“But I’m seventeen. Don’t you think I’m supposed to be changing?”
“Of course you are. And I love it. It’s the most exciting time,” she says. She squeezes the end of my foot. “I’m just saying I wish I could still watch it all unfold.”
I don’t quite know what to say.
“You guys are just so grown-up now,” she continues, “all three of you. And you’re all so different. I mean, even when you were babies. Alice was fearless, and Nora was so self-contained, and then you were this complete ham. I mean, everyone kept saying you were your father’s son.”
My dad grins, and I’m honestly a little bit speechless. I have never, ever thought of myself that way.
“I actually remember holding you for the first time. Your little mouth. You latched right onto my breast—”
“Mom.”
“Oh, it was the most incredible moment. And your dad carried your sister in, and she kept saying, ‘No baby!’” My mom laughs. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I couldn’t believe we were the parents of a boy. I guess we had gotten so used to thinking of ourselves as girl parents, so it was like this whole new thing to discover.”
“Sorry I didn’t turn out to be much of a boy,” I say.
My dad spins the chair around to face me directly. “Are you kidding me?”
“Sort of.”
“You’re an awesome boy,” he says. “You’re like a ninja.”
“Well, thank you.”
“You’re freaking welcome,” he says.
There’s this distant slam of the front door shutting and dog nails skittering across the hardwoods—Nora’s home.
“Listen,” says my mom, poking my foot again. “I don’t want to cramp your style, but maybe you could just humor us? Keep us in the loop about stuff where you can, and we’ll try not to be weird and obsessed.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
“Good,” she says. They look at each other again. “Anyway, we have something for you.”
“Is it another awkward anecdote about me breast-feeding?”
“Oh my God, you were all about the boob,” my dad says. “I can’t believe you turned out to be gay.”
“Hilarious, Dad.”
“I know I am,” he says. Then he stands up and pulls something out of his pocket. “Here,” he says, tossing it.
My phone.
“You’re still grounded, but you get parole this weekend. And you can get your laptop back after the play tomorrow if you remember all your lines.”
“I don’t have any lines,” I say slowly.
“Then you don’t have anything to worry about, kid.”
But it’s sort of funny, because even without any lines to mess up, I’m nervous. Excited and fluttery and amped up and nervous. As soon as the dismissal bell rings, Ms. Albright takes Abby, Martin, Taylor, and a few of the others to do an extra vocal warm-up in the music room, but the rest of us just sit there on the floor of the auditorium eating pizza. Cal’s running around dealing with the tech people, and it’s kind of a relief to just be hanging out with a bunch of random senior girls at the moment. No Calvin Coolidge or Martin Van Buren or any other confusing presidential boys. No Leah looking at me with weapons for eyes.
The show begins at seven, but Ms. Albright wants us fully in costume by six. I put in my contact lenses and get changed early, and then I sit around in the girls’ dressing room waiting for Abby. It’s five thirty by the time she gets there, and she’s clearly in a weird mood. She barely says hello.
I pull my chair beside her and watch her apply her makeup.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
“A little.” She stares into the mirror, sort of dabbing a mascara wand against her eyelashes.
“Nick’s coming tonight, right?”
“Yup.”
These clipped, abrupt answers. She almost seems annoyed.
“When you’re done,” I say, “will you help me be ridiculously hot?”
“Eyeliner?” she asks. “Okay. One sec.”
Abby brings over her makeup bag and pulls her chair across from mine. At this point, we’re the only ones left in the dressing room. She uncaps the pencil and pulls my eyelid taut, and I try not to squirm.
“You’re so quiet,” I say, after a moment. “Is everything okay?”
She doesn’t answer. I feel the pencil push across the edge of my lashes. Scritch scritch scritch.
“Abby?” I ask. The pencil lifts away, and I open my eyes.
“Keep them closed,” she says. Then she starts my other eyelid. She’s quiet for a minute. And then she says, “What was this whole thing with Martin?”
“With Martin?” I ask, and my stomach twists.
“He told me everything,” she says, “but I’d sort of like to hear it from you.”
I feel frozen in place. Everything. But what does that even mean?
“The blackmail thing?”
“Yeah,” she says. “That. Okay, open them.” She starts tracing the bottom lid, and I fight the urge to blink. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because,” I say, “I don’t know. I didn’t tell anyone.”
“And you just went along with it?”
“I didn’t exactly have much of a choice.”
“But you knew I wasn’t attracted to him, right?” She caps the pencil again.
“Yeah,” I say, “I did.”
Abby leans back for a moment to examine me, before sighing and leaning forward again. “I’m going to even this out,” she says. And then she’s quiet.
“I’m sorry.” Suddenly, it feels so important for her to understand. “I didn’t know what to do. He was going to tell everyone. I really didn’t want to help him. I barely did help him.”
“Yeah.”
“Which, you know, that’s why he ended up even posting that thing on the Tumblr. Because I wasn’t helping him enough.”
“No, I get it,” she says.
She finishes with the pencil, and then smudges everything with her finger. A moment later, I feel her run some poufy makeup brush all over my cheeks and nose.
“I’m done,” she says, and I open my eyes. She looks at me and frowns. “It’s just, you know. I get that you were in a difficult position. But you don’t get to make the decisions about my love life. I choose who I date.” She shrugs. “I would think you would understand that.”
I hear myself inhale. “I’m so sorry.” I hang my head. I mean, I wish I could just disappear.
“Well, you know. It is what it is.” She shrugs. “I’m gonna head out there, okay?”
“Okay.” I nod.
“Maybe someone else could do your makeup tomorrow,” she says.
The play goes fine. I mean, it’s better than fine. Taylor is perfectly earnest, and Martin is perfectly crotchety, and Abby is so lively and funny that it’s almost like our conversation in the dressing room never happened. But after it’s over, she disappears without saying good-bye, and Nick’s gone by the time I get out of costume. And I have no idea if Leah was here at all.
So, yeah. The play’s great. I’m the one who’s miserable.
I meet my parents and Nora in the atrium, and my dad’s carrying this giant bouquet of flowers that looks like something out of Dr. Seuss. Because even without a speaking part, I’m apparently God’s gift to theater. And all the way home, they hum the songs and talk about Taylor’s amazing voice and ask me if I’m friends with the hilarious kid with the beard. A.k.a. Martin. God, what a question.
I reunite with my laptop as soon as we get home. To be honest, I’m more confused than ever.
I guess it’s not a huge surprise that Leah’s pissed about last Friday. I think she’s going a little overboard with it, but I get it. I probably had it coming. But Abby?
It honestly hit me out of nowhere. It’s weird, because of all the things I felt guilty about, it never occurred to me to feel guilty about Abby. But I’m a fucking idiot. Because who you like can’t be forced or persuaded or manipulated.
If anyone knows that, it’s me.
I’m a shitty friend. Worse than a shitty friend, because I should be begging for Abby’s forgiveness right now, and I’m not. I’m too busy wondering what exactly Martin told her. Because it doesn’t sound like he mentioned anything other than the blackmail.
Which could mean he doesn’t want to admit that he’s Blue. Or it could mean he’s not Blue at all. And the thought of Blue being someone other than Martin gives me this breathless, hopeful feeling.
Actually hopeful, despite the mess I’ve made. Despite the drama. Despite everything. Because even with all the shit that’s gone down this week, I still care about Blue.
The way I feel about him is like a heartbeat—soft and persistent, underlying everything.
I log into my Jacques email, and when I do, something clicks. And it isn’t Simon logic. It’s objective, indisputable truth:
Every email Blue ever sent me is time-stamped.
So many of the emails were sent right after school. So many were sent when I was in rehearsal. Which means Martin was also in rehearsal, with no time to write and no wireless internet.
Blue isn’t Martin. He’s not Cal. He’s just someone.
So, I go all the way back to the beginning, back to August, and I read through everything. His subject lines. Every line of every email.
I have no idea who he is. No freaking clue.
But I think I’m falling for him again.
31
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
DATE: Jan 25 at 9:27 AM
SUBJECT: Us.
Blue,
I’ve been writing and deleting and rewriting this email all weekend, and I still can’t get it right. But I’m going to do this. So here we go.
I know I haven’t written in a while. It’s been a weird couple of weeks.
So, first I want to say this: I know who you are.
I mean, I still don’t know your name, or what you look like, or all the other stuff. But you have to understand that I really do know you. I know that you’re smart and careful and weird and funny. And you notice things and listen to things, but not in a nosy way. In a real way. You overthink things and remember details and you always, always say the right thing.
And I think I like that we got to know each other from the inside out.
So, it occurred to me that I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about you and rereading your emails and trying to make you laugh. But I’ve been spending very little time spelling things out for you and taking chances and putting my heart on the line.
Obviously, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, but what I’m trying to say is that I like you. I more than like you. When I flirt with you, it’s not a joke, and when I say I want to know you, it’s not just because I’m curious. I’m not going to pretend I know how this ends, and I don’t have a freaking clue if it’s possible to fall in love over email. But I would really like to meet you, Blue. I want to try this. And I can’t imagine a scenario where I won’t want to kiss your face off as soon as I see you.
Just wanted to make that perfectly clear.
So, what I’m trying to say is that there’s an extremely badass carnival in the parking lot of Perimeter Mall today, and it’s apparently open until nine.
For what it’s worth, I’ll be there at six thirty. And I hope I see you.
Love,
Simon
32
I CLICK SEND AND TRY not to think about it, but I’m restless and punchy and jittery all the way to school. And cranking Sufjan Stevens at top volume doesn’t solve anything, which is probably why people don’t crank Sufjan Stevens. My stomach is apparently on a spin cycle.
First I put my costume on backward, and then I spend ten minutes looking for my contact lenses before remembering I’m wearing them. I’ve achieved Martin levels of twitchiness—Brianna has a ridiculous time putting on my eyeliner. And all through the bustle and pep talks and swelling of the overture, my mind is stuck on Blue Blue Blue.
I don’t know how I make it through the performance. I honestly don’t remember half of it.
Afterward, there’s this big goopy scene onstage of people hugging and thanking the audience and thanking the crew and thanking the orchestra. All the seniors get roses, and Cal gets a bouquet of them, and Ms. Albright’s bouquet is off the freaking charts. My dad calls it the Sunday Matinee Tearfest, which quickly inspired the Sunday Afternoon Unavoidable Golf Conflict. I don’t even blame him.
But then I think about Ms. Albright making it her life’s mission to get those in-tha-butt guys suspended. And how pissed off and determined she looked, slapping the handbook down on that chair backstage.
I wish I had brought her another bouquet or a card or a freaking tiara. I don’t know. Something just from me.
Then we have to get dressed again. And we have to strike the set. Everything takes forever. I never wear a watch, but I pull my phone out again and again and again to check the time. 5:24. 5:31. 5:40. Every part of me twists and flips and screams with anticipation.
At six, I leave. I just walk out the door. And it’s so warm outside. I mean, it’s warm for January. I want to be less excited, because who the hell knows what Blue is thinking, and who the hell knows what I’m setting myself up for. But I can’t help it. I just have a good feeling.
I keep thinking about what my dad said. You’re pretty brave, kid.
Maybe I am.
The carnival is basically our cast party, and everyone’s driving straight from school to the mall. Except for me. I make a left at the light and drive home. Because I don’t care if it’s January. I want the T-shirt.
It’s under my pillow, soft and white and neatly folded, with its wall of red and black swirls, and a picture of Elliott standing in front. Black and white, except for his hand. I pull it on quickly and grab a cardigan to throw over it. At this point, I have to haul ass to the mall if I’m going to make it by six thirty.
Except there’s something stiff and pokey between my shoulder blades, in that exact spot you can never quite scratch. I slide my arm underneath the hem and up through the bottom. A piece of paper is taped to the fabric inside. I catch it and tug it out.
It’s another note on blue-green construction paper, and it starts with a postscript. My fingers tremble as I read it.
P.S. I love the way you smile like you don’t realize you’re doing it. I love your perpetual bed head. I love the way you hold eye contact a moment longer than you need to. And I love your moon-gray eyes. So if you think I’m not attracted to you, Simon, you’re crazy.
And underneath that, he’s written his phone number.
There’s a tingling feeling that radiates outward from a point below my stomach—wrenching and wonderful and almost unbearable. I’ve never been so aware of my heartbeat. Blue and his vertical handwriting and the word “love” repeated over and over again.
Not to mention the fact that I could call him right this second and know who he is.
But I think I won’t call. Not yet. Because, for all I know, he’s waiting for me. For real. In person. Which means I have to get to the mall.
It’s almost seven by the time I get there, and I’m kicking myself for being so late. It’s already dark, but the carnival is noisy and lit and alive. I love these pop-up carnivals. I love that a parking lot in January can be transformed into summer at Coney Island. I see Cal and Brianna and a couple of the seniors standing in line to get tickets, so I make my way toward them.
I’m worried that it’s too dark. And I’m worried, of course, that Blue has come and gone. But it’s impossible to know when I don’t know who I’m looking for.
We all buy tons of tickets, and then we ride everything. There’s a Ferris wheel and a carousel and bumper cars and flying swings. We fold our legs up into the baby train and ride that, too. And then we all get hot chocolate, and drink it sitting on the curb near the concession stand.
I stare at everyone walkin
g, and every time someone looks down and makes eye contact, my heart goes haywire.
I spot Abby and Nick sitting in front of the games, holding hands and eating popcorn. Nick has a holy buttload of stuffed animals lined up around his feet.
“There’s no way he won all of these for you,” I say to Abby. I feel nervous as I walk up to her. I’m not sure we’re on speaking terms.
But she smiles up at me. “Not even. I won these for him.”
“It’s that crane game,” says Nick. “She’s a total boss. I think she’s cheating.” He nudges her sideways.
“Keep thinking that,” says Abby.
I laugh, feeling shy.
“Sit with us,” she says.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” She scoots closer to Nick to make room. Then she leans her head against my shoulder for a moment and whispers, “I’m sorry, Simon.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
“Eh, I’ve thought about it, and you definitely get a pass when you’re being blackmailed.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yup,” she says. “And because I can’t stay mad when I’m deliriously happy.”
I can’t see Nick’s face, but he taps the toe of his sneaker against her ballet flat. And they seem to shift closer to each other.
“You guys are going to be a really gross couple, aren’t you?” I say.
“Probably,” says Nick.
Abby looks at me and says, “So, is that the shirt?”
“What?” I ask, blushing.
“The shirt that Drunky McDrunkbutt made me drive all the way across town for.”
“Oh,” I say. “Yeah.”
“I’m guessing there’s a story behind it.”
I shrug.
“Does it have to do with the guy you’re looking for?” she asks. “This is about a guy, right?”
I almost choke. “The guy I’m looking for?”
“Simon,” she says, putting her hand on my arm. “You’re obviously looking for someone. Your eyes are everywhere.”
Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda Page 17
