Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda Page 4
Anyway, it really makes you worry about all the hype surrounding sex.
Garrett leaves Nick’s drink with us and joins the girls at the piano. I think they’re freshmen. Their costumes are surprisingly clever—one of them is wearing a black silk nightgown with a picture of Freud’s face taped to the front. A Freudian slip. Nick will like that. But they’re Nora’s age. I can’t believe they’re drinking. Garrett quickly pulls down the lid over the piano keys, and the fact that he’s worried about the piano makes me like him better.
“There you are,” says Abby. Nick is back, holding on to this acoustic guitar like a lifeline. He settles onto the floor to tune it, his back against the side of the couch. A couple of people glance over at him without breaking their conversations. It’s weird, because pretty much everyone looks familiar, but it’s all soccer people and other miscellaneous jocks. Which is fine, obviously. It’s just that I don’t really know them. It’s pretty clear that I won’t be seeing Cal Price in this crowd, and I don’t know where the heck Martin is.
I sit, and Leah slides down the wall next to me, leaning against it with her legs tucked awkwardly to the side. She’s wearing a skirt with her costume, and I can tell she’s trying to keep her thighs from showing. Which is so ridiculous and so Leah. I scoot close to her, and she smiles a little bit without looking at me. Abby settles in cross-legged facing us, and it’s really kind of nice. We basically have our own corner of the room.
I feel kind of happy and hazy now, and beer doesn’t taste so bad after the first few sips. Garrett or someone must have turned the stereo off, and a couple of people have come over to listen to Nick. I don’t know if I mentioned this, but Nick has the most raspy-perfect singing voice in the world. Of course, he has this weird, dad-like obsession with classic rock, but I guess that’s not always a bad thing. Because right now he’s singing Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here,” and I’m thinking about Blue. And I’m thinking about Cal Price.
Here’s the thing. I have this feeling in my gut that Blue is Cal Price. I just do. I think it’s the eyes. He has ocean eyes: just waves and waves of blue-green. And sometimes when I look at Cal, I feel like we understand each other, and he gets it, and it’s perfect and unspoken.
“Simon, how much did you drink?” asks Leah. I’m twisting the ends of her hair. Leah’s hair is so pretty, and it smells exactly like French toast. Except that’s Abby. Leah smells like almonds.
“One beer.” One most excellent, most delicious beer.
“One beer. I can’t even begin to express how ridiculous you are.” But she’s almost smiling.
“Leah, did you know you have a really Irish face?”
She looks at me. “What?”
“You guys know what I mean. Like an Irish face. Are you Irish?”
“Um, not as far as I know.”
Abby laughs.
“My ancestors are Scottish,” someone says. I look up, and it’s Martin Addison wearing bunny ears.
“Yeah, exactly,” I say as Martin sits beside Abby, close but not too close. “Okay, and it’s so weird, right, because we have all these ancestors from all over the world, and here we are in Garrett’s living room, and Martin’s ancestors are from Scotland, and I’m sorry, but Leah’s are totally from Ireland.”
“If you say so.”
“And Nick’s are from Israel.”
“Israel?” says Nick, fingers still sliding all over the frets of the guitar. “They’re from Russia.”
So I guess you learn something new every day, because I really thought Jewish people came from Israel.
“Okay, well, I’m English and German, and Abby’s, you know . . .” Oh God, I don’t know anything about Africa, and I don’t know if that makes me racist.
“West African. I think.”
“Exactly. I mean, it’s just the randomness of it. How did we all end up here?”
“Slavery, in my case,” Abby says.
And fucking fuck. I need to shut up. I needed to shut up about five minutes ago.
The stereo kicks back in again.
“Hey, I think I’m going to grab a drink,” Martin says, jumping up again in that spastic Martin way. “Can I get you all anything?”
“Thanks, but I’m driving,” says Leah. But she wouldn’t be drinking even if she wasn’t driving. I know that. Because there’s this invisible line, and on one side are people like Garrett and Abby and Nick and every musician ever. People who go to parties and drink and don’t get wasted off of one beer. People who have had sex and don’t think it’s a huge deal.
On the other side of the line are people like Leah and me.
But the one thing that makes it weirdly better is knowing that Blue is one of us. I’m reading a little between the lines here, but I actually don’t think Blue has ever kissed anyone. It’s funny—I don’t even know if it counts that I have.
I’ve never kissed a guy. That’s something I think about all the time.
“Spier?” asks Martin.
“Sorry, what?”
“Anything to drink?”
“Oh, thanks. I’m good.” Leah makes this little noise like a snort.
“I’m done, too. Thanks, though.” Abby kicks her foot against my foot. “At home, I’d just take the Metro and sneak in through our back door, so it didn’t matter.” When Abby says “home,” she’s still talking about DC. “But I figure Simon’s parents don’t need to see me drunk.”
“I don’t think they would care.”
Abby pushes her bangs to the side and looks up at me. “I think you’d be surprised.”
“They let my sister pierce her ear a million times.”
“Wow. Nora’s such a badass,” says Leah.
“Okay, Nora’s the opposite of a badass.” I shake my head. “I am such a badder ass than Nora.”
“And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” says Martin, settling back in beside Abby with a beer in hand.
Abby stretches and pulls herself up, resting her hand on my hood. “Come on. People are dancing.”
“Good for people,” says Nick.
“We are dancing.” Abby extends both arms toward him.
“Noooooo.” But he puts the guitar down, and lets her pull him up.
“Um, but have you even seen my sweet moves?” asks Martin.
“Let’s see them.”
He does this weird, rhythmic pantomime of swimming, followed by this side-to-side shoulder lurch/butt scoot combo.
“Yeah, you’re awesome,” Abby says. “Come on.” She tugs his hands, and he springs up, beaming. Then she guides her little harem to this carpeted area near the stereo, where people are drinking and grinding to Kanye. Except Abby kind of goes into her own world when she dances, so Nick and Martin end up bobbing self-consciously and pointedly not looking at each other.
“Oh my God,” says Leah. “It’s happening. We’re finally witnessing something more painful than Nick’s bar mitzvah.”
“Awkwardness achievement unlocked.”
“Should we be filming this?”
“Just savor it.” I hook my arm around her shoulders, pulling her in closer. And Leah’s weird about hugs sometimes, but today she buries her face in my shoulder and murmurs something into the fabric of my robes.
“What?” I nudge her.
But she just shakes her head and sighs.
Leah drops us all off at Nick’s at midnight, and from there, it’s a seven-minute walk to my house. The indoor lights are off everywhere, but the neighborhood is still lit up orange. There are a few smashed pumpkins and lots of toilet paper tangled through branches. Shady Creek may be a magical fairyland of a suburb most of the time, but when the candy runs out on Halloween, the criminal underbelly emerges. At least in my neighborhood.
It’s chilly and unnaturally quiet—if Abby weren’t with me, I would have to drown out the silence with music. It feels like we’re the last survivors of a zombie apocalypse. Wonder Woman and a gay dementor. It doesn’t bode well for the survival of the species
.
We turn at the end of Nick’s street. I could do this walk with my eyes closed.
“All right, I have something to ask you,” Abby says.
“Oh yeah?”
“So, Martin was talking to me when you were in the bathroom.”
I feel something freeze up inside of me.
“Okay,” I say.
“Yeah, and this is—maybe I’m reading this wrong, but he was talking about homecoming, and he brought it up like three times.”
“Did he ask you to the dance?”
“No. It was like—I guess it seemed like he was maybe trying to?”
Martin freaking Addison. He’s like the opposite of suave.
But holy fuck, I’m so relieved he didn’t tell her.
“I’m guessing he didn’t get anywhere with that.”
Abby bites her lip and smiles. “He’s a really nice guy.”
“Yup.”
“But I’m already going with Ty Allen. He asked me two weeks ago.”
“Really? How did I not know that?”
“Sorry—was I supposed to announce it on the Tumblr?” She grins. “Anyway, I don’t know if you might be able to mention that to Martin. You’re friends with him, right? I’d just rather not deal with him asking me, if I can avoid it.”
“Um. I’ll see what I can do.”
“What about you? Are you still boycotting?” Abby asks.
“Of course.” Leah, Nick, and I are of the mind that homecoming is just achingly lame, and we skip it every year.
“You could ask Leah,” Abby says. She looks at me sidelong, with a weird, probing expression.
I feel a storm of laughter brewing. “You think I like Leah.”
“I don’t know,” she says, smiling and shrugging. “You looked so sweet together tonight.”
“Me and Leah?” I ask. But I’m gay. GAY. Gaaaaaaaayyyyy. God, I should really just tell her. I can kind of picture her reaction. Eyes widening. Mouth falling open.
Yeah. Maybe not tonight.
“Hey,” I say, not quite looking at her. “Do you think you would ever be into Martin?”
“Martin Addison? Um. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing. I don’t know. He’s a decent guy. I guess.” My voice sounds thin and high. Like Voldemort. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
“Aww. It’s cute that you guys are friends.”
I don’t even know what to say to that.
My mom is waiting for us in the kitchen when we walk in, and it’s time to brace myself. The thing about my mom is she’s a child psychologist. And it shows.
“So, tell me about the party, guys!”
Here we go. It was awesome, Mom. Good thing Garrett had so much booze. I mean, really.
Abby is better at this than I am—she launches into a really detailed description of everyone’s costumes, while my mom brings over this epic plate of snacks from the counter. My parents are usually in bed by ten, and I can tell my mom is exhausted. But I knew she’d be awake when we got home. She seriously lives for opportunities to be a hey guys I’m cool kind of mom.
“And Nick played guitar,” Abby says.
“Nick’s very talented,” says my mom.
“Oh, I know,” Abby replies. “Girls were like swooning over him.”
“That’s why I keep telling Simon to learn guitar. His sister used to play.”
“I’m going to bed,” I say. “Abby, are you good?” My mom has Abby staying in Alice’s room, which is hilarious, considering Nick has been spending the night on my bedroom floor for about ten years.
It isn’t until I’m in my room that I can finally relax. Bieber is already passed out at the foot of my bed in a nest of jeans and hoodies. My dementor robes end up in a heap on the floor. I did aim for the hamper. I’m kind of comically unathletic.
I lie on top of my bed without getting in it. I hate messing up the sheets before I absolutely have to. I know this is weird, but I make my bed every single day, even though the rest of my room is a hellscape of paper and laundry and books and clutter. Sometimes I feel like my bed is a lifeboat.
I put in my earbuds. Nora and I share a wall, so I’m not supposed to listen to anything through the speakers after she goes to bed.
I need something familiar. Elliott Smith.
I’m wide awake and still kind of electrified from the party. I think it was good. I don’t have a lot to compare it to. It’s a little bit crazy to think that I had a beer. I know it’s astonishingly lame to even think that about a single beer. Garrett and all the soccer guys probably think it’s crazy to stop at one. But they’re not me.
I don’t think I’ll tell my parents about it. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t get in trouble if I did. I don’t know. I need to spend some time in my head with this new Simon. My parents have a way of ruining things like this. They get so curious. It’s like they have this idea of me, and whenever I step outside of that, it blows their minds. There’s something so embarrassing about that in a way I can’t even describe.
I mean, telling my parents was easily the weirdest, most horrible thing about having a girlfriend. All three times. It was honestly worse than any of the breakups. I’ll never forget the day I told them about my eighth-grade girlfriend. Rachel Thomas. Oh my God. First, they wanted to see her yearbook picture. My dad actually brought the yearbook into the kitchen where the light is better, and he was perfectly silent for a full minute. And then:
“That girl has some eyebrows.”
I mean, I hadn’t noticed until he said it, but after that, it was kind of all I could think about.
My mom was the one who got obsessed with the idea that I had a girlfriend even though I had never had one before. I don’t know why that came as such a freaking surprise to her, since I’m pretty sure most people start out never having had one. But yeah. And she wanted to know everything: how Rachel and I got together, and what my feelings were, and whether we needed her to drive us anywhere. She was just so bizarrely interested in all of it. It didn’t help that my sisters never talk about boys or dating, so it was like a huge spotlight on me.
Honestly, the weirdest part is how they made it feel like this big coming out moment. Which can’t be normal. As far as I know, coming out isn’t something that straight kids generally worry about.
That’s the thing people wouldn’t understand. This coming out thing. It’s not even about me being gay, because I know deep down that my family would be fine with it. We’re not religious. My parents are Democrats. My dad likes to joke around, and it would definitely be awkward, but I guess I’m lucky. I know they’re not going to disown me. And I’m sure some people in school would give me hell, but my friends would be fine. Leah loves gay guys, so she’d probably be freaking thrilled.
But I’m tired of coming out. All I ever do is come out. I try not to change, but I keep changing, in all these tiny ways. I get a girlfriend. I have a beer. And every freaking time, I have to reintroduce myself to the universe all over again.
6
FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com
TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
DATE: Nov 1 at 11:12 AM
SUBJECT: Re: hollow wieners
Jacques,
I hope your Halloween was excellent, and that your simplicity and badassery hit the mark. Things were really quiet around here. We only had about six trick-or-treaters. Of course, that means I am contractually obligated to eat the leftover Reese’s cups.
I can’t believe it’s already almost homecoming. I’m excited about it. Make no mistake, football is still my least favorite sport, but I actually really like going to the homecoming game. I guess it’s something about the lights and the drumbeats and the scent of the air. Fall air always smells like possibility. Or maybe I just like ogling the cheerleaders. You know me.
Are you doing anything interesting this weekend? We’re supposed to have suck nice weather. Excuse me, dick nice weather. ☺
—Blue
FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com
DATE: Nov 1 at 5:30 PM
SUBJECT: Reese’s are better than sex
Very funny, Blue. VERY FUNNY.
Anyway, I’m sorry you got stuck at home last night for only six trick-or-treaters. What a waste. Next year, couldn’t you just stick the bowl on the porch with a note telling the kids to take two? Granted, the kids in my neighborhood would have taken candy by the fistful while cackling with villainous laughter, and they probably would have peed on the note for good measure. But maybe the kids in your neighborhood are more civilized.
But seriously, leftover Reese’s? Is it possible to send chocolate over email these days? PLEASE SAY IT IS.
My Halloween wasn’t bad. I won’t say too much about it, but I ended up going to this guy’s party. I don’t think it was really my scene, but it was definitely interesting. I guess it was nice to step out of my comfort zone (wait—I didn’t just ruin my chance of convincing you I’m a hardcore party ninja, right?).
So, I keep thinking about the idea of secret identities. Do you ever feel locked into yourself? I’m not sure if I’m making sense here. I guess what I mean is that sometimes it seems like everyone knows who I am except me.
Okay, I’m glad you mentioned homecoming, because I totally forgot that Spirit Week is this week. Monday is Decades Day, right? I guess I should check online so I can avoid making an ass of myself. Honestly, I can’t believe they schedule Spirit Week right after Halloween. Creekwood really blows its load on costume days all at once. How do you think you’ll dress up for Monday? I know you’re not going to answer that.
And I totally figured you’d be ogling the cheerleaders on Friday, because you’re all about the ladies. Me too, Blue. Me too.
—Jacques
FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com
TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
DATE: Nov 2 at 1:43 PM
SUBJECT: Re: Reese’s are better than sex
Reese’s are better than sex? Admittedly, I wouldn’t know, but I have to hope you’re wrong about that one. Maybe you should stop having heterosexual sex, Jacques. I’m just saying.