with a Coke, feeling edgy and restless. My mind keeps drifting back to what Morgan said at Rio Bravo. Abby wants to tour UGA with us. It’s not like it’s totally out of left field. We’re technically friends. But probably a hundred people from our grade applied to Georgia, and Abby’s friends with all of them. She’s friends with everyone. So it’s a little bit surprising that she’d want to go with us.
My phone buzzes on the table, and my heart just swoops.
But it’s Garrett.
Hey I’m glad you’re coming to the play tomorrow, should be really fun.
I curl back onto the couch, staring at it. Garrett does this sometimes. He sends me these texts out of nowhere with no real opening for a conversation. Just a statement. And I never know how to respond. To be honest, I get this vibe sometimes that Garrett likes me. I mean, I’m probably imagining it, and Garrett’s probably just really awkward. But sometimes I wonder.
Me too! I start to type. But it reads a little too much like OMG GARRETT I LOVE YOU PLS KISS ME. So I delete it, and then stare at my phone, and then retype it without the exclamation point, and then delete it again, until I finally give up and turn on Fruits Basket. This is what a mess I am. I can’t write a two-word text without losing my shit. And I’m not even particularly attracted to this boy. If I were, I’d be dead. RIP Leah Burke. She died of acute awkwardosis.
I need a distraction. God knows TV isn’t enough. I pull up some random fanfic on my phone, and then I take it down the hall. I can’t read Drarry in the living room, even when my mom’s not home. Drarry belongs in my bedroom. I don’t care if that sounds dirty.
But I can’t focus. It isn’t the fic’s fault. It’s well written, and Draco has some bite to him, which is refreshing. I hate when writers make Draco sweet. Sorry, but Draco’s a bitch. Own it. I mean, yeah, he’s a ball of mush underneath, but you have to earn it with him.
I guess that speaks to me, somehow.
But the distraction’s not working, so I shut it down. I stick my phone into its charger and then wiggle it around for a minute to trick it into actually charging. My phone’s a piece of shit. I crank up Spotify and log onto my art Tumblr, scrolling through my archives. I should upload something new. Or even one of my more decent older pieces. I have a whole bunch I’ve photographed and saved on my phone. All my ships, straight-up kissing: Inej and Nina, Percabeth, a few original characters. Plus a few random portraits of my friends, not that I ever plan on showing those to anyone. I did that once. Huge fucking mistake.
I scroll quickly past them, landing instead on a pencil sketch of Bellatrix Lestrange. It’s not the most polished thing I’ve drawn, but I sort of love her facial expression. And I don’t mind it being a little sloppy, since my Tumblr page is anonymous. If people think I’m a shitty artist, so be it. As least they don’t know I’m me.
5
MORGAN’S NOT AT SCHOOL ON Friday, and she’s not replying to my texts.
“That’s sort of weird, right?” I say to Anna at lunch. We’re the first two at the table. “Is something up with her?”
“With Morgan?” She bites her lip. I have the distinct impression that she’s avoiding my eyes.
“What, is she mad at me or something?”
“No, it’s not that.” Anna pauses. “I think she’s processing things.”
“What are you talking about?”
She looks up at me, finally. “She didn’t tell you?”
“Uh, she’s not returning my texts, so.”
“Yeah.” Anna leans back in her chair. “Well. She heard from Georgia last night.”
“The school?”
Anna nods, and something in her expression makes my heart sink.
“She didn’t get in,” I say quietly.
“Nope.”
“Was she wait-listed?”
“No.”
“You’re kidding me.”
Anna shakes her head.
“But she’s a legacy.”
“I know.”
“She must be devastated.” I blink. “How could she not get in?”
“I don’t know. It’s messed up.” Anna sighs and tugs the ends of her hair. “Maybe her SAT scores? I know she retook it a few times. I feel so awful. I think she’s in shock. And he
r parents just lost it. Like, they’re calling the school, withdrawing their donations. I don’t even know.”
“Jesus.”
“I’m going over there after school,” Anna says.
I nod. “I’ll go with you.”
“Yeah.” She pauses. “I don’t know if that’s . . .”
“She doesn’t want to see me?”
Anna doesn’t respond.
I flush. “Did she say that?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m so sorry, Leah. Ugh. This is so awkward.”
“Whatever. It’s fine.” I stand abruptly. “I’m gonna eat in the courtyard.”
“She’s just upset right now. You can’t take this personally.”
Okay, I hate when people say that. You can’t take this personally. It’s not personal, Leah. Morgan’s skipping school to avoid me, but it’s totally not personal. God. I know I should be sympathetic, and I know I’m a jerk, but it just hurts.
“Leah, it’s not about you. She’s just disappointed,” Anna says. “And probably embarrassed.”
“I know that.” It comes out louder than I mean it to, and a couple of freshmen turn to stare at us. I lower my voice. “I know it’s not about me.”
“Well, good. It’s not.”
“I just want to be there for her, you know? I want to make it better.”
Anna leans forward. “Yeah, I just don’t think you can make it better. You know? It’s obviously not your fault that you got in and she didn’t, and she knows that, but it’s still going to feel like you’re rubbing it in her face.”
“I’m not going to rub it in her face.”
“I know you’re not,” Anna says slowly. “Not intentionally. But don’t you see how it would feel like that?”
My cheeks burn. “It’s fine. I’ll give her space.”
Anna taps her toe against mine. “I know you’re worried about her. I’ll make sure she’s okay.”
I shrug. “Do whatever you want.”
So, now everything’s off-kilter. I feel heartless, not texting Morgan—though Anna made it pretty clear that I shouldn’t. But all through class, I can’t stop picturing Morgan holed up in her house, surrounded by pictures of bulldogs. Red and black everywhere. She must be losing her mind. I think I know how she’s feeling. I mean, I’ve never been rejected from a school. But I know what it’s like to not be good enough, in some bone-deep fundamental way.
Not that I’m making this about me. For example, I haven’t given a shred of attention to the upcoming campus tour and whether Abby might still want to go with me.
“Leah,” Simon hisses, poking me.
I snap back to earth. Ms. Livingstone is giving me a Look. “I assume you’re deep in thought about the French Revolution, Ms. Burke. Care to weigh in?”
My cheeks burn. “Yes. I’m. Um.”
Oh God. Ms. Livingstone can smell the bullshit. Why yes, I’d like to weigh in. About the French Revolution. Not about road tripping to Athens with Abby Suso. Not that I’m considering road tripping to Athens with Abby Suso.
“Thomas Jefferson helped the Marquis de Lafayette draft a declaration,” Simon blurts.
“Mr. Spier, memorizing the Hamilton soundtrack is not going to save you on the AP Euro exam.”
A bunch of people snicker. Ms. Livingstone shakes her head and calls on someone else. So, I kick Simon’s foot, and when he looks up, I smile. “Thanks.”
“No prob.” He smiles back.
6
“SO, LET’S TALK LOVE ACTUALLY,” Bram says, leaning toward me. Garrett’s finally out of earshot, scoping out the dessert counter. Which is actually the only counter, because we’re at Henri’s, and Henri’s is a bakery. Sorry, but cupcakes are a dinner food—fight me.
I glance back to make sure Garrett’s fully absorbed in pastries and iced doughnuts before turning back to Bram. “Okay, so, Simon may kill me for telling you this.”
“Of course. He’s very secretive,” Bram says, and we grin at each other. Simon Spier may be the least secretive person on the planet.
“Anyway, I didn’t know about this until last year, but apparently—” I pause to bite into my cupcake. “Apparently, our very own Simon Spier has written a single work of Love Actually fanfiction.”
Bram’s eyes light up. “Okay.”
“And I have reason to believe it’s on fanfiction.net.”
“Are you serious?” He presses his fist to his mouth.
“But he won’t tell us his pen name.”
“I bet we can figure it out.” Bram’s already pulling his phone out. “Fanfiction dot org?”
“Dot net.”
“Okay.” He’s quiet for a moment, scrolling.
“I think there are like a hundred stories in the whole fandom. Abby and I were able to narrow it down to fifteen possibilities.”
“Oh, so you’ve already been working on this.”
“I tried for weeks, Bram. Weeks.”
Junior year, right after Abby moved here.
We were all spending the night at Morgan’s, and her mom had exiled the boys to the guest room after an illuminating game of Truth or Dare. Morgan and Anna fell asleep pretty quickly, but Abby scooted all her blankets next to mine on the floor—on our stomachs, side by side. “Leah, we have to find it,” she whispered. She was still a little tipsy from Truth or Dare, and I was somehow tipsy by association. I had the full list of Love Actually stories pulled up on my phone.
“Do we start at the top?”
“Or we could start with the Keira Knightley self-insert sex erotica,” said Abby.
I giggled. “Sex erotica?”
“Yes.”
“As opposed to sex-free erotica?”
“I mean, I’d read that, too,” she said. “Okay, this one.”
And so we started. Right away, we could rule out a few grammatical shitstorms, along with anything that seemed too technically knowledgeable about sex. “There’s no way,” I’d insisted. “I guarantee you—I would literally bet you a million dollars that Simon Spier has never heard of the perineum.”
“I concur,” Abby said, tapping the back arrow. I’ve always thought that was such an intimate thing to do: touching the screen of another person’s phone. She opened the next story. It was weird. Once we knew Simon had written one of them, it started to feel like he could have written any of them. Or all of them. Under ninety different pen names. Maybe all those times he said he was checking his email, he was actually writing sex erotica.
Then she shifted slightly under her blankets, and her whole body pressed against mine. My right side to her left. And I forgot how to speak.
“It’s this one,” Bram says, jolting me back to the present. He slides his phone toward me on the table.
“No, you did not just find Simon Spier’s secret fanfiction in five minutes.”
“I did.” He smiles. “I’m a hundred percent sure.”
I read it aloud. “‘All I Want for Christmas Is You,’ by youwontbutyoumight. How do you know this is him?”
“Well, first of all, the pen name.”
“I don’t get it.”
Bram leans forward on his elbows. “You won’t, but you might. It’s an Elliott Smith lyric. That’s the first giveaway.”
I tilt Bram’s phone closer, reading the summary. “‘Sam/Joaquin (semi-original character).’ Okay . . .”
“Read the rest of the summary.”
“‘Original male character based closely on Joanna. Just a fluffy m/m retelling of the school concert scene. Smiley face.’” I look up at Bram, grinning. “Oh my God. Simon was such a sweet baby gay, writing the gayest fanfiction. I love it.”
Bram smiles. “It’s perfect.”
“How did Abby and I miss this?”
“Did you even know he was gay, back then?”
“No. Okay, wow. That was even before the whole Martin thing. I guess we weren’t looking for the gayest fic in the bunch.”
“This isn’t even the gayest,” Bram says.
&
nbsp; “Ladies and gentledudes, I’m back,” Garrett announces, and we both look up with a start. Garrett slides into his seat, setting a cardboard cake box on the table in front of us. “Check it out.”
Bram nudges the box open, revealing an extravagantly decorated buttercream cake with polka dots and rosette flowers. And a message, carefully piped onto the center:
“You bought Simon and Nick a cake?” Bram asks slowly.
“Fuck yeah. I love those dudes.”
“Well done, Garrett,” I say.
“Thank you, Burke. I appreciate that.”
“So, no congratulations or anything. Just, like . . . their names.”
“Yeah, but look at the R,” Garrett says, glancing back and forth between Bram and me. “That’s badass, right? Totally my idea.”
“It’s very badass,” I assure him.
Bram just raises his eyebrows and smiles.
Add this to the list of things I’m never doing again: sitting in the front row of a play.
Eye contact. So much eye contact.
Simon once said that when the stage lights are on, the audience looks like a giant dark blob. But maybe the front row is the exception, because I swear Taylor just spent forty-five minutes gazing directly into my face.
But the show was amazing, even with Martin Addison back in commission. Or maybe it’s because Martin was back in commission, as much as it kills me to admit that. I hate when assholes have talent. I want to live in a world where good people rule at everything and shitty people suck at everything. In short: I want Martin Addison’s voice to crack like an earthquake.
After curtain call, we linger in the lobby, waiting for the actors to come out. Garrett sidles up to me, holding the cake box, his blond hair winging out from under a baseball cap. “So, Eisner can really sing, huh?”
I feel strangely shy. “Yeah.”
There are hordes of parents out here, holding flowers. I spot Simon’s family near the dramaturgy display, doubled up on bouquets. “Alice is here?” I say to Bram.
He nods. “It’s her spring break.”
Alice Spier is exactly who I want to be when I’m in college. She is nerd-cute perfection—effortlessly smart, hipster glasses, and zero tolerance for Simon and Nora’s bullshit. I may have had a low-key crush on her in sixth grade, until I fell hard for her adorable dumbass little brother.
Leah on the Offbeat Page 4