Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

All right—I have a sneaking suspicion that you’re not 100% committed to your Oreo diet. The guidelines are really pretty basic. No excuses. Breakfast is obviously an Oreo granola bar or Oreo Pop-Tart. No, they’re not gross. Shut up. They’re amazing. Lunch should be Oreo pizza with an Oreo milk shake and a couple of those Oreo truffles my mom makes (a.k.a. the most delicious freaking things in the universe). Dinner is deep-fried Oreos served on top of Oreo ice cream, and for a drink, it’s Oreos dissolved in milk. No water. Only Oreo milk. Dessert can be Oreos straight up. Sound reasonable? It’s for your health, Blue.

I swear to God, typing this is actually making me hungry. This totally used to happen to me when I was younger. Isn’t it funny the way you fantasize about junk food when you’re a kid? It’s really all-consuming. I guess you have to obsess about something before you know about sex.

—Dr. Jacques

FROM: [email protected] TO: [email protected] DATE: Nov 14 at 10:57 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Sweet tooth?

Jacques,

I really appreciate you looking out for my health. It will be hard, but I know my body will thank me. Seriously, I can’t argue with the fact that Oreos are extremely delicious, and the menu you described actually sounds amazing. Although, for me, I’ll have to leave out the deep-fried Oreo dinner. I made the mistake of eating one once at a carnival right before going on the Tilt-A-Whirl. I’ll spare you the details, but let it be said that people who get nauseated easily have no business riding the Tilt-A-Whirl. I haven’t been able to look at deep-fried Oreos the same way since. Sorry to even have to tell you that. I know Oreos are really important to you.

I have to admit I like to imagine you as a kid fantasizing about junk food. I also like to imagine you now fantasizing about sex. I can’t believe I just wrote that. I can’t believe I’m hitting send.

—Blue



9

HE LIKES TO IMAGINE ME fantasizing about sex.

That’s something I probably shouldn’t have read right before bed. I lie here in the pitch-darkness, reading that particular line on my phone again and again. I’m jittery and awake and completely in knots, all from an email. And I’m hard. So, that’s kind of strange.

It’s really confusing. A good kind of confusing. Blue is normally so careful about what he writes.

He likes to imagine me fantasizing about sex!

I thought I was the only one who had those kinds of thoughts about us.

I wonder what it would be like to meet him in person, after all this time. Would we even have to speak? Would we go straight into making out? I think I can picture it. He’s in my bedroom, and we’re totally alone. He sits beside me on the bed and turns to look at me with his blue-green eyes. Cal Price’s eyes. And then his hands cup my face, and all of a sudden, he’s kissing me.

My hands cup my face. Well. My left hand cups my face. My right hand is occupied.

I picture it. He kisses me, and it’s nothing like Rachel or Anna or Carys. I can’t even. It’s not even in the same stratosphere. There’s this electric tingly feeling radiating through my whole body and my brain has gone fuzzy and I actually think I can hear my heartbeat.

I have to be so, so quiet. Nora’s on the other side of the wall.

His tongue is in my mouth. His hands slide up under my shirt, and he trails his fingers across my chest. I’m so close. It’s almost unbearable. God. Blue.

My whole body turns to jelly.

On Monday, Leah intercepts me as I walk into school.

“Hey,” she says. “Nora, I’m stealing him.”

“What’s up?” I ask. The ground slopes, and there’s this concrete ledge that curves around the courtyard. Parts of it are just low enough to the ground that it makes a kind of shelf for your butt.

Leah avoids my eyes. “I made you a mix,” she says, handing me a CD in a clear plastic case. “You can load it onto your iPod when you get home. Whatever.”

I turn the case over in my hands. Instead of a track list, Leah has composed what appears to be a haiku:

Wrinkled neck, gray hair

Sorry to say this, Simon

But you’re fucking old.

“Leah. It’s so beautiful.”

“Yeah, okay.” She scoots backward on the ledge and leans back on her hands, looking at me. “All right. Are we cool?”

I nod. “You mean about . . .”

“About you guys ditching me on homecoming.”

“I’m really sorry, Leah.”

The edges of her mouth tug up. “You’re so freaking lucky it’s your birthday.”

And then she pulls a cone-shaped party hat out of her bag and straps it onto my head.

“Sorry if I overreacted,” she adds.

There’s a massive sheet cake at lunch, and when I get to the table, everyone is wearing party hats. That’s the tradition. No one gets cake without the hat. Garrett seems to be gunning for two pieces, actually. He’s got a pair of cones strapped onto his head like horns.

“Siiimon,” Abby says, except she actually sings it in this low, husky opera voice. “Hands out, eyes closed.” I feel something nearly weightless drop onto my palm. I open my eyes, and it’s a piece of paper folded into a bow tie and colored in with a gold crayon.

A couple of people from other tables look at us, and I feel myself grinning and blushing. “Should I wear it?”

“Uh, yeah,” she says. “You have to. Golden bow tie for your golden birthday.”

“My what?”