Бекки Алберталли - Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

“I mean, everything. You know everything about me. The wolf T-shirts. The cookie cones. ‘Boom Boom Pow.’”

She cracks a smile.

“And no, I don’t have that kind of a history with Abby. But that’s what made it easier. There’s this huge part of me, and I’m still trying it on. And I don’t know how it fits together. How I fit together. It’s like a new version of me. I just needed someone who could run with that.” I sigh. “But I really wanted to tell you.”

“Okay.”

“It’s just, it got to the point where it was hard to bring it up.”

I stare at the steering wheel.

“I mean, I get that,” she says finally. “I do. It’s like the longer you sit with some shit, the harder it is to talk about.”

We’re both silent for a moment.

“Leah?”

“Yeah?”

“What happened with your dad?” My breath hitches.

“My dad?”

I turn my head toward her.

“Well, it’s kind of a funny story.”

“Yeah?”

“Um. Not really. He hooked up with this hottie nineteen-year-old at his work. And then he left.”

“Oh.” I look at her. “Leah, I’m so freaking sorry.”

I spent six years not asking that question.

God, I’m such an asshole.

“Stop blinking like that,” she says.

“Like what?”

“Don’t you dare cry.”

“What? No way.”

Which is the moment I lose it. Full-on, puff-eyed, snot-faucet crying.

“You’re a mess, Spier.”

“I know!” I sort of collapse into her shoulder. Her almond shampoo smell is so perfectly familiar. “I really love you, you know? I’m so sorry about everything. About the Abby thing. All of it.”

“It’s fine.”

“Really. I love you.”

She sniffs.

“Um, did you get something in your eye, Leah?”

“No. Shut up. You did.”

I wipe my eyes and laugh.

FROM: marty.mcfladdison@gmail.com

TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com

DATE: Jan 29 at 5:24 PM

SUBJECT: sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it

Hey Spier,

I’m assuming you hate me, which would make absolute sense under the circumstances. I don’t even know where to begin with all of this, so I guess I’ll just start by saying I’m sorry. Even though I know that sorry is a completely inadequate word, and maybe I should be doing this in person, but you probably don’t even want to look at me, so I guess it is what it is.

Anyway, I can’t stop thinking about our conversation in the parking lot and what you said about what I took from you. And I really feel like I took something enormous. It’s like I didn’t let myself see it before, but now that I see it, I can’t believe the things I did to you. All of it. The blackmail, and you’re right, it was actually blackmail. And the Tumblr post. I don’t know if you realize, but I took the post down myself before the mods could even deal with it. I know that doesn’t really make it better, but I guess I want you to know that. I just feel sick with guilt about the entire thing, and I’m not even going to ask you to forgive me. I just want you to know how sorry I am.

I don’t even know how to explain it. I’ll try, but it’s probably going to sound stupid, most likely because it is in fact stupid. You should know first that I’m not homophobic and I honestly think gay people are awesome or normal or whatever you prefer. So that’s all good and everything.

Anyway, my brother came out over the summer, right before he went back to Georgetown, and it’s been this huge deal with my whole family. My parents are trying to turn it into this big awesome thing, and so now our house is like this gay utopia. But it’s so totally weird, because Carter’s not even home, and he never actually talks about it even when he is home. My parents and I marched in the Pride Parade this year, and he wasn’t even there, and when I told him about it, he said, “Um, okay, cool,” like maybe it was a bit much. And maybe it was. And that was the weekend before I logged into your email. I guess I was in kind of a weird place.

But I’m probably just making excuses, because maybe it was all about me having a crush on a girl and feeling desperate. And me being jealous of how a girl like Abby could move here and choose to befriend you out of everyone, and you have so many friends already, and I don’t think you even get what a big deal that is. I don’t mean to call you out or insult you or anything. I’m just saying that it seems like it’s so easy for you, and you should know you’re actually really lucky.

So I don’t even know if that makes any sense at all, and you probably stopped reading this ages ago, but I’m just putting all of it out there. And for what it’s worth, I’m so incredibly, impossibly sorry. Anyway, word on the street is that you are now deliriously happy in gay love with one Abraham Greenfeld, and I want you to know that I’m way beyond happy for you. You deserve it completely. You’re an awesome dude, Spier, and it was cool getting to know you. If I could do it again, I would have blackmailed you into being my friend and left it at that.

Extremely sincerely,

Marty Addison

THE TALENT SHOW STARTS AT seven, and Nick and I arrive just as they’re dimming the lights. Bram and Garrett are supposed to be sitting in the back toward the middle, with two seats saved. My eyes find him immediately. He’s twisted all the way around in his chair, watching the door, and he smiles when he sees me.

We squeeze through the row, and I sit beside Bram, with Nick and Garrett on either side of us. “Is that a program?” Nick asks, leaning over me.

“Yup. Want it?” Garrett asks, passing down an already-worn cylinder of paper.

Nick scans through the list of acts, and I know he’s looking for Abby.

“Bet she comes on first or last,” I say.

He smiles. “Second to last.” And then the houselights shut off.

The audience chatter tapers off as the stage lights come up, and Student Council Maddie steps up to the microphone. I lean closer to Bram. And because it’s so dark, I slide a hand onto his knee. I feel him shift quietly as he laces his fingers through mine. He lifts them and presses his lips to the edge of my palm.

He pauses, holding them there. And there’s this fluttery yank below my navel.

Then he lets our intertwined hands fall back onto his lap. And if this is what it’s like having a boyfriend, I don’t know why in God’s name I waited so long.

Onstage, it’s one girl after another. All in short dresses. All singing songs by Adele.

And then it’s Abby’s turn, and she emerges from the wings, dragging a skinny black music stand to the edge of the stage. My eyes cut to Nick, but he doesn’t see me. He’s staring raptly forward, with straight posture and a smile edging his lips. A blond sophomore girl steps out with a violin and sheet music. Then she tucks the violin beneath her chin, and looks at Abby. Who nods at her and inhales, visibly. And the violinist starts to play.

It’s a strange, almost mournful version of “Time After Time.” Abby’s movements convey every note. I’ve never watched anyone dance solo before, beyond the awkward showboating that happens when people circle up at bar mitzvahs. At first, I have no point of reference. In a group, you can look for synchronicity. But Abby controls her own motion; and yet, every movement and gesture feels rich and deliberate and true.

I can’t help but look at Nick as he watches. He smiles quietly into his fist the entire time.

Abby and her violinist finish to surprised, appreciative applause, and then the curtains close partially while the stage is set for the final act. They pull out a drum set, so I guess it’s some kind of band. Maddie takes the mic and makes a bunch of announcements about various ways you can give the student council money. There are a few experimental twangs and booms from behind the curtain as the instruments are plugged in and tested.