Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

Now you should go download “Oh Well, Okay” and “Between the Bars.” I’m just saying.

So, I hate to say it, but it’s probably a waste of your time to try to figure out who I am by looking at the bands on people’s T-shirts. I almost never wear band T-shirts, even though I kind of wish I did. I think, for me, listening to music is a very solitary thing. Or maybe that’s just something people say when they’re too lame to go to live shows. Either way, I am basically glued to my iPod, but I haven’t really seen anyone live, and then I end up feeling like wearing a band’s shirt without going to their show would be kind of like cheating. Does that make sense? For some reason, the whole thought of ordering some band’s shirt online makes me feel weirdly embarrassed. Like maybe the musician wouldn’t respect it. I don’t know.

Anyway, all things considered, I agree that this was a far more satisfying use of my time than writing English essays. You are very distracting.

—Jacques

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected] DATE: Dec 3 at 5:20 PM

SUBJECT: Re: I should be . . .

Jacques,

About you not knowing I was Jewish—I know I’ve never mentioned it. I’m not even Jewish, technically, because Judaism is matrilineal, and my mom’s Episcopalian. Anyway, I still haven’t decided if I’m really going to go through with it. It wasn’t something I thought I’d be ready to do anytime soon. I don’t know why, but lately, I’ve just felt this urge to put it out there. Maybe I just want to get it over with. What about you? Have you thought about the Coming Out Thing?

It gets complicated when you bring religion into the equation. Technically, Jews and Episcopalians are supposed to be gay-friendly, but it’s hard to really know how that applies to your own parents. Like, you read about these gay kids with really churchy Catholic parents, and the parents end up doing PFLAG and Pride Parades and everything. And then you hear about parents who are totally fine with homosexuality, but can’t handle it when their own kid comes out. You just never know.

I think instead of downloading the Elliott Smith songs you mentioned, I’ll just drop a hint to my dad that I want a couple of his albums for Hotel Hanukkah. I guarantee you that he has about six of my presents picked out, and is desperate for some kind of hint about what else he should be getting me.

So, I know you and I can’t really buy each other gifts in real life, but just know that if I could, I would order you all kinds of band T-shirts online. Even if it meant losing the respect of musicians everywhere (because I’m sure that’s how it works, Jacques). Or we could just go to a live show. I mean, I don’t actually know anything about music, but I’m guessing it would be fun if it was with you. Maybe one day.

I’m glad that you find me distracting. It wouldn’t be fair, otherwise.

—Blue



13

IT’S THURSDAY, AND I’M IN history class, and apparently Ms. Dillinger just asked me a question, because everyone is looking at me like I owe them something. So now I’m blushing and trying to bullshit my way through it, and judging by her twisty, teacherly frown, I don’t think it’s going very well.

I mean, when you think about it, it’s a little fucked up that teachers think they get to dictate what you think about. It’s not enough if you just sit there quietly and let them teach. It’s like they think they have a right to control your mind.

I don’t want to think about the War of 1812. I don’t want to know what the hell was so impressive to a bunch of freaking sailors.

What I want is to sit here and think about Blue. I think I’m starting to get a little obsessed with him. On one hand, he’s so careful all the time about not giving me details about himself—and then he turns around and tells me all kinds of personal stuff, and it’s the kind of stuff that I could totally use to figure out his identity if I really wanted to. And I do want to. But I also don’t. It’s just so totally confusing. He’s confusing.

“Simon!” Abby taps me frantically from behind. “I need a pen.”

I hand one back to her, and she thanks me under her breath. I look around and realize that everyone is writing. Ms. Dillinger has written a website address down on the board. I don’t know what the heck it’s for, but I guess I’ll find out when I get around to looking it up. I copy the address into the margin of my notes, and then outline it in zigzags like a comic book POW!