Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

19

IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE DAY, AND something feels a little bit off.

Not bad. Just off. I don’t know how to explain it. We’re hitting every one of the Spier traditions. My mom made reindeer turds, a.k.a. Oreo truffles. The tree is lit up and fully decorated. We’ve done the Chipmunks song.

It’s noon, and we’re all still in our pajamas, and everyone is sitting in the living room on separate laptops. I guess it’s a little awful that we have five computers—Shady Creek is that kind of suburb, but still. We’re scavenger hunting on Facebook.

“Call it, Dad,” says Alice.

“Okay,” he says. “Someone visiting somewhere tropical.”

“Got it,” says my mom, turning her laptop around to show us someone’s pictures. “Done and done. All right. A breakup.”

We’re all quiet for several minutes, scrolling through our newsfeeds. Finally, Nora’s got one. “Amber Wasserman,” she reads. “Thought I knew u. Looks like I was wrong. One day ur gonna turn around and realize what u thru away.”

“I’d call that an implied breakup,” I say.

“It’s legit.”

“But you could interpret it literally,” I say. “Like she’s calling him out for throwing away her iPhone.”

“That’s Simon logic,” says Alice, “and I won’t allow it. Go, boop. Your turn.”

My dad invented the concept of Simon logic, and I can’t seem to outgrow it. It means wishful thinking supported by flimsy evidence.

“Okay,” says Nora. “The opposite. A mushy, disgusting couple.”

An interesting choice, coming from Nora, who basically never talks about anything related to dating.

“Okay, got one,” I say. “Carys Seward. Feeling so grateful to have Jaxon Wildstein in my life. Last nite was perfect. I love you so much baby. Winky face.”

“Gross,” says Nora.

“Is that your Carys, bub?”

“I don’t have a Carys,” I say. But I know what Alice is asking. I dated Carys for almost four months last spring. Though none of our “nites” together were that sort of perfect.

But here’s the crazy thing: for the first time ever, I almost get it. It’s weird, it’s gross, and that creepy little winky face pushes it into the realm of TMI. But yeah. Maybe I’m losing my edge, but all I can think about is how Blue has been signing emails lately using the word “love.”

I guess I can imagine us having perfect nights sometimes. And I’ll probably feel like shouting it from the rooftops, too.

I refresh my browser. “My turn. Okay. Someone Jewish,” I say, “posting about Christmas.”

My Jewish-Episcopalian email boyfriend. I wonder what he’s doing right now.

“Why doesn’t Nick ever post anything?” asks Nora.

Because he thinks Facebook is the lowest common denominator of social discourse. Though he does like to talk about social media as a vehicle for constructing and performing identity. Whatever the hell that means.

“Got one. Jana Goldstein. Movie theater listings in one hand; takeout menus in the other. Ready for tomorrow. Merry Christmas to Jew!”

“Who’s Jana Goldstein?” my mom asks.

“Someone from Wesleyan,” says Alice. “Okay. Something about lawyers.” She’s distracted, and I realize her phone is buzzing. “Sorry. Be right back.”

“Lawyers? What the heck, Alice?” says Nora. “That blatantly favors Dad.”

“I know. I feel bad for him,” Alice calls over her shoulder, before disappearing up the stairs. “Hey,” she says, answering her phone. A moment later, we hear her bedroom door shut.

“Got one!” My dad beams. He generally sucks at this game, because he has about twelve Facebook friends total. “Bob Lepinski. Happy holidays to you and yours, from Lepinski and Willis, P.C.”

“Good one, Dad,” says Nora. She looks at me. “Who’s she talking to?”

“Hell if I know,” I say.

Alice is on the phone for two hours. It’s unprecedented.

The scavenger hunt fizzles. Nora curls up with her laptop on the couch, and our parents disappear to their room. And I don’t even want to think about what they’re up to in there. Not after what Blue’s dad and stepmom went and did. Bieber whines in the entryway.

My phone buzzes with a text from Leah: We’re outside your door. Leah’s weird about knocking. I think she gets shy around parents.

I walk over to let her in, and find Bieber on his hind legs basically trying to make out with her through the window.

“Down,” I say. “Come on, Bieb.” I grab him by the collar and swing the door open. It’s cold but sunny out, and Leah wears a black woolen hat with cat ears. Nick stands sort of awkwardly behind her.

“Hi,” I say, pulling Bieber to the side so they can step past him.

“We were actually thinking about taking a walk,” says Leah.

I look at her. Something in her tone is a little strange. “Okay,” I say. “Let me get dressed.” I’m still wearing my golden retriever pajama pants.

Five minutes later, I’m in jeans and a hoodie. I throw a leash on Bieber, and we’re out the door.

“So you guys just wanted to take a walk, or what?” I ask finally.

They look at each other. “Yeah,” says Nick.

I raise my eyebrows at him, waiting to see if he’ll say more, but he looks away.

“How are things going, Simon?” Leah asks, in this strange, gentle voice.

I stop short. We’re barely out of my driveway. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” She fiddles with the pom-poms that string down from her hat. Nick stares at the road. “Just seeing if you wanted to talk.”

“About what?” I ask. Bieber crosses over to Leah and sits on his haunches, staring up at her with pleading eyes.

“Why are you looking at me like that, sweet one?” she asks, ruffling his ears. “I don’t have any cookies.”

“What do you want to talk about?” I ask again. We’re not walking. We stand by the curb, and I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

Leah and Nick exchange another look, and it hits me.

“Oh my gosh. You guys hooked up.”

“What?” Leah says, turning bright red. “No!”

I look from Leah to Nick and back to Leah. “You didn’t . . .”

“Simon. No. Just stop.” Leah isn’t looking at Nick. In fact, she’s bent all the way over with her face pressed against Bieber’s snout.

“Okay, then what are we talking about here?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

“Um,” says Nick.

Leah stands. “Okay, yeah. I’m gonna go. Merry Christmas, guys. Happy Hanukkah. Whatever.” She gives me this curt little nod. Then she bends down again and lets my dog kiss her on the lips. And then she’s gone.

Nick and I stand there in silence. He touches his thumb briefly to the tip of each finger.

“Hanukkah is over,” he says finally.

“What’s going on, Nick?”

“Look—don’t worry about it.” He sighs, staring up the street at Leah’s retreating form. “She’s parked at my house. I guess I have to give her a minute, so it’s not like I’m following her.”

“You can come in,” I say. “My parents won’t care. Alice is home.”

“Yeah?” he says, glancing back at my house. “I don’t know. I’m just going to . . .” He turns to me, and there’s this look on his face. I’ve known Nick since we were four years old. I’ve never seen this expression before.

“Look.” He puts his hand on my arm. I look down at his hand. I can’t help it. Nick never touches me. “Have a good Christmas, Simon. Really.”

And then he takes back his hand, and waves, and trudges up the road after Leah.

Spier family tradition dictates that Christmas Eve dinner is French toast, per my grandma’s technique: thick slices of challah aged one day for maximum egg absorption, cooked in tons of butter in pans partially covered by pot lids. When my grandma makes them, she constantly moves the lids around and flips the bread over and fusses with all of it (she’s kind of a hardcore grandma). It never comes out quite as custardy when my dad makes it, but it’s pretty freaking good anyway.

We eat it at the actual dining table on our parents’ wedding china, and my mom brings out the manger scene centerpiece that rotates like a fan when you light a candle beneath it. It’s really hypnotic. Alice dims the lights, and my mom puts out cloth napkins, and everything feels really fancy.

But it’s weird. It doesn’t really feel like Christmas Eve. There’s this spark missing, and I don’t know what it is.

I’ve felt like this all week, and I don’t understand it. I don’t know why everything feels so different this year. Maybe it’s because Alice has been gone. Or maybe it’s because I’m spending every minute pining for some boy who doesn’t want to meet me in person. Or who’s “not ready” to meet me in person. But he’s also a boy who signs his emails with “love.” I don’t know. I don’t know.

In this moment, all I want is for things to feel like Christmas again. I want it to feel how it used to feel.

After dinner, my parents put on Love Actually and settle in on the love seat with Bieber wedged between them. Alice disappears again to talk on the phone. Nora and I sit for a while on our opposite ends of the couch, and I stare into the lights of the tree. If I squint my eyes, everything looks sort of bright and hazy, and I can almost catch the feeling I remember. But it’s pointless. So I go into my own room and fling myself back on the bed and listen to my music on shuffle.

Three songs later, there’s a knock on my door.

“Simon?” It’s Nora.

“What?” Ugh.

“I’m coming in.”

I prop myself halfway up against the pillows and give her a mild stink-eye. But she walks in anyway, and pushes my backpack off my desk chair. And then she sits, with her legs tucked up and her arms around her knees. “Hey,” she says.

“What do you want?” I say.

She looks at me through her glasses—she’s already taken her contact lenses out. Her hair is pulled back messily, and she’s changed into a Wesleyan T-shirt, and it’s really remarkable how much she’s starting to look like Alice.

“I need to show you something,” she says. She swivels the chair back toward my desk and starts opening my laptop.

“Are you kidding me?” I jump up. Seriously. She seriously thinks I’m about to give her open access to my laptop.

“Fine. Whatever. You do it.” She unplugs it and rolls the chair closer to the bed, handing the laptop over to me.

“So, what am I looking at?”

She sucks her lips in and looks at me again. “Pull up the Tumblr.”

“Like . . . creeksecrets?”

She nods.

I have it bookmarked. “It’s loading,” I say. “Okay. I’ve got it. What’s up?”

“Can I sit with you?” she asks.

I look up at her. “On the bed?’’

“Yeah.”

“Um, okay.”

She climbs up next to me, and looks at the screen. “Scroll down.”

I scroll. And then I stop.

Nora turns to face me.

Oh my fucking God.

“You okay?” she asks softly. “I’m sorry, Si. I just thought you’d want to know about it. I’m assuming you didn’t write it.”

I shake my head slowly. “No, I didn’t,” I say.

“I already reported it,” said Nora. “They’ll take it down.”

“People have already seen it, though.”

“I don’t know.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Who would post something like that?”

“Someone who doesn’t know that ‘anal buttsex’ is redundant.”

“That’s so effed up,” she says.

I mean, I know who posted it. And I guess I should be grateful he didn’t post one of his freaking screenshots. But honest to God: that sly fucking reference to Blue makes him the biggest, most cavernous gaping asshole who ever lived.

God, what if Blue sees it?

I slam the laptop closed and shove it onto the chair. Then I lean my head back, and Nora scoots back against the headboard. The minutes tick past.

“I mean, it’s true,” I say finally. I don’t look at her. We both stare at the ceiling. “I am gay.”

“I figured,” she says.

Now I look at her. “Really?”

“From your reaction. I don’t know.” She blinks. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Wait for them to take it down. What can I do?”

“But are you going to tell people?”

“I think Nick and Leah already read it,” I say slowly.

Nora shrugs. “You could deny it.”

“Okay, I’m not going to deny it. I’m not ashamed of it.”

“All right, well, I didn’t know. You haven’t said anything up until now.”

Oh my God. Seriously?

I sit up. “Yeah, you don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sorry! Geez, Simon. I’m just trying to . . .” She looks at me. “I mean, it’s obviously not something to be ashamed of. You know that, right? And I think most people are going to be cool about it.”

“I don’t know what people think about it.”

She pauses. “Are you going to tell Mom and Dad? And Alice?”

“I don’t know.” I sigh. “I don’t know.”

“Your phone keeps buzzing,” Nora says. She hands it to me.

I’ve got five texts from Abby.

And then it’s Christmas. I used to wake up at four every year in a total frenzy of greed. It didn’t matter how thorough I had been about poking for clues—and make no mistake, I was thorough. But Santa was a ninja. He always managed to surprise me.

So, it looks like I got one hell of a Christmas surprise this year. And good fucking tidings to you, too, Martin.

At seven thirty, I walk downstairs, and everything inside me twists and clenches. The lights are still off, but the morning sun is bright through the living room windows, and the tree is fully lit. Five overstuffed stockings lean up against the couch cushions, too heavy for the mantel. The only one awake is Bieber. I bring him out for a quick pee and give him his breakfast, and then we lie together on the couch and wait.

I know Blue is at church right now with his mom and uncle and cousins, and they all went last night, too. He’s basically putting in more church time over these past two days than I have in my entire life.

It’s funny. I didn’t think this was going to be a big deal. But I think I’d actually rather be at church than here, doing what I’m about to do.

By nine, everyone’s awake and the coffee’s on, and we’re having cookies for breakfast. Alice and Nora are reading stuff on their phones. I pour myself a mug of coffee and add an avalanche of sugar. My mom watches me stir.

“I didn’t know you drink coffee.”

Okay, this. She does this every freaking time. Both of them. They put me in a box, and every time I try to nudge the lid open, they slam it back down. It’s like nothing about me is allowed to change.

“Well, I do.”

“Okay,” she says, putting her hands up like whoa there, buck. “That’s fine, Si. It’s just different. I’m just trying to keep up with you.”

If she thinks me drinking coffee is big news, it’s going to be quite a fucking morning.

We turn to the pile of presents. Blue told me that in his family, presents are opened one at a time, and all the cousins and everyone else just sit and watch each other do it. And then after a few rounds of that, they stop for a while and have lunch or something. It’s just so civilized. It takes them all afternoon to clear out the Christmas tree.

Not so with the Spiers. Alice works her way underneath the tree in crouch position and starts passing bags and boxes down the line, and everyone talks at once.

“A Kindle case? I don’t have a—”

“Open the other one, honey.”

“Hey, Aurora coffee!”

“No, put it on the other way, boop. Everyone wears these at Wesleyan.”

In twenty minutes, it’s like a freaking Paper Source exploded all over the living room. I’m on the floor, leaning into the front of the couch, winding the cords of my new earbuds around my fingers. Bieber tucks a bow between his paws, and he nips and tugs on it, and everyone’s just kind of draped over various pieces of furniture.

It’s clearly my moment.

Though, if this moment really belonged to me, it wouldn’t be happening. Not now, I mean. Not yet.

“Hey. I want to talk to you guys about something.” I try to sound casual, but my voice is froggy. Nora looks at me and gives me a tiny, quick smile, and my stomach sort of flips.

“What’s up?” says my mom, sitting up straight.

I don’t know how people do this. How Blue did this. Two words. Two freaking words, and I’m not the same Simon anymore. My hand is over my mouth, and I stare straight ahead.

I don’t know why I thought this would be easy.

“I know what this is,” says my dad. “Let me guess. You’re gay. You got someone pregnant. You’re pregnant.”

“Dad, stop it,” says Alice.

I close my eyes.

“I’m pregnant,” I say.

“I thought so, kid,” says my dad. “You’re glowing.”

I look him in the eye. “Really, though. I’m gay.”

Two words.

Everyone is quiet for a moment.

And then my mom says, “Honey. That’s . . . God, that’s . . . thank you for telling us.”

And then Alice says, “Wow, bub. Good for you.”

And my dad says, “Gay, huh?”

And my mom says, “So, talk me through this.” It’s one of her favorite psychologist lines. I look at her and shrug.

“We’re proud of you,” she adds.

And then my dad grins and says, “So, which one of them did it?”

“Did what?”

“Turned you off women. Was it the one with the eyebrows, the eye makeup, or the overbite?”

“Dad, that’s so offensive,” says Alice.

“What? I’m just lightening the mood. Simon knows we love him.”

“Your heterosexist comments aren’t lightening the mood.”

I mean, I guess it’s about what I expected. My mom’s asking me about my feelings, Dad’s turning it into a joke, Alice is getting political, and Nora is keeping her mouth shut. You could say there’s a kind of comfort in predictability, and my family is pretty goddamn predictable.

But I’m so exhausted and unhappy right now. I thought it would feel like a weight had been lifted. But it’s just like everything else this week. Strange and off-kilter and surreal.

“So, that’s pretty big news, bub,” Alice says, following me into my room. She shuts the door behind her, and settles in cross-legged on the end of my bed.

“Ugh,” I say. I collapse facedown into the pillows.

“Hey.” She leans her body sideways, until it’s level with mine. “Everything’s cool. It’s nothing to mope about.”

I ignore her.

“I’m not leaving, bub. Because you’re going to wallow. You’re going to put on that playlist. What’s it called?”

“The Great Depression,” I mutter. It’s like all Elliott Smith and Nick Drake and the Smiths. I already have it cued up.

“Right,” she says. “The Great Depression. That romp. No way.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because I’m your big sister and you need me.”

“I need to be left alone.”

“No way. Talk to me, bub!” she says. She slides toward me, squeezing in between my body and the wall. “This is exciting. We can talk about guys.”

“Okay,” I say, pushing up off the bed and maneuvering into a sitting position. “Then tell me about your boyfriend.”

“Whoa there,” she says. “What?”

I look at her. “The phone calls. Disappearing into your room for hours. Come on.”

“I thought we were discussing your love life.” She blushes.

“So I get to make a scene and come out and have everyone awkwardly debate the whole thing right in front of me. On freaking Christmas,” I say, “and you won’t even tell me you have a boyfriend?”

She’s silent for a moment, and I know I have her. She sighs. “How do you know I don’t have a girlfriend?”

“Is it a girlfriend?”

“No,” she says finally, leaning back against the wall. “Boyfriend.”

“What’s his name?”

“Theo.”

“Is he on Facebook?”

“Yes.”

I pull up the app on my phone and start scrolling through her friends list.

“Oh God. Just stop,” she says. “Simon, seriously. Stop.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you guys. I knew you were going to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Ask a lot of questions. Stalk him online. Call him out for not liking pie or having facial hair or something.”

“He has facial hair?”

“Simon.”

“Sorry,” I say, leaving the phone on my nightstand. I do get it. Actually, I really get it.

We’re quiet for a moment.

“I am going to tell them,” she says finally.

“Whatever you want to do.”

“No, you’re right. I’m not trying to be—I don’t know.” She sighs again. “I mean, if you have the guts to tell them you’re gay, I should . . .”

“You should have the guts to come out as straight.”

She cracks a smile. “Something like that. You’re funny, bub.”

“I try.”