Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

I’m a little hung up on Blue’s parents being religious. I feel like a freaking moron, honestly, because I’m basically the most blasphemous person in the world. Like, I don’t even know how not to use the Lord’s name in vain. But maybe it’s not a big deal to him. Him being Blue, not the Lord. I mean, Blue’s still emailing me, so I guess he couldn’t have been too offended.

Ms. Dillinger gives us a break, but it’s not the kind of break where you can go anywhere, so I just sit and stare into space. Abby comes over and kneels and rests her chin on my desk. “Hey. Where are you today?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re like a million miles away.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Martin climbing over someone’s chair to join us. Every time. I swear to God.

“What’s up, guys?”

“Haha,” says Abby. “Your shirt is hilarious.” Martin is wearing a T-shirt that says “Talk nerdy to me.”

“Are you guys going to rehearsal today?”

“Oh, it’s optional now?” I ask. And then I do this thing I picked up from Leah, where you kind of cut your eyes to the side and narrow them. It’s more subtle than rolling your eyes. Much more effective.

Martin just looks at me.

“Yeah, we’re going,” Abby says, after a moment.

“Yeah. Spier,” Martin says suddenly, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” His cheeks have gone pink, and a red blotch unfurls around the collar of his T-shirt. “I’ve been thinking. I really want to introduce you to my brother. I think you guys have a lot in common.”

Blood rushes to my face, and I feel that familiar fucking prickle behind my eyes. He’s threatening me again.

“That’s so cute,” Abby says. She looks back and forth from Martin to me.

“Oh, it’s adorable,” I say. I stare Martin down, but he turns away quickly, looking miserable. Seriously? That asshole deserves to feel miserable.

“Yeah, well.” Martin shuffles his feet, still staring at this random point over my shoulder. “I’m just going to . . .”

I’m just going to talk about your sexual orientation now like it’s my business, Simon. I’m just going to tell the whole goddamned school right here, right now, because I’m an asshole, and that’s just how it’s going to go down.

“Hey, wait,” I say. “This is random, but I was just thinking. Do you guys want to go to Waffle House tomorrow, after school? I could quiz you on your lines.”

I hate myself. I hate myself.

“I mean, if you can’t—”

“Oh my gosh. Seriously, Simon? That would be awesome. Tomorrow after school, right? I actually think I can get my mom’s car.” Abby smiles and pokes me in the cheek.

“Yeah, thanks, Simon,” Martin says quietly. “That would be great.”

“Great,” I say.

I’m officially doing it. I’m letting Martin Addison blackmail me. I don’t even know how I feel. Disgusted with myself. Relieved.

“You’re seriously amazing, Simon,” says Abby.

I’m not. At all.

And now it’s Friday night, and I’m on my second plate of hash browns, and Martin won’t stop asking Abby questions. I think it’s his way of flirting.

“Do you like waffles?”

“I do like waffles,” she says. “That’s why I got them.”

“Oh,” he says, and there’s a lot of wild, unnecessary nodding. He’s basically a Muppet.

They’re sitting next to each other, and I’m across from them, and we’ve managed to get the booth back near the bathrooms where no one really bothers you. It’s not all that crowded for a Friday night. There’s a pissed-off-looking middle-aged couple in the booth behind us, two hipster guys at the counter, and a couple of girls in private school uniforms eating toast.

“Aren’t you from DC?”

“Yes.”

“That’s cool. What part?”

“Takoma Park,” she says. “You know DC?”

“I mean, not really. My brother’s a sophomore at Georgetown,” Martin says.

Martin and his freaking brother.

“Are you okay, Simon?” asks Abby. “Drink some water!”

Can’t stop coughing. And now Martin’s offering me his water. Pushing it toward me. Martin can freaking bite me. Seriously. Like he’s so calm and collected.

He turns back to Abby. “So, you live with your mom?”

She nods.

“What about your dad?” he says.

“He’s still in DC.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Abby says, with a short laugh. “If my dad lived in Atlanta, I wouldn’t be hanging out with you guys right now.”

“Oh, is he really strict?” asks Martin.

“Yup,” she says. Her eyes cut toward me. “So, do you think we should start Act Two?”

Martin stretches and yawns in this weird vertical maneuver, and I watch as he attempts to position his arm next to Abby’s on the table. Abby pulls her arm away immediately and scratches her shoulder.

I mean, it’s pretty terrible to watch. Terrible and fascinating.

We run through the scene. Speaking of disasters. I don’t have a speaking part, so I shouldn’t judge. And I know they’re trying. But we’re having to stop at every freaking line, and it’s getting a little ridiculous.

“He got took away,” Abby says, covering her script with one hand.

I nod at her. “Got took away in a . . .”

She squeezes her eyes shut. “In a . . . coach?”