Бекки Алберталли - Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

“Well, we’ll see,” Abby says, with this smug little smile.

I don’t know how to explain to her that, for all intents and purposes, I’m already taken. By someone who evidently shares a first name with a president and an obscure cartoon character, and doesn’t like to draw, and doesn’t have blue eyes, and has not yet pushed me in a rolling chair.

Someone who seemed to like me better before he knew who I was.

FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com

DATE: Jan 9 at 8:23 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Really?

I mean, I get it. Just because I was careless doesn’t mean it’s fair to push you into revealing yourself before you’re ready. And believe me, I’m the freaking expert on that. But now you know my superhero identity and I don’t know yours—and that’s weird, right?

I don’t know what else to say. Anonymity served a purpose for us, and I get that. But now I want to know you for real.

Love,

Simon

FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com

TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

DATE: Jan 10 at 2:12 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Really?

Well, Blue is kind of my superhero identity, so you’re really talking about my civilian identity. But that’s obviously miles away from the point. It’s just that I don’t know what else to say. I’m truly sorry, Simon.

Anyway, it looks like things are working out the way you wanted them to. So, good for you.

—Blue

FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com

DATE: Jan 10 at 3:45 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Really?

Working out the way I wanted them to? What the heck are you talking about?

???

—Simon

FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com

DATE: Jan 12 at 12:18 AM

SUBJECT: Re: Really?

Seriously, I don’t know what in God’s holy name you’re talking about, because pretty much nothing seems to be working out the way I want it to.

Okay—I get that you don’t want to text. And you don’t want to meet in person. Fine. But I hate that everything’s different now, even in our emails. I mean, yes, it’s an awkward situation. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I really do understand if you don’t find me attractive or whatever. I’ll get over it. But you’re kind of my best friend in a lot of ways, and I really want to keep you.

Can we just pretend none of this ever happened and go back to normal?

—Simon

WHICH ISN’T TO SAY I’M going to stop thinking about it.

I spend all of Sunday in my room switching between the Smiths and Kid Cudi at top volume, and I don’t even care if that’s too random for my parents. Their minds can stay blown for all I care. I try to get Bieber to sit with me on my bed, but he keeps pacing, so I put him out in the hallway. But then he whines to come back in.

“Nora, get Bieber,” I yell over the music, but she doesn’t answer. So I text it to her.

She texts back: Do it yourself. I’m not home .

Where are you? I really hate this new thing where Nora’s never home.

But she doesn’t text back. And I’m feeling too heavy and listless to get up and ask my mom.

I stare up at the ceiling fan. So Blue isn’t going to tell me, which means I have to figure it out myself. I’ve been running through the same list of clues in my head for a few hours now.

Same first name as a president and an obscure comic book character. Half-Jewish. Excellent grammar. Easily nauseated. Virgin. Doesn’t really go to parties. Likes superheroes. Likes Reese’s and Oreos (i.e., not an idiot). Divorced parents. Big brother to a fetus. Dad lives in Savannah. Dad’s an English teacher. Mom’s an epidemiologist.

The problem is, I’m beginning to realize I hardly know anything about anyone. I mean I generally know who’s a virgin. But I don’t have a clue whether most people’s parents are divorced, or what their parents do for a living. I mean, Nick’s parents are doctors. But I don’t know what Leah’s mom does, and I don’t even know what the deal is with her dad, because Leah never talks about him. I have no idea why Abby’s dad and brother still live in DC. And these are my best friends. I’ve always thought of myself as nosy, but I guess I’m just nosy about stupid stuff.

It’s actually really terrible, now that I think about it.

But it’s pointless. Because even if I crack the code somehow, it doesn’t change the fact that Blue isn’t interested. He found out who I am. And now it’s broken, and I don’t know what to do. I told him I understand if he’s not attracted to me. I tried to make it sound like I don’t mind.

But I don’t understand. And I totally mind.

This fucking sucks, actually.

On Monday, there’s a plastic grocery bag looped through the handle of my locker, and my first thought is that it’s a jockstrap. I guess I’m picturing some stupid athlete giving me a sweaty jockstrap as a grand gesture of humiliation and douchery. I don’t know. Maybe I’m paranoid.

Anyway, it’s not a jockstrap. It’s a jersey cotton T-shirt with the logo from Elliott Smith’s Figure 8 . Resting on top is a note that says this: “I’m assuming Elliott understands that you would have made it to his shows if you could have.”

The note is written on blue-green construction paper in perfectly straight print—not a hint of slant. And of course he remembered the second “t” in Elliott. Because he’s Blue. He would.

The shirt is a medium, and it’s vintage soft, and everything about it is entirely, amazingly perfect. For one wild moment, I think I’ll find a bathroom and change into it right now.

But I stop myself. Because it’s still weird. Because I still don’t know who he is. And the idea of him seeing me in the shirt makes me really self-conscious for some reason. So, I keep it neatly folded in the bag, and then I put the bag in my locker. And then I float through the day in a jittery, happy daze.

But then I get to rehearsal, and there’s this sudden seismic shift. I don’t even know. It has something to do with Cal. He’s leaving the auditorium to go to the bathroom just as I arrive, and he stops for a minute in the doorway. And then we sort of smile at each other and both keep walking.

It’s nothing. It’s not even a moment. But there’s this sunburst of anger that starts in my chest. I mean, I can actually physically feel it. And it’s all because Blue is a goddamn coward. He’ll hang a fucking T-shirt from the door of my locker, but he doesn’t have the guts to approach me in person.

He’s ruined everything. Now there’s this adorable guy with awesome bangs who maybe even likes me, and it’s completely pointless. I’m not ever going to hang out with Cal. I’ll probably never have a boyfriend. I’m too busy trying not to be in love with someone who isn’t real.

The rest of the week is this exhausting blur. Rehearsals are an extra hour every night now, which means I’m having vertical dinners over the kitchen counter and trying not to drop crumbs in my textbooks. My dad says he misses me this week, which really just means he’s sad about having to TiVo The Bachelor . I haven’t heard from Blue at all, and I haven’t emailed him either.

Friday’s a big day, I guess. It’s a week before opening night, and we’re performing Oliver! twice in full costume during the school day: freshmen and seniors in the morning, and juniors and sophomores in the afternoon. We have to be at school an hour early to get ready, which means Nora gets stuck hanging out in the auditorium. But Cal puts her to work, and she seems content taping up cast photos on the wall of the atrium, next to some screenshots from the Mark Lester movie version and a super-enlarged list of the cast and crew.