Бекки Алберталли - Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

“Oh my gosh. Look at you.”

“What?” I ask.

“Blushing.” She pokes my cheeks. “I’m sorry, but you’re so cute, I can’t even stand it. Just go. Keep walking.”

Bram and I have English and algebra together, which basically amounts to two hours of staring longingly at his mouth and five hours of longingly imagining his mouth. Instead of lunch, we sneak into the auditorium, and it’s strange seeing the stage stripped of the set for Oliver! The school talent show is on Friday, and someone’s already hung spangled gold tassels in front of the curtains.

We’re alone in the theater, but it feels too big, so I take Bram by the hand and pull him into the boys’ dressing room.

“Aha,” he says as I fiddle with the latch. “This is a doors-locked kind of activity.”

“Yup,” I say, and then I kiss him.

His hands fall to my waist, and he pulls me in closer. He’s only a few inches taller than me, and he smells like Dove soap, and for someone whose kissing career began yesterday, he has seriously magical lips. Soft and sweet and lingering. He kisses like Elliott Smith sings.

And then we pull out chairs, and I twist mine around sideways so I can rest my legs across his lap. And he drums his hands across my shins, and we talk about everything. Little Fetus being the size of a sweet potato. Frank Ocean being gay.

“Oh, and guess who was apparently bisexual,” Bram says.

“Who?”

“Casanova.”

“Freaking Casanova?”

“For real,” he says. “According to my dad.”

“You’re telling me,” I say, kissing his fist, “that your dad told you Casanova was bisexual.”

“It was his response to me coming out.”

“Your dad is amazing.”

“Amazingly awkward.”

I love his wry smile. I love watching him relax around me. I mean, I love this. Everything. He leans forward to scratch his ankle, and my heart just twists. The golden brown skin on the nape of his neck.

Everything.

I float through the rest of the day, and he’s all I can think about. And then I text him as soon as I get home. Miss you sooooo much!!!

I mean, it’s a joke. Mostly.

He texts back immediately. Happy two day anniversary!!!!!!

Which makes me cackle at the kitchen table.

“You’re in a good mood,” says my mom, walking in with Bieber.

I shrug.

She shoots me this curious half smile. “All right, well, don’t feel like you have to talk about it, but I’m just saying. If you wanted to . . .”

Freaking psychologists. So much for not being weird and obsessed.

I hear a car pull into the driveway. “Nora’s home already?” I ask. It’s funny, but I’ve gotten used to her being gone until dinner.

I look out the window and do a double take. I mean, Nora’s home. But the car. The driver.

“Is that Leah?” I ask. “Driving Nora?”

“Appears to be.”

“Okay, yeah. I have to go out there.”

“Oh no,” she says. “Too bad you’re grounded.”

“Mom,” I say.

She tips her palms up.

“Come on. Please.” Already, Nora’s opening the car door.

“I’m open to negotiating,” she says.

“For what?”

“One night of parole in exchange for ten minutes of access to your Facebook.”

Jesus Christ.

“Five,” I say. “Supervised.”

“You got it,” she says. “But I want to see the boyfriend.”

So yeah. At least one of my sisters is about to get murdered.

But first: Leah. I sprint out the door.

Nora’s face whips toward me in surprise, but I run straight past her, panting, as I reach the passenger side door. Before Leah can object, I pull it open and climb inside.

Bram’s car is old, but Leah’s car is a Flintstones relic. I mean, it has a tape deck and crank windows. There’s a line of plush anime characters on the dashboard, and the floor is always littered with papers and empty Coke bottles. And there’s that floral grandmother smell.

I actually sort of love Leah’s car.

Leah looks at me in disbelief. I mean, waves of stink-eye roll off of her. “Get the hell out of my car,” she says.

“I want to talk.”

“Okay, well, I don’t.”

I click in my seat belt. “Take me to Waffle House.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Not even a little bit.” I lean back into the seat.

“So you’re carjacking me.”

“Oh,” I say, “I guess so.”

“Fucking unbelievable.” She shakes her head. But a moment later, she starts driving. She stares straight ahead with her mouth in a line, and she doesn’t say a word.

“I know you’re pissed at me,” I say.

Nothing.

“And I’m sorry about Midtown. I really am.”

Still.

“Will you just say something?”

“We’re here.” She puts the car in park. The lot is almost empty. “You can get your fucking waffle or whatever.”

“You’re coming with me,” I say.

“Um, yeah, no.”

“Okay, then don’t. But I’m not going in without you.”

“Not my problem.”

“Fine,” I say. “We’ll talk here.” I unlatch my seat belt and turn toward her.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“So, what? That’s it? We’re just not going to be friends anymore?”

She leans back and shuts her eyes. “Aww. Maybe you should go cry about it to Abby.”

“Okay, seriously?” I say. “What the hell is your problem with her?” I’m not trying to raise my voice, but it comes out booming.

“I don’t have a problem with her,” Leah says. “I just don’t know why we’re suddenly best friends with her.”

“Well, because she’s Nick’s girlfriend, for one thing.”

Leah whips her head toward me like I’ve slapped her.

“That’s right. Keep making this about Nick,” she says, “and we can all just fucking forget that you’re obsessed with her, too.”

“Are you kidding me? I’m gay!”

“You’re platonically obsessed with her!” she yells. “It’s cool, though. She’s such a fucking upgrade.”

“What?”

“Female best friend four-point-fucking-oh. Now available in the prettiest, perkiest package ever!”

“Oh, for the love of God,” I say. “You’re pretty.”

She laughs. “All right.”

“Seriously, just stop it. I’m so fucking tired of this.” I look at her. “She’s not an upgrade. You’re my best friend.”

She snorts.

“Well, you are. Both of you. And Nick. All three of you,” I say. “But I could never replace you. You’re Leah.”

“Then why did you come out to her first?” she says.

“Leah,” I say.

“Just—whatever. I don’t have the right to give a shit.”

“Stop saying that. You can give all kinds of shits.”

She’s quiet. And then I’m quiet. And then she says, “It was just so, I don’t know. It was obvious that Nick liked her. None of that’s been a fucking surprise. But when you told her first, it was like, I didn’t even see that coming. I thought you trusted me.”

“I do,” I say.

“Well, apparently you trust her more,” she says, “which is awesome, because how long have you known her? Six months? You’ve known me for six years.”

And I don’t know what to say. There’s a lump in my throat.

“But whatever,” she says. “I can’t—you know. It’s your thing.”

“I mean.” I swallow. “Yeah, it was easier to tell her. But it’s not about trusting her more or you more or anything like that. You don’t even know.” My eyes prickle. “It’s like, yeah. I’ve known you forever, and Nick even longer. You guys know me better than anyone. You know me too well,” I say.

She grips the steering wheel and avoids my eyes.