Бекки Алберталли - Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

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.”

FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com

DATE: Dec 25 at 5:12 PM

SUBJECT: Oh holy nightmare

Blue,

I officially had the most epically weird and awful Christmas ever, and most of it I can’t even tell you about. Which really sucks. So, yeah. Basically, due to certain mysterious circumstances, I’m now out to my whole family and will soon be out to the whole freaking universe. And I guess that’s all I can say about it.

So, it’s your turn to distract me, okay? Give me updates about Little Fetus or the horrifying sexcapades of your parents, or talk about how you think I’m cute. And talk about how you ate too much turkey and now you feel nauseated. Did you know you’re the only person I’ve ever met who uses the word “nauseated” instead of “nauseous”? I finally Googled it, and of course you’re right. Of course.