Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda (12 page)

Please know I didn't tell anyone. I would never tell anyone. I love u, ok?

Call me?

And then it's Christmas. I used to wake up at four every year in a total frenzy of greed. It didn't matter how thorough I had been about poking for clues—and make no mistake, I was thorough. But Santa was a ninja. He always managed to surprise me.

So, it looks like I got one hell of a Christmas surprise this year. And good fucking tidings to you, too, Martin.

At seven thirty, I walk downstairs, and everything inside me twists and clenches. The lights are still off, but the morning sun is bright through the living room windows, and the tree is fully lit. Five overstuffed stockings lean up against the couch cushions, too heavy for the mantel. The only one awake is Bieber. I bring him out for a quick pee and give him his breakfast, and then we lie together on the couch and wait.

I know Blue is at church right now with his mom and uncle and cousins, and they all went last night, too. He's basically putting in more church time over these past two days than I have in my entire life.

It's funny. I didn't think this was going to be a big deal. But I think I'd actually rather be at church than here, doing what I'm about to do.

By nine, everyone's awake and the coffee's on, and we're having cookies for breakfast. Alice and Nora are reading stuff on their phones. I pour myself a mug of coffee and add an avalanche of sugar. My mom watches me stir.

“I didn't know you drink coffee.”

Okay, this. She does this every freaking time. Both of them. They put me in a box, and every time I try to nudge the lid open, they slam it back down. It's like nothing about me is allowed to change.

“Well, I do.”

“Okay,” she says, putting her hands up like
whoa there, buck
. “That's fine, Si. It's just different. I'm just trying to keep up with you.”

If she thinks me drinking coffee is big news, it's going to be quite a fucking morning.

We turn to the pile of presents. Blue told me that in his family, presents are opened one at a time, and all the cousins and everyone else just sit and watch each other do it. And then after a few rounds of that, they stop for a while and have lunch or something. It's just so civilized. It takes them all afternoon to clear out the Christmas tree.

Not so with the Spiers. Alice works her way underneath the tree in crouch position and starts passing bags and boxes down the line, and everyone talks at once.

“A Kindle case? I don't have a—”

“Open the other one, honey.”

“Hey, Aurora coffee!”

“No, put it on the other way, boop. Everyone wears these at Wesleyan.”

In twenty minutes, it's like a freaking Paper Source exploded all over the living room. I'm on the floor, leaning into the front
of the couch, winding the cords of my new earbuds around my fingers. Bieber tucks a bow between his paws, and he nips and tugs on it, and everyone's just kind of draped over various pieces of furniture.

It's clearly my moment.

Though, if this moment really belonged to me, it wouldn't be happening. Not now, I mean. Not yet.

“Hey. I want to talk to you guys about something.” I try to sound casual, but my voice is froggy. Nora looks at me and gives me a tiny, quick smile, and my stomach sort of flips.

“What's up?” says my mom, sitting up straight.

I don't know how people do this. How Blue did this. Two words. Two freaking words, and I'm not the same Simon anymore. My hand is over my mouth, and I stare straight ahead.

I don't know why I thought this would be easy.

“I know what this is,” says my dad. “Let me guess. You're gay. You got someone pregnant.
You're
pregnant.”

“Dad, stop it,” says Alice.

I close my eyes.

“I'm pregnant,” I say.

“I thought so, kid,” says my dad. “You're glowing.”

I look him in the eye. “Really, though. I'm gay.”

Two words.

Everyone is quiet for a moment.

And then my mom says, “Honey. That's . . . God, that's . . . thank you for telling us.”

And then Alice says, “Wow, bub. Good for you.”

And my dad says, “Gay, huh?”

And my mom says, “So, talk me through this.” It's one of her favorite psychologist lines. I look at her and shrug.

“We're proud of you,” she adds.

And then my dad grins and says, “So, which one of them did it?”

“Did what?”

“Turned you off women. Was it the one with the eyebrows, the eye makeup, or the overbite?”

“Dad, that's so offensive,” says Alice.

“What? I'm just lightening the mood. Simon knows we love him.”

“Your heterosexist comments aren't lightening the mood.”

I mean, I guess it's about what I expected. My mom's asking me about my feelings, Dad's turning it into a joke, Alice is getting political, and Nora is keeping her mouth shut. You could say there's a kind of comfort in predictability, and my family is pretty goddamn predictable.

But I'm so exhausted and unhappy right now. I thought it would feel like a weight had been lifted. But it's just like everything else this week. Strange and off-kilter and surreal.

“So, that's pretty big news, bub,” Alice says, following me into my room. She shuts the door behind her, and settles in cross-legged on the end of my bed.

“Ugh,” I say. I collapse facedown into the pillows.

“Hey.” She leans her body sideways, until it's level with mine. “Everything's cool. It's nothing to mope about.”

I ignore her.

“I'm not leaving, bub. Because you're going to wallow. You're going to put on that playlist. What's it called?”

“The Great Depression,” I mutter. It's like all Elliott Smith and Nick Drake and the Smiths. I already have it cued up.

“Right,” she says. “The Great Depression. That romp. No way.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because I'm your big sister and you need me.”

“I need to be left alone.”

“No way. Talk to me, bub!” she says. She slides toward me, squeezing in between my body and the wall. “This is exciting. We can talk about guys.”

“Okay,” I say, pushing up off the bed and maneuvering into a sitting position. “Then tell me about your boyfriend.”

“Whoa there,” she says. “What?”

I look at her. “The phone calls. Disappearing into your room for hours. Come on.”

“I thought we were discussing your love life.” She blushes.

“So I get to make a scene and
come out
and have everyone awkwardly debate the whole thing right in front of me. On freaking Christmas,” I say, “and you won't even tell me you have a boyfriend?”

She's silent for a moment, and I know I have her. She sighs. “How do you know I don't have a girlfriend?”

“Is it a girlfriend?”

“No,” she says finally, leaning back against the wall. “Boyfriend.”

“What's his name?”

“Theo.”

“Is he on Facebook?”

“Yes.”

I pull up the app on my phone and start scrolling through her friends list.

“Oh God. Just stop,” she says. “Simon, seriously. Stop.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because this is exactly why I didn't want to tell you guys. I knew you were going to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Ask a lot of questions. Stalk him online. Call him out for not liking pie or having facial hair or something.”

“He has facial hair?”

“Simon.”

“Sorry,” I say, leaving the phone on my nightstand. I do get it. Actually, I
really
get it.

We're quiet for a moment.

“I am going to tell them,” she says finally.

“Whatever you want to do.”

“No, you're right. I'm not trying to be—I don't know.” She
sighs again. “I mean, if you have the guts to tell them you're gay, I should . . .”

“You should have the guts to come out as straight.”

She cracks a smile. “Something like that. You're funny, bub.”

“I try.”

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: Dec 25 at 5:12 PM

SUBJECT: Oh holy nightmare

Blue,

I officially had the most epically weird and awful Christmas ever, and most of it I can't even tell you about. Which really sucks. So, yeah. Basically, due to certain mysterious circumstances, I'm now out to my whole family and will soon be out to the whole freaking universe. And I guess that's all I can say about it.

So, it's your turn to distract me, okay? Give me
updates about Little Fetus or the horrifying sexcapades of your parents, or talk about how you think I'm cute. And talk about how you ate too much turkey and now you feel nauseated. Did you know you're the only person I've ever met who uses the word “nauseated” instead of “nauseous”? I finally Googled it, and of course you're right. Of course.

Anyway, I know you're off to Savannah tomorrow, but I hope to God your dad has internet, because I don't think my heart can handle waiting a full week for an email from you. You should give me your number so I can text you. I promise I'm still relatively grammatical over text.

Well, Merry Christmas, Blue. I mean it. And I hope everyone leaves you alone tonight, because that sounds like WAY too much family time. Maybe next year we can sneak away and spend Christmas together somewhere far away, where our families can't find us.

Love,

Jacques

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: Dec 25 at 8:41 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Oh holy nightmare

Oh, Jacques, I'm so sorry. I can't even begin to imagine what mysterious circumstances led to your being outed to the universe, but it doesn't sound pleasant, and I know it's not what you wanted. I wish I could fix it somehow.

No updates on Little Fetus, but suffice it to say that I'm more than a little nauseated now that I've had the pleasure of reading the word “sexcapades” in reference to my parents. And I do think you're cute. You're absurdly cute. I think I spend a little too much time thinking how adorable you are in emails and trying to translate that into a viable mental image for daydreams and the like.

But the texting thing. Ooooh—I don't know. Really, though, you don't have to worry about me going out of town. Internet in Savannah is abundant. You won't even know I'm gone.

Love,

Blue

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: Dec 26 at 1:12 PM

SUBJECT: Daydreams . . . and the like

Specifically, “and the like.” Please elaborate.

Love,

Jacques

P.S. Seriously. AND THE LIKE?

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: Dec 26 at 10:42 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Daydreams . . . and the like

And . . . I think I'll shut up now. ☺

Love,

Blue

IT'S THE SATURDAY AFTER CHRISTMAS
, and Waffle House is packed with old people and kids and random guys sitting at the counter reading actual printed newspapers. People really like to come here for breakfast. I mean, I guess it's technically a breakfast restaurant. Our parents are sleeping in, so it's just my sisters and me, and we're wedged against the wall waiting for a table.

We've been here waiting for twenty minutes, and we're all really just reading our phones. But then Alice says, “Oh, hey.” She's looking at this guy sitting in a booth across the room. He looks up and smiles and waves at her. He looks strangely familiar, lanky with curly brown hair.

“Is that . . . ?”

“Simon, no. It's Carter Addison. He graduated a year ahead
of me. He's the nicest guy. Actually, bub, maybe you should talk to him, because—”

“Yeah. I'm leaving,” I say. Because I've just figured out why Carter Addison looks familiar.

“What? Why?”

“Because I am.” I put my hand out so she can give me the car keys. And then I walk out the door.

I'm sitting in the driver's seat with my iPod plugged in and the heat blasting, trying to pick between Tegan and Sara and the Fleet Foxes. And then the passenger door opens, and Nora slides in.

“So, what's up with you?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Do you know that guy?”

“What guy?” I ask.

“The one Alice is talking to.”

“No.”

Nora looks at me. “Then why'd you run away as soon as you saw him?”

I lean back against the headrest and shut my eyes. “I know his brother.”

“Who's his brother?”

“You know that creeksecrets post?” I ask.

Nora's eyes get huge. “The one about . . .”

“Yeah.”

“Why the heck would he write that?”

I shrug. “Because he likes Abby, and he's a fucking idiot, and he thinks she likes me. I don't even know. It's kind of a long story.”

“What an asshole,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say, looking at her. Nora never cusses.

I'm startled by a loud tap, and I turn around to find Alice's pissed-off face pressed against my window.

“Out,” she says. “I'm driving.”

I move to the backseat. Whatever.

“So, what the hell was that about?” she asks, eyes flashing in the rearview mirror as she backs out of the parking spot.

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Okay, well, it was a little weird trying to explain to Carter why my brother and sister hauled ass out of the restaurant as soon as they saw him.” She pulls onto Roswell Road. “His brother was there, bub. He's in your grade. Marty. Seems like a nice kid.”

I don't say anything.

“And I really wanted waffles today,” she says grumpily.

“Let it go, Allie,” Nora says.

It hangs in the air. Another thing Nora never does is stand up to Alice.

We drive in silence the rest of the way home.

“Simon, the basement fridge. Not later. Not in a minute. Now,” my mom says, “or the party is off.”

“Mom. Just stop. I'm doing it.” I mean, seriously. I have no freaking idea where she got the idea that this is a party. “You do realize that Nick, Leah, and Abby have all been here roughly five zillion times.”

“That's fine,” she says, “but this time, you're going to make the basement presentable, or else you'll be ringing in the New Year on the couch, smack dab in between your dad and me.”

“Or we'll go to Nick's,” I mutter.

My mom is halfway up the stairs, but she turns around to catch my eye. “No you won't. And speaking of Nick. Your father and I discussed this, and we want to sit down with you and brainstorm about how we're going to handle him spending the night. I'm not worried about tonight, since the girls will be there, but thinking ahead—”

“Oh my God, Mom, stop. I'm not talking about this right now.” Jesus Christ. As if Nick and I can't be in a room together without it turning into frenzied wild sex.

Everyone gets here around six, and we end up packed onto the scraggly basement couch eating pizza and watching reruns of
The Soup
. Our basement is kind of a time capsule, with shaggy, camel-colored carpet and shelves of Barbies and Power Rangers and Pokémon. And there's a bathroom and a little laundry room with a fridge. It's really very cozy and awesome down here.

Leah sits on one end of the couch, and then me, and then Abby—and Nick is on the other end, plucking the strings of
Nora's old guitar. Bieber whimpers from the top of the stairs, and there are footsteps above us, and Abby's telling a story about Taylor. Apparently Taylor said something annoying. I'm trying to laugh in the right places. I think I'm a little overstimulated. Leah is intently focused on the television.

When we finish eating, I run up to open the door for Bieber, who almost trips down the stairs and then flings himself into the room like a cannonball.

Nick mutes the TV and plays a slow, acoustic version of “Brown Eyed Girl.” The footsteps above us stop, and I can hear someone say, “Whoa. That's beautiful.” One of Nora's friends. Nick's singing voice has this supernatural effect on freshman girls.

Nick sits very, very close to Abby on the couch, and I honestly think I can feel the waves of panic radiating off of Leah. She and I are on the floor now, rubbing Bieber's belly. She hasn't said a word.

“Look at this dog,” I say. “No shame. He's like, ‘Grope me.'”

I'm feeling this weird pressure to be extra jolly and talkative.

Leah trails her fingers through the curls on Bieber's belly and doesn't respond.

“He has Coke-bottle mouth,” I point out.

She looks at me. “I don't think that's a thing.”

“No?” I say. Sometimes I forget what's a Spier family invention and what's real.

And then, out of nowhere and without any change in intonation, she says, “So, they took that post down.”

“I know,” I say, and there's a nervous flutter in my gut. I haven't talked about the Tumblr post yet with Nick or Leah, though I know they've seen it.

“We don't have to talk about it, though,” says Leah.

“It's fine.” I glance up at the couch. Abby is leaning back against the cushions with her eyes closed and a smile on her lips. Her head is tilted toward Nick.

“Do you know who wrote it?” Leah says.

“Yes.”

She looks at me expectantly.

“It doesn't matter,” I say.

We're both quiet for a moment. Nick stops playing, but he hums and taps out a rhythm on the body of the guitar. Leah twists her hair up for a minute and then lets it fall back down, where it hangs past her boobs. I look at her without meeting her eye.

“I know what you're not asking me,” I say finally.

She shrugs, smiling slightly.

“I am gay. That part's true.”

“Okay,” she says.

I realize that Nick has stopped humming.

“But I'm not turning this into a big thing tonight, okay? I don't know. Do you guys want ice cream?” I pull myself up.

“Did you just tell us you're gay?” asks Nick.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” he says. Abby swats him. “What?”

“That's all you're going to say? ‘Okay'?”

“He said not to make a big deal out of it,” Nick says. “What am I supposed to say?”

“Say something supportive. I don't know. Or awkwardly hold his hand like I did. Anything.”

Nick and I look at each other.

“I'm not holding your hand,” I tell him, smiling a little.

“All right”—he nods—“but know that I would.”

“Aww, that's better,” says Abby.

Leah has been quiet, but she turns to Abby suddenly. “Simon already told you?”

“He, um, yes,” says Abby, cutting her eyes to me quickly.

“Oh,” says Leah.

And there's this silence.

“Well, I'm getting ice cream,” I say, moving toward the stairs, and Bieber collides with my legs in his eagerness to follow.

Hours later, the ice cream's been eaten and the Peach has dropped and my neighbors have finally used up their fireworks. I stare at the ceiling. We have a popcorn ceiling in our basement, and in the darkness, its texture makes shadowy pictures and faces. Everyone brought sleeping bags, but instead of using them, we set up a nest of blankets and sheets and pillows on top of the carpet.

Abby, next to me, is asleep, and I can hear Nick snoring a few feet away. Leah's eyes are closed, but she's breathing like she's awake. I guess it would be wrong of me to nudge her to find out. But then, all of a sudden, she rolls onto her side and sighs, and her eyes snap open.

“Hey,” I whisper, rolling my body toward her.

“Hey.”

“Are you mad?”

“About what?” she asks.

“About me telling Abby first.”

She's quiet for several seconds, and then: “I don't have a right to be mad.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This is your thing, Simon.”

“But you're entitled to your emotions,” I say. I mean, if there's one thing I've learned from having a psychologist for a mother . . .

“This isn't about me, though.” She rolls onto her back, folding one arm behind her head.

I don't know what to say to that. We're both quiet for a minute.

“Don't be mad,” I say finally.

“Did you think I would have some kind of shitty reaction, or that I wouldn't be okay with it?”

“Of course not. God, Leah, no. Not at all. You're like the most—I mean, you're the one who introduced me to Harry and
Draco. Yeah, that wasn't even a concern.”

“Okay, well.” Her other hand rests on her stomach over the blankets, and I watch it rise and fall with each breath. “So, who else did you tell?”

“My family,” I say. “I mean, Nora saw the Tumblr, so then I had to.”

“Right, but I mean, who else other than Abby?”

“No one,” I say. But then I close my eyes and think about Blue.

“Then how did it end up on the Tumblr?” she asks.

“Oh, right.” I grimace. “Long story,” I say, opening my eyes again.

She angles her head toward me, but doesn't reply. I can feel her watching me.

“I think I'm about to fall asleep,” I say.

But I'm not. And I don't. Not for hours and hours.