Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

15

I GUESS WE’RE MAKING THIS our thing. Reading Dickens at the WaHo. Abby doesn’t have a car tonight, so she comes home with me after school on Friday and brings her overnight bag. I know it must suck for Abby living so far away, but I kind of love our sleepovers.

Predictably, we arrive before Martin. It’s more crowded tonight. We get a table, but it’s near the entrance, so it already feels like we’re under a spotlight. Abby sits down across from me and immediately gets to work building this fussy little house out of jam and sugar pouches.

Martin bursts in, and within sixty seconds, he changes his drink order twice, burps, and manages to level Abby’s sugar house with an overly enthusiastic finger poke. “Arg. Sorry. Sorry,” he says.

Abby shoots me a quick smile.

“And I forgot my script. Crap.”

He’s on a freaking roll tonight.

“You can look on with me,” says Abby, scooting closer to him. The look on Martin’s face. I almost start laughing.

We dive straight into Act Two, and it’s a little bit less of a disaster than it was a week ago. At least I don’t have to prompt every single line this time. My mind starts to wander.

I’m thinking about Blue—always Blue—because really, my mind only wanders in one direction. I got another email from him this morning. Lately, we’ve been emailing almost every day, and it’s a little crazy how much he’s been on my mind. I almost fucked up a chem lab today because I was emailing Blue in my head and I kind of forgot I was pouring nitric acid.

It’s weird, because Blue’s emails used to be this extra thing that was separate from my actual life. But now I think maybe the emails are my life. Everything else sort of feels like I’m slogging through a dream.

“Oh my gosh, Marty. No,” says Abby, “just no.”

Because, suddenly, Martin is kneeling in the booth, head flung back, clutching his chest, and singing. He’s just launched into this big awesome number from the second act of the play. I mean, it’s his full-on Fagin voice—low and trembly and vaguely British. And he’s completely swept away in the moment.

People are gaping at us. And I’m speechless. Abby and I just stare at each other in the most stunned holy awkward silence that’s ever unfolded.

He sings the entire song. I guess he’s been practicing. And then—I’m not even kidding. He slides back down into his seat like nothing happened and starts pouring syrup on his waffle.

“I don’t even know what to say to you,” says Abby. And then she sighs. And then she hugs him.

Honest to God, he’s like a freaking anime character. I can almost see hearts popping out of his eyes. He catches my eye, and his big banana mouth is just beaming. I can’t help but grin back at him.

Maybe he’s my blackmailer. Maybe he’s also becoming my friend. Who the hell knows if that’s even allowed.

Or maybe it’s just that I’m feeling weirdly amped up and excited. I don’t know how to explain it. Everything is funny. Martin is funny. Martin singing at Waffle House is entirely, incomprehensibly hilarious.

Two hours later, we wave good-bye to him in the parking lot, and Abby tucks into my passenger seat. The sky is dark and clear, and we shiver for a minute while we wait for the heat to kick in. I back out of the spot and pull onto Roswell Road.

“Who’s this?” Abby asks.

“Rilo Kiley.”

“I don’t know them.” She yawns.

We’re listening to the birthday mix Leah made me, which includes three Rilo Kiley songs from their first two albums. Leah has a girlcrush on Jenny Lewis. You can’t not have a crush on Jenny Lewis. I’m twenty years younger than her and unquestionably gay, but yeah. I’d make out with her.

“Martin tonight,” Abby says, shaking her head.

“What a weirdo.”

“Kind of a cute weirdo,” she says.

I make the left onto Shady Creek Circle. The car has warmed up, and the streets are almost empty, and everything feels quiet and cozy and safe.

“Definitely cute,” she decides, “though, sadly, not my type.”

“Not my type either,” I say, and Abby laughs. I feel this tug in my chest.

I should really just tell her.

Blue is coming out to his mom tonight—at least that’s the plan. They’re having dinner at home, and he’s going to try to make sure she has a little wine. And then he’s just going to suck it up and do it. I’m nervous for him. Maybe a little jealous of him.

And I guess him telling her feels like a strange sort of loss. I think I liked being the only one who knew.

“Abby. Can I tell you something?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

The music seems to fall away. We’re stopped at a red, and I’m waiting to turn left, and all I can hear is the frantic clicking of my turn signal.

I think my heart is beating to its rhythm.

“You can’t tell anyone,” I say. “No one else knows this.”

She doesn’t speak, but I perceive her angling her body toward me. Her knees are folded up onto the passenger seat. She waits.

I didn’t plan to do this tonight.

“So. The thing is, I’m gay.”

It’s the first time I’ve said those words out loud. I pause with my hands on the steering wheel, waiting to feel something extraordinary. The light turns green.

“Oh,” says Abby. And there’s this thick, hanging pause.

I turn left.

“Simon, pull over.”

There’s a little bakery ahead on my right, and I pull into its driveway. It’s closed for the night. I put the car in park.

“Your hands are shaking,” Abby says quietly. Then she tugs my arm closer, pushes my sleeve up, and cups my hand between her own. She sits cross-legged on the seat and turns completely sideways, facing me. I barely look at her.

“This is the first time you’ve told anyone?” she says, after a moment.

I nod.

“Wow.” I hear her take a breath. “Simon, I’m really honored.”

I lean back and sigh and twist my body toward her. My seat belt feels tight. I tug my hand away from Abby’s to unlatch it. Then I give it back to her, and she laces her fingers through mine.

“Are you surprised?” I say.

“No.” She looks at me directly. Lit only by streetlights, Abby’s eyes are almost all pupil, edged thinly with brown.

“You knew?”

“No, not at all.”

“But you’re not surprised.”

“Do you want me to be surprised?” She looks nervous.

“I don’t know,” I say.

She squeezes my hand.

I wonder how it’s going for Blue. I wonder if Blue is feeling the same flutter in his stomach that I feel right now. Actually, he’s probably feeling more than a flutter. He’s probably so nauseated he can hardly choke the words out.

My Blue.

It’s weird. I almost think I did this for him.

“What are you going to do?” Abby asks. “Are you going to tell people?”

I pause. “I don’t know,” I say. I haven’t really thought about it. “I mean, eventually, yeah.”

“Okay, well, I love you,” she says.

She pokes me in the cheek. And then we go home.