Бекки Алберталли - Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

Anyway, I know you’re off to Savannah tomorrow, but I hope to God your dad has internet, because I don’t think my heart can handle waiting a full week for an email from you. You should give me your number so I can text you. I promise I’m still relatively grammatical over text.

Well, Merry Christmas, Blue. I mean it. And I hope everyone leaves you alone tonight, because that sounds like WAY too much family time. Maybe next year we can sneak away and spend Christmas together somewhere far away, where our families can’t find us.

Love,

Jacques

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com

TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

DATE: Dec 25 at 8:41 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Oh holy nightmare

Oh, Jacques, I’m so sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine what mysterious circumstances led to your being outed to the universe, but it doesn’t sound pleasant, and I know it’s not what you wanted. I wish I could fix it somehow.

No updates on Little Fetus, but suffice it to say that I’m more than a little nauseated now that I’ve had the pleasure of reading the word “sexcapades” in reference to my parents. And I do think you’re cute. You’re absurdly cute. I think I spend a little too much time thinking how adorable you are in emails and trying to translate that into a viable mental image for daydreams and the like.

But the texting thing. Ooooh—I don’t know. Really, though, you don’t have to worry about me going out of town. Internet in Savannah is abundant. You won’t even know I’m gone.

Love,

Blue

FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com

DATE: Dec 26 at 1:12 PM

SUBJECT: Daydreams . . . and the like

Specifically, “and the like.” Please elaborate.

Love,

Jacques

P.S. Seriously. AND THE LIKE?

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com

TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

DATE: Dec 26 at 10:42 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Daydreams . . . and the like

And . . . I think I’ll shut up now. ☺

Love,

Blue

IT’S THE SATURDAY AFTER CHRISTMAS, and Waffle House is packed with old people and kids and random guys sitting at the counter reading actual printed newspapers. People really like to come here for breakfast. I mean, I guess it’s technically a breakfast restaurant. Our parents are sleeping in, so it’s just my sisters and me, and we’re wedged against the wall waiting for a table.

We’ve been here waiting for twenty minutes, and we’re all really just reading our phones. But then Alice says, “Oh, hey.” She’s looking at this guy sitting in a booth across the room. He looks up and smiles and waves at her. He looks strangely familiar, lanky with curly brown hair.

“Is that . . . ?”

“Simon, no. It’s Carter Addison. He graduated a year ahead of me. He’s the nicest guy. Actually, bub, maybe you should talk to him, because—”

“Yeah. I’m leaving,” I say. Because I’ve just figured out why Carter Addison looks familiar.

“What? Why?”

“Because I am.” I put my hand out so she can give me the car keys. And then I walk out the door.

I’m sitting in the driver’s seat with my iPod plugged in and the heat blasting, trying to pick between Tegan and Sara and the Fleet Foxes. And then the passenger door opens, and Nora slides in.

“So, what’s up with you?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Do you know that guy?”

“What guy?” I ask.

“The one Alice is talking to.”

“No.”

Nora looks at me. “Then why’d you run away as soon as you saw him?”

I lean back against the headrest and shut my eyes. “I know his brother.”

“Who’s his brother?”

“You know that creeksecrets post?” I ask.

Nora’s eyes get huge. “The one about . . .”

“Yeah.”

“Why the heck would he write that?”

I shrug. “Because he likes Abby, and he’s a fucking idiot, and he thinks she likes me. I don’t even know. It’s kind of a long story.”

“What an asshole,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say, looking at her. Nora never cusses.

I’m startled by a loud tap, and I turn around to find Alice’s pissed-off face pressed against my window.

“Out,” she says. “I’m driving.”

I move to the backseat. Whatever.

“So, what the hell was that about?” she asks, eyes flashing in the rearview mirror as she backs out of the parking spot.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay, well, it was a little weird trying to explain to Carter why my brother and sister hauled ass out of the restaurant as soon as they saw him.” She pulls onto Roswell Road. “His brother was there, bub. He’s in your grade. Marty. Seems like a nice kid.”

I don’t say anything.

“And I really wanted waffles today,” she says grumpily.

“Let it go, Allie,” Nora says.

It hangs in the air. Another thing Nora never does is stand up to Alice.

We drive in silence the rest of the way home.

“Simon, the basement fridge. Not later. Not in a minute. Now,” my mom says, “or the party is off.”

“Mom. Just stop. I’m doing it.” I mean, seriously. I have no freaking idea where she got the idea that this is a party. “You do realize that Nick, Leah, and Abby have all been here roughly five zillion times.”

“That’s fine,” she says, “but this time, you’re going to make the basement presentable, or else you’ll be ringing in the New Year on the couch, smack dab in between your dad and me.”

“Or we’ll go to Nick’s,” I mutter.

My mom is halfway up the stairs, but she turns around to catch my eye. “No you won’t. And speaking of Nick. Your father and I discussed this, and we want to sit down with you and brainstorm about how we’re going to handle him spending the night. I’m not worried about tonight, since the girls will be there, but thinking ahead—”

“Oh my God, Mom, stop. I’m not talking about this right now.” Jesus Christ. As if Nick and I can’t be in a room together without it turning into frenzied wild sex.

Everyone gets here around six, and we end up packed onto the scraggly basement couch eating pizza and watching reruns of The Soup . Our basement is kind of a time capsule, with shaggy, camel-colored carpet and shelves of Barbies and Power Rangers and Pokémon. And there’s a bathroom and a little laundry room with a fridge. It’s really very cozy and awesome down here.

Leah sits on one end of the couch, and then me, and then Abby—and Nick is on the other end, plucking the strings of Nora’s old guitar. Bieber whimpers from the top of the stairs, and there are footsteps above us, and Abby’s telling a story about Taylor. Apparently Taylor said something annoying. I’m trying to laugh in the right places. I think I’m a little overstimulated. Leah is intently focused on the television.

When we finish eating, I run up to open the door for Bieber, who almost trips down the stairs and then flings himself into the room like a cannonball.

Nick mutes the TV and plays a slow, acoustic version of “Brown Eyed Girl.” The footsteps above us stop, and I can hear someone say, “Whoa. That’s beautiful.” One of Nora’s friends. Nick’s singing voice has this supernatural effect on freshman girls.

Nick sits very, very close to Abby on the couch, and I honestly think I can feel the waves of panic radiating off of Leah. She and I are on the floor now, rubbing Bieber’s belly. She hasn’t said a word.

“Look at this dog,” I say. “No shame. He’s like, ‘Grope me.’”

I’m feeling this weird pressure to be extra jolly and talkative.

Leah trails her fingers through the curls on Bieber’s belly and doesn’t respond.

“He has Coke-bottle mouth,” I point out.