Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

Just so you know, your being cute isn’t the reason you’re easy to talk to, because it really should be the opposite. In real life, I go totally silent around cute guys. I just freeze up. I can’t help it. But I know the real reason you were asking was because you wanted to hear me call you cute again, so I will. You’re cute, Jacques. And I guess you do have a thing about sentence fragments, but I sort of love it.

So, I’m not sure whether you meant to tell me your English teacher’s name. You’re dropping a lot of clues, Jacques. Sometimes I wonder if you drop more clues than you mean to.

Anyway, thanks for listening. Thanks for everything. It was such a strange, surreal weekend, but talking to you about it made it so much better.

—Blue

FROM: [email protected] TO: [email protected] DATE: Dec 10 at 7:11 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Coming Out Thing Blue,

Arg—yeah. Mentioning Mr. Wise was not intentional. I guess you can really narrow things down in a major way, if you choose to. I feel kind of strange about that. Sorry I’m such a huge freaking idiot.

So, who are all these cute guys who make you so nervous? They can’t be that cute. You better not love THEIR sentence fragments.

Keep me posted about all forthcoming conversations with your mom, okay?

—Jacques



15

I GUESS WE’RE MAKING THIS our thing. Reading Dickens at the WaHo. Abby doesn’t have a car tonight, so she comes home with me after school on Friday and brings her overnight bag. I know it must suck for Abby living so far away, but I kind of love our sleepovers.

Predictably, we arrive before Martin. It’s more crowded tonight. We get a table, but it’s near the entrance, so it already feels like we’re under a spotlight. Abby sits down across from me and immediately gets to work building this fussy little house out of jam and sugar pouches.

Martin bursts in, and within sixty seconds, he changes his drink order twice, burps, and manages to level Abby’s sugar house with an overly enthusiastic finger poke. “Arg. Sorry. Sorry,” he says.

Abby shoots me a quick smile.

“And I forgot my script. Crap.”

He’s on a freaking roll tonight.

“You can look on with me,” says Abby, scooting closer to him. The look on Martin’s face. I almost start laughing.

We dive straight into Act Two, and it’s a little bit less of a disaster than it was a week ago. At least I don’t have to prompt every single line this time. My mind starts to wander.

I’m thinking about Blue—always Blue—because really, my mind only wanders in one direction. I got another email from him this morning. Lately, we’ve been emailing almost every day, and it’s a little crazy how much he’s been on my mind. I almost fucked up a chem lab today because I was emailing Blue in my head and I kind of forgot I was pouring nitric acid.

It’s weird, because Blue’s emails used to be this extra thing that was separate from my actual life. But now I think maybe the emails are my life. Everything else sort of feels like I’m slogging through a dream.

“Oh my gosh, Marty. No,” says Abby, “just no.”

Because, suddenly, Martin is kneeling in the booth, head flung back, clutching his chest, and singing. He’s just launched into this big awesome number from the second act of the play. I mean, it’s his full-on Fagin voice—low and trembly and vaguely British. And he’s completely swept away in the moment.

People are gaping at us. And I’m speechless. Abby and I just stare at each other in the most stunned holy awkward silence that’s ever unfolded.

He sings the entire song. I guess he’s been practicing. And then—I’m not even kidding. He slides back down into his seat like nothing happened and starts pouring syrup on his waffle.

“I don’t even know what to say to you,” says Abby. And then she sighs. And then she hugs him.

Honest to God, he’s like a freaking anime character. I can almost see hearts popping out of his eyes. He catches my eye, and his big banana mouth is just beaming. I can’t help but grin back at him.

Maybe he’s my blackmailer. Maybe he’s also becoming my friend. Who the hell knows if that’s even allowed.

Or maybe it’s just that I’m feeling weirdly amped up and excited. I don’t know how to explain it. Everything is funny. Martin is funny. Martin singing at Waffle House is entirely, incomprehensibly hilarious.

Two hours later, we wave good-bye to him in the parking lot, and Abby tucks into my passenger seat. The sky is dark and clear, and we shiver for a minute while we wait for the heat to kick in. I back out of the spot and pull onto Roswell Road.

“Who’s this?” Abby asks.

“Rilo Kiley.”

“I don’t know them.” She yawns.

We’re listening to the birthday mix Leah made me, which includes three Rilo Kiley songs from their first two albums. Leah has a girlcrush on Jenny Lewis. You can’t not have a crush on Jenny Lewis. I’m twenty years younger than her and unquestionably gay, but yeah. I’d make out with her.

“Martin tonight,” Abby says, shaking her head.

“What a weirdo.”

“Kind of a cute weirdo,” she says.

I make the left onto Shady Creek Circle. The car has warmed up, and the streets are almost empty, and everything feels quiet and cozy and safe.

“Definitely cute,” she decides, “though, sadly, not my type.”