Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

Today has been pretty freaking great actually. I’m trying not to think about what a zombie I’ll be tomorrow. Of course I have five quizzes in the next two days including one in une autre langue that I suck at completement. LE FUCK.

So didn’t there used to be a reality show where people had to date each other in pitch-darkness? We should do that. We should find a room somewhere that’s totally dark and then we could hang out and it would be totally anonymous. That way we wouldn’t ruin anything. What do you think?

—Jacques

FROM: [email protected] TO: [email protected] DATE: Nov 18 at 7:15 AM

SUBJECT: Re: Why why why?

Zombie Jacques,

I don’t know what to say. On one hand, I’m sorry you’re pretty much guaranteed a shitty day today, and I really hope you were able to squeeze in at least an hour or two of sleep. On the other hand, you’re pretty cute when you’re exhausted. And, by the way, you were very coherent and grammatical for four in the morning.

Hang in there today with the quizzes, though, and just power through. Bonne chance, Jacques. I’m rooting for you.

I have absolutely never heard of that show. I guess I don’t know all that much about reality TV. It’s an interesting concept, but how would we keep from recognizing each other’s voices?

—Blue

FROM: [email protected] TO: [email protected] DATE: Nov 18 at 7:32 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Why why why?

So, I’m a little scared to read what I wrote to you last night. I’m glad I was cute and grammatical. I think you’re cute and grammatical, too. Anyway, I don’t know what the hell that was all about. Too much sugar yesterday, I guess. Sorry sorry sorry.

Yeah. I’m still so totally brain-dead. I don’t even want to think about how I did on my quizzes.

Don’t know much about reality TV? You mean your parents don’t make you watch it? Because mine do. And I bet you think I’m kidding.

You bring up a good point about our voices. I guess we would have to use some kind of robotic megaphone to warp them so they sound like Darth Vader. Or we could just do other things instead of talking. I mean. I’m just saying.

—Your Zombie Jacques



11

IT’S THE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING, and Alice is home, and we’re on the back porch after dinner. It’s actually warm enough for hoodies and pajama pants and leftover ice cream cake and Scattergories.

“All right. Famous duos and trios?”

“Abbott and Costello,” says my mom.

Nora and I both say “Adam and Eve.” It’s a little surprising, considering we’re probably the only family in the South without a Bible.

“The Axis powers,” says my dad, and you can tell he’s so proud of that one.

“Alice and the Chipmunks,” says Alice, casually, and all of us just lose it. I don’t know. The Chipmunks are kind of our thing. We had the voices perfected and the theme song choreographed, and we used to do these performances on the ledge in front of the fireplace. It seriously went on for years. Our lucky parents. Though, they’re the ones who named us Alice, Simon, and Eleanor, which means they were basically asking for it.

Alice rubs Bieber’s back with her feet, and her socks don’t match, and it’s almost impossible to believe that this is the first time she’s been home in three months. I don’t think I realized until this moment how weird it’s been without her.

Nora must be thinking the same thing I am, because she says, “I can’t believe you have to go back in two days.”

Alice purses her lips for a minute, but doesn’t speak. The air feels chilly, and I slide my hands into the sleeves of my hoodie. But then my phone buzzes.

Text from Monkey’s Asshole: hey is there anything going on this weekend

A moment later: like with Abby I mean

It seems Martin doesn’t give a shit about punctuation, which is totally not surprising.

I write back: Sorry, family stuff. Sister’s in town.

His instantaneous reply: its cool spier, my brother’s in town too. He says hi ;)

And I don’t even know if it’s supposed to be a joke or a threat or what, but I hate him. I seriously fucking hate him right now.

“Hey,” Alice says, eventually, tucking her legs up onto her chair. Our parents have gone to bed, and it’s definitely getting colder out here. “I don’t know if anyone’s still hungry, but I have like three-quarters of a box of Chips Ahoy! still sitting in my carry-on bag. Just putting that out there.”

Thank God for Alice.

Thank God for Chips Ahoy!

I’m going to have an awesome night with my sisters, and I’m going to stuff my face with cookies, and I’m definitely going to forget about Monkey’s Asshole and his shady little winky emoticon. We relocate to the living room couch, and Bieber passes out cold with the whole front end of his body in Alice’s lap.

“Anyone want a Nick Eisner?” Nora asks.

“Are you serious? Yes. Go get the peanut butter,” says Alice in her bossy voice.

A Nick Eisner is a cookie with a random glop of peanut butter on top, because when we were five, Nick thought that’s what people meant by peanut butter cookies. Admittedly, they’re delicious. But in my family, you never live something like that down.