Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

I squeeze through my row and back down the stairs, feeling like every eye in the stadium is on me. Then I reach under the banister to tap Cal on the shoulder.

“What’s up, Simon?” he says. I like that he calls me Simon. A lot of the guys call me Spier, and I don’t mind that, but I don’t know. Honestly, I think I would like whatever Cal Price called me.

“Hey,” I say. “Can I join you guys?”

“Definitely.” He scoots over a few feet. “Plenty of room.” And there is—I won’t have to sit on his lap, anyway. It’s actually kind of unfortunate.

I spend a full minute trying to think of something to say. My brain feels foggy.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a game,” Cal says, pushing his bangs out of his eyes.

And seriously, I can’t even. Because Cal’s bangs. Cal’s eyes. The fact that he apparently notices me enough to know I’m not at football games.

“This is my first time,” I say. Because I just have to say the most virginy thing ever.

“That’s cool.” And he’s so calm. He’s not even facing me, because he can talk and watch the game at the same time. “I like coming when I can. I try to make it to homecoming at least.”

I try to think of a way to ask the thing I can’t ask him. Maybe if I mentioned something about the smell of the air, just to see how he would react. But if I said that and Cal really is Blue, he’d know immediately that Jacques is me. And I don’t think I’m ready for that.

I’m so freaking, ridiculously, absurdly curious, though.

“Hey.” Suddenly, someone slides in next to me on the bleacher. It’s Martin. I scoot down automatically to make room.

“Adderall,” some guy behind us grunts, messing up Martin’s hair. Martin grins up at him. Then he smooths his hair back down, or tries to, and chews his lip for a minute.

“What’s up, Spier?”

“Nothing,” I say, and my heart sinks. He turns his body toward mine, and he’s clearly in the mood for a conversation. So much for talking to Cal. So much for the air smelling like possibility.

“Hey, so, this Abby thing.”

“Yeah?”

“I asked her to the dance,” he says, super quietly, “and she shot me down.”

“Okay, um. Sorry. That sucks.”

“Did you know she already had a date?”

“Um, yeah, I think I did know that. Sorry,” I say again. I probably should have gotten around to speaking to Martin about that.

“Could you give me a heads-up next time,” he asks, “so I don’t embarrass myself?” He looks so miserable. I feel weirdly guilty. Even though he’s blackmailing me, I feel guilty. So that’s a little fucked up.

“I don’t think they’re like boyfriend-girlfriend,” I say.

“Whatever,” he says. I look at him. I don’t know if he’s giving up on Abby, or what. And if he does give up on her—what happens to the emails? Maybe he gets to hold them over my head forever.

I actually can’t think of anything worse than that.



8

FROM: [email protected] TO: [email protected] DATE: Nov 11 at 11:45 PM

SUBJECT: Re: all of the above Blue,

Okay, first of all, Oreos absolutely qualify as a food group. Second of all, they’re the ONLY food group that matters. My sisters and I actually made up this place called the Shoreo a few years ago one night when we were staying at our aunt’s house. It’s like this place where everything is made of some kind of Oreo, and the river is an Oreo milk shake, and you sit on top of this massive Oreo and float down it. You get to scoop up cups of milk shake whenever you want. It’s kind of like that scene in Willy Wonka, I guess. Who the hell knows what we were thinking. We were probably just hungry that night. My aunt is a really shitty cook.

Anyway, I forgive you for your ignorance. I know you didn’t realize you were talking to an expert.

—Jacques

FROM: [email protected] TO: [email protected] DATE: Nov 12 at 5:37 PM

SUBJECT: Re: all of the above Jacques,

It’s true, I had no idea I was talking to such an Oreo connoisseur. The Shoreo sounds like a magical place. So, Doctor, how many servings of Oreo products are necessary for a balanced diet?

I’m getting the impression that you have a bit of a sweet tooth.

—Blue

FROM: [email protected] TO: [email protected] DATE: Nov 13 at 7:55 PM

SUBJECT: Sweet tooth?

I can’t imagine why you’d think that.