Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

We’re both quiet.

“I just think we’re in a position to help each other out,” Martin finally says.

I swallow, thickly.

“Paging Marty,” Ms. Albright calls from the stage. “Act Two, Scene Three.”

“So, just think about it.” He dismounts his chair.

“Oh yeah. I mean, this is so goddamn awesome,” I say.

He looks at me. And there’s this silence.

“I don’t know what the hell you want me to say,” I add finally.

“Well, whatever.” He shrugs. And I don’t think I’ve ever been so ready for someone to leave. But as his fingers graze the curtains, he turns to me.

“Just curious,” he says. “Who’s Blue?”

“No one. He lives in California.”

If Martin thinks I’m selling out Blue, he’s fucking crazy.

Blue doesn’t live in California. He lives in Shady Creek, and he goes to our school. Blue isn’t his real name.

He’s someone. He may even be someone I know. But I don’t know who. And I’m not sure I want to know.

And I’m seriously not in the mood to deal with my family. I probably have about an hour until dinner, which means an hour of trying to spin my school day into a string of hilarious anecdotes. My parents are like that. It’s like you can’t just tell them about your French teacher’s obvious wedgie, or Garrett dropping his tray in the cafeteria. You have to perform it. Talking to them is more exhausting than keeping a blog.

It’s funny, though. I used to love the chatter and chaos before dinner. Now it seems like I can’t get out the door fast enough. Today especially. I stop only long enough to click the leash onto Bieber’s collar and get him out the door.

I’m trying to lose myself in Tegan and Sara on my iPod. But I can’t stop thinking about Blue and Martin Addison and the holy awfulness of today’s rehearsal.

So Martin is into Abby, just like every other geeky straight boy in Advanced Placement. And really, all he wants is for me to let him tag along when I hang out with her. It doesn’t seem like a huge deal when I think about it that way.

Except for the fact that he’s blackmailing me. And by extension, he’s blackmailing Blue. That’s the part that makes me want to kick something.

But Tegan and Sara help. Walking to Nick’s helps. The air has that crisp, early fall feeling, and people are already lining their steps with pumpkins. I love that. I’ve loved it since I was a kid.

Bieber and I cut around to Nick’s backyard and through the basement. There’s a massive TV facing the door, on which Templars are being brutalized. Nick and Leah have taken over a pair of rocking video game chairs. They look like they haven’t moved all afternoon.

Nick pauses the game when I walk in. That’s something about Nick. He won’t put down a guitar for you, but he’ll pause a video game.

“Bieber!” says Leah. Within seconds, he perches awkwardly with his butt in her lap, tongue out and leg thumping. He’s so freaking shameless around Leah.

“No, it’s cool. Just greet the dog. Pretend I’m not here.”

“Aww, do you need me to scratch your ears, too?”

I crack a smile. This is good; things are normal. “Did you find the traitor?” I ask.

“Killed him.” He pats the controller.

“Nice.”

Seriously, there is no part of me that cares about the welfare of assassins or Templars or any game character ever. But I think I need this. I need the violence of video games and the smell of this basement and the familiarity of Nick and Leah. The rhythm of our speech and silences. The aimlessness of mid-October afternoons.

“Simon, Nick hasn’t heard about le wedgie.”

“Ohhhh. Le wedgie. C’est une histoire touchante.”

“English, please?” says Nick.

“Or pantomime,” Leah says.

As it turns out, I’m kind of awesome at reenacting epic wedgies.

So maybe I do like to perform. A little.

I think I’m getting that Nick-and-Leah sixth-grade field trip feeling. I don’t know how to explain it. But when it’s just the three of us, we have these perfect, stupid moments. Martin Addison doesn’t exist in this kind of moment. Secrets don’t exist.

Stupid. Perfect.

Leah rips up a paper straw wrapper, and they’re both holding giant Styrofoam cups of sweet tea from Chick-fil-A. I actually haven’t been to Chick-fil-A for a while. My sister heard they donate money to screw over gay people, and I guess it started to feel weird eating there. Even if their Oreo milk shakes are giant vessels of frothy deliciousness. Not that I can bring that up with Nick and Leah. I don’t exactly talk about gay stuff with anyone. Except Blue.

Nick takes a swig of his tea and yawns, and Leah immediately tries to launch a little paper wad into his mouth. But Nick clamps his mouth shut, blocking it.

She shrugs. “Just keep on yawning, sleepyhead.”

“Why are you so tired?”

“Because I party hard. All night. Every night,” Nick says.