Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

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.

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 walking, 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.”

“Hmph,” I say, burying my face.

“You know, it’s okay to be kind of romantic,” she says.

“I’m not romantic.”

“Right.” Abby laughs. “I forgot. You and Nick are so cynical.”

“Wait, what did I do?” asks Nick.

Abby leans into him, but looks up at me. “Hey. I hope you find him, okay?” she says.

Okay.

But it’s eight thirty, and I still haven’t found him. Or he hasn’t found me. It’s hard to know what to think.

He likes me. I mean, that’s basically what the note said. But the note was written two weeks ago. It almost kills me. Two weeks with the shirt under my freaking pillow, and I had no idea what was tucked away inside of it. I know it’s been said, but I’m a monumental idiot.

I mean, in two weeks, he could have changed his mind about me.

The carnival shuts down in half an hour, and my friends have all gone home. I should go, too. But I have another couple of tickets, so I blow most of them on midway games and save my last one for the Tilt-A-Whirl. I figure it’s the last place I’ll find Blue, so I’ve been avoiding it all night.

There’s no line at all; I walk straight onto the ride. The Tilt-A-Whirl has these metal pods with domed tops, and there’s a metal wheel in the middle that you can turn to make your pod spin. And then the ride itself whirls around quickly, and the whole point is just to get you dizzy. Or maybe the point is to empty your head.

I’m alone in my seat, with the seat belt pulled as tight as I can make it. A couple of girls squeeze into the pod next to mine, and the operator walks over to latch the gate. Almost all the other pods are empty. I lean back and shut my eyes.

And then someone slides in beside me.

“Can I sit here?” he asks, and my eyes snap open.

It’s Cute Bram Greenfeld, of the soft eyes and soccer calves.

I loosen the seat belt to let him in. And I smile at him. It’s impossible not to.

“I like your shirt,” he says. He seems nervous.

“Thanks,” I say. “It’s Elliott Smith.”

The operator reaches over us and pulls the guardrail down, locking us in.

“I know,” says Bram. There’s something in his voice. I turn to him, slowly, and his eyes are wide and brown and totally open.

There’s this pause. We’re still looking at each other. And there’s this feeling in my stomach like a coil pulled taut.

“It’s you,” I say.

“I know I’m late,” he says.

Then there’s a grinding noise and a jolt and a swell of music. Someone shrieks and then laughs, and the ride spins to life.

Bram’s eyes are clenched shut and his chin is locked down. He’s perfectly silent. He cups his hands over his nose and mouth. I hold the metal wheel in place with both hands, but it keeps pulling into a clockwise rotation. It’s like the ride wants to spin. And it spins and it spins.

“Sorry,” he says, when it finally stops, and his voice is stretched thin, and his eyes are still closed.

“It’s okay,” I say. “Are you okay?”

He nods and exhales and says, “Yeah. I will be.”

We step off the ride and make it to the curb, and he leans all the way forward, tucking his head between his knees. I settle in beside him, feeling awkward and jittery and almost drunk.

“I just got your email,” he says. “I was sure I was going to miss you.”

“I can’t believe it’s you,” I say.

“It’s me,” he says. His eyes slide open. “You really didn’t know?”

“Not a clue,” I say. I study his profile. He has these lips that meet just barely, like the slightest touch would coax them open. His ears are slightly big and there are two freckles on his cheekbone. And his eyelashes are more dramatic than I’ve ever noticed.

He turns toward me, and I look away quickly.

“I thought I was so obvious,” he says.

I shake my head.

He stares straight ahead. “I think I wanted you to know.”

“Then why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because,” he says, and his voice sort of shakes. And I’m aching to touch him. Quite honestly, I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life. “Because, if you had been looking for it to be me, I think you would have guessed it yourself.”

I don’t quite know how to respond to that. I don’t know if it’s true or not.

“But you never gave me clues,” I say finally.

“I did,” he says, smiling. “My email address.”

“Bluegreen118,” I say.

“Bram Louis Greenfeld. My birthday.”

“Jesus. I’m an idiot.”

“No, you’re not,” he says softly.

But I am. I’m an idiot. I was looking for him to be Cal. And I guess I assumed that Blue would be white. Which kind of makes me want to smack myself. White shouldn’t be the default any more than straight should be the default. There shouldn’t even be a default.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“For what?”

“For not figuring it out.”

“But it would be completely unfair of me to expect that,” he says.

“You guessed it was me.”

“Well, yeah,” he says. He looks down. “I kind of guessed a long time ago. Except I thought maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see.”

Seeing what he wanted to see.

I think that means Bram wanted it to be me.

There’s this twist in my stomach, and my brain feels hazy. I clear my throat. “I guess I should have shut up about who my English teacher is.”

“Wouldn’t have helped.”

“Oh no?”

He smiles slightly, and turns away. “You sort of talk the way you write.”

“No freaking way.”

I’m kind of hardcore grinning now.

In the distance, they begin shutting down the rides and turning off lights. There’s something beautiful and eerie about a darkened, unmoving Ferris wheel. Beyond the carnival, the lights turn off in the doorways of the department stores. I know my parents expect me home.

But I scoot closer to Bram, until our arms are almost touching, and I can feel him twitch just slightly. Our pinkie fingers are maybe an inch apart, and it’s as if an invisible current runs between them.

“But how are you a president?” I ask.

“What?”

“The same first name as a former president.”

“Oh,” he says, “Abraham.”

“Ohhh.”

We’re quiet for a moment.

“And I can’t believe you rode the Tilt-A-Whirl for me.”

“I must really like you,” he says.

So I lean in toward him, and my heart is in my throat. “I want to hold your hand,” I say softly.

Because we’re in public. Because I don’t know if he’s out.

“So hold it,” he says.

And I do.