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
21
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.
“Di
d 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.
22
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
DATE: Jan 1 at 1:19 PM
SUBJECT: Re: auld lang syne
Jacques,
Poor zombie. Hope you’re already sleeping again as I type this. The good news is that there are still four days left of vacation, which should clearly be devoted exclusively to sleeping and writing to me.
I missed you last night. The party thing was fine. It was at my stepmother’s grandmother’s house, and she’s about ninety years old, so we were back home in front of the TV by nine. Oh, and Mr. Sexual Awakening was there. His wife is extremely pregnant. She and my stepmom were comparing ultrasound photos of their fetuses at dinner. Our Little Fetus looks like your basic cute little alien with a big head and tiny limbs. You can actually see his or her nose, so that was kind of cool. But, unfortunately, Mr. Sexual Awakening’s wife had a 3D ultrasound picture. All I can say, Jacques, is that there are some things you can’t un-see.
Any plans until school starts again?
Love,
Blue
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
DATE: Jan 1 at 5:31 PM
SUBJECT: Re: auld lang syne
Zombie is right. I’m a freaking mess. We just got back from Target, and I actually fell asleep in the car on the way home. Which, thankfully, my mom was the one driving. But you have to understand that Target is like five minutes away from my house. How weird is that? So now I feel kind of strange and groggy and disoriented, and I think my parents are going to want to do dinner tonight As a Family.
Ugh.
Sorry to hear about the trauma of the 3D ultrasound, from which you so kindly tried to spare me the details. Unfortunately, I’m a freaking idiot with very little self-control when it comes to Google Images. So now it’s forever seared into my memory as well. Oh, the miracle of life. You may also want to look up “reborn dolls.” Seriously, go do it.
Nothing much going on here this weekend, other than the fact that every freaking thing in the universe reminds me of you. Target is full of you. Did you know they make these big massive Sharpies called Super Sharpies? And then there’s superglue, obviously. It’s like an office supply Justice League. I seriously came this close to buying them, just so I could text you pictures of their crime-fighting selves. I would have made capes for them and everything. Except SOMEONE still doesn’t want to exchange numbers.
Love,
Jacques
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
DATE: Jan 2 at 10:13 AM
SUBJECT: Reborn
I think you’ve rendered me speechless. I just read the Wikipedia article, and I’m looking through pictures now. I kind of can’t stop looking at them. You might have found the creepiest thing on the entire internet, Jacques.
And I seriously laughed out loud at your crime-fighting office supply Justice League. I wish I could have seen them. But about the texting thing—all I can say is that I’m really sorry. The idea of exchanging phone numbers just terrifies me. It does. It’s just the idea that you could call me and hear my voice mail message and KNOW. I don’t know what to say, Jacques. I’m just not ready for you to know who I am. I know it’s stupid, and honestly, at this point, I spend about half my waking hours imagining us meeting in person for the first time. But I can’t think of a way for that to happen without everything changing. I think I’m scared to lose you.
Does that make sense? Don’t hate me.
Love,
Blue
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
DATE: Jan 2 at 12:25 PM
SUBJECT: Re: Reborn
I guess I’m trying to understand where you’re coming from with the texting thing. You have to trust me! Yes, I’m nosy, but I’m not going to call you if you’re not comfortable with it. I don’t mean for this to be a big deal. And I don’t want to stop emailing. I just also want to be able to text you like a normal person.
And YES, I want to meet in person. And obviously that would change things—but I think I’m kind of ready for them to change. So maybe this is a big deal. I don’t know. I want to know your friends’ names and what you do after school and all the things you haven’t been telling me. I want to know what your voice sounds like.
Not until you’re ready, though. And I could never hate you. You’re not going to lose me. Just think about it. Okay?
Love,
&n
bsp; Jacques
23
IT’S THE FIRST DAY BACK at school, and I honestly consider spending the entire day in the parking lot. I can’t explain it. I thought I would be fine. But now that I’m here, I can’t seem to get out of the car. I feel a little sick just thinking about it.
Nora says, “I really don’t think anyone is going to remember.”
I shrug.
“It was on there for, what, three days? And that was over a week ago.”
“Four days,” I say.
“I don’t even think people really read the Tumblr.”
We walk in through the atrium together just as the first bell is ringing. People are stampeding and pushing down the stairs. No one seems to pay any particular attention to me—and for all of Nora’s reassurances, I can see that she’s as relieved as I am. I move with the crowd, working my way toward my locker, and I think I’m finally starting to relax. A couple of people wave at me like normal. Garrett from my lunch table nods and says, “What’s up, Spier?”
I toss my backpack into my locker and pull out my books for English and French. No one has slid any homophobic notes into the slats of my locker, which is good. No one’s etched the word “fag” into my locker yet either, which is even better. I’m almost ready to believe that things have gotten a little better at Creekwood. Or that no one saw Martin’s Tumblr post after all.
Martin. God, I don’t even want to think about having to see his stupid evil face. And of course he’s in my first fucking period.
I guess there’s still this quiet pulse of dread when I think about seeing Martin again.
I’m trying to just breathe.
As I’m walking into the language arts wing, this football guy I hardly recognize almost runs directly into me coming down the stairs. I step back to steady myself, but he puts his hand on my shoulder and looks me right in the eye.
“Why, hello there,” he says.
“Hi . . .”
Then he grabs me by the cheeks and pulls my face in like he’s going to kiss me. “Mwah!” He grins, and his face is so close I can feel the heat of his breath. And all around me, people laugh like fucking Elmo.
I yank my body away from him, cheeks burning. “Where are you going, Spier?” someone says. “McGregor wants a turn.” And everyone starts laughing again. I mean, I don’t even know these people. I don’t know why in God’s name this is funny to them.
Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda Page 12
