Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda (8 page)

Not all the time. Just sometimes.

But yeah. I feel irrelevant. I hate that.

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: Dec 2 at 5:02 PM

SUBJECT: I should be . . .

. . . writing an essay for English class. I'd rather write to you. I'm in my room, and I have a window right next to my desk. It's so sunny out, and it looks like it should be really warm outside. I feel like I'm dreaming.

So, Jacques, I have to confess that I've been curious about your email address for a long time. I finally broke down and consulted the Mighty Googler, and now I see that it's a lyric from an Elliott Smith song. I've actually
heard of him, but I had never heard his music, so I downloaded “Waltz #2.” I hope that doesn't freak you out. I really like it. It surprised me, because it's a really sad song, and that's not what I would expect coming from you. But I've listened to it a few times now, and the funny thing is, it really does remind me of you somehow. It's not the lyrics or even the overall mood of the song. It's something intangible. I think I can imagine you lying on a carpet somewhere listening to it, eating Oreos, and maybe writing in a journal.

I also have to confess that I've been looking extra carefully at people's T-shirts at school to see if someone might be wearing an Elliott Smith shirt. I know it's a long shot. I also know it's really unfair, because I shouldn't be trying to figure out your identity when I don't give you any good clues about my own.

Here's something. My dad's driving in from Savannah this weekend, and we're doing the traditional Hotel Hanukkah. It will be just him and me, and I'm sure we'll hit all the awkward highlights. We'll do the non-lighting of the menorah (because we won't want to set off the smoke detectors). And then I'll give him something underwhelming like Aurora coffee and a bunch of my English essays (he's an English teacher, so he likes getting those). And then he'll have me open eight presents in a row, which just drives home the fact
that I won't see him again until New Year's.

And the thing is, I'm actually considering doubling down on the awkward factor and turning this mess into a coming out thing. Maybe I should capitalize that: Coming Out Thing. Am I crazy?

—Blue

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: Dec 2 at 9:13 PM

SUBJECT: Re: I should be . . .

Blue,

Okay, first things first—how did I not know you were Jewish? I guess this is you giving me a clue, right? Should I be looking in the halls for guys in yarmulkes? Yes, I looked up how to spell that. And your people are very creative, phonetically speaking. Anyway, I hope the HH goes well, and by the way, Aurora coffee is totally not underwhelming. In fact, I'll probably steal your idea, because dads freaking love coffee. And my dad will especially go for it, because of the Little Five Points factor. My dad has this hilarious idea that he's a hipster.

So, most importantly, Blue: the Coming Out Thing. Wow. I mean, you're not crazy. I think you're awesome.
Are you worried about how he'll react? And are you going to tell your mom, too?

Okay, I am also very impressed that you Googled your way to Elliott Smith, who was quite possibly the greatest songwriter since Lennon and McCartney. And then everything you said about the song reminding you of me is just so flattering and amazing that I don't even know what to say. I'm speechless, Blue.

I'll say this: you are dead right about the Oreos and the carpet, but wrong about the journal. The closest thing I've ever had to a journal is probably you.

Now you should go download “Oh Well, Okay” and “Between the Bars.” I'm just saying.

So, I hate to say it, but it's probably a waste of your time to try to figure out who I am by looking at the bands on people's T-shirts. I almost never wear band T-shirts, even though I kind of wish I did. I think, for me, listening to music is a very solitary thing. Or maybe that's just something people say when they're too lame to go to live shows. Either way, I am basically glued to my iPod, but I haven't really seen anyone live, and then I end up feeling like wearing a band's shirt without going to their show would be kind of like cheating. Does that make sense? For some reason, the whole thought of ordering some band's shirt online makes me feel weirdly embarrassed. Like maybe the musician wouldn't respect it. I don't know.

Anyway, all things considered, I agree that this was a far more satisfying use of my time than writing English essays. You are very distracting.

—Jacques

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: Dec 3 at 5:20 PM

SUBJECT: Re: I should be . . .

Jacques,

About you not knowing I was Jewish—I know I've never mentioned it. I'm not even Jewish, technically, because Judaism is matrilineal, and my mom's Episcopalian. Anyway, I still haven't decided if I'm really going to go through with it. It wasn't something I thought I'd be ready to do anytime soon. I don't know why, but lately, I've just felt this urge to put it out there. Maybe I just want to get it over with. What about you? Have you thought about the Coming Out Thing?

It gets complicated when you bring religion into the equation. Technically, Jews and Episcopalians are supposed to be gay-friendly, but it's hard to really know how that applies to your own parents. Like, you read about these gay kids with really churchy Catholic parents, and
the parents end up doing PFLAG and Pride Parades and everything. And then you hear about parents who are totally fine with homosexuality, but can't handle it when their own kid comes out. You just never know.

I think instead of downloading the Elliott Smith songs you mentioned, I'll just drop a hint to my dad that I want a couple of his albums for Hotel Hanukkah. I guarantee you that he has about six of my presents picked out, and is desperate for some kind of hint about what else he should be getting me.

So, I know you and I can't really buy each other gifts in real life, but just know that if I could, I would order you all kinds of band T-shirts online. Even if it meant losing the respect of musicians everywhere (because I'm sure that's how it works, Jacques). Or we could just go to a live show. I mean, I don't actually know anything about music, but I'm guessing it would be fun if it was with you. Maybe one day.

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

—Blue

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.