Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

“Awesome,” she says. And I just kind of shrug. I give precisely zero shits about video games.

I lie on the carpet next to Bieber, who is on his back looking absurd with his lips flapped up over his gums. Nick and Leah end up talking about Doctor Who, and Leah tucks into the video game chair, tugging the frayed hem of her jeans. Her cheeks are sort of pink behind her freckles, and she’s making some point and getting really animated about it. They’re both totally absorbed in the philosophy of time travel. So I let my eyes slide closed. And I think about Blue.

Okay. I have a crush. But it’s not like having a crush on some random musician or actor or Harry freaking Potter. This is the real deal. It has to be. It’s almost debilitating.

I mean, I’m lying here on Nick’s basement carpet, the site of so many Power Rangers transformations and lightsaber battles and spilled cups of juice—and all I want in the entire world is for Blue’s next email to arrive. And Nick and Leah are still talking about the freaking TARDIS. They don’t have a clue. They don’t even know I’m gay.

And I don’t know how to do this. Ever since I told Abby on Friday, I kind of thought it would be easy to tell Leah and Nick. Easier, anyway, now that my mouth is used to saying the words.

It’s not easier. It’s impossible. Because even though it feels like I’ve known Abby forever, I really only met her four months ago. And I guess there hasn’t been time for her to have any set ideas about me yet. But I’ve known Leah since sixth grade, and Nick since we were four. And this gay thing. It feels so big. It’s almost insurmountable. I don’t know how to tell them something like this and still come out of it feeling like Simon. Because if Leah and Nick don’t recognize me, I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

My phone buzzes. Text from Monkey’s Asshole: hey maybe another Waffle House thing soon?

I ignore it.

I hate feeling so distant from Nick and Leah. It’s not like keeping a normal crush a secret, because we never talk about our crushes anyway, and it works out fine. Even Leah’s crush on Nick. I see it, and I’m sure Nick sees it, but there’s this unspoken agreement that we never talk about it.

I don’t know why the gay thing isn’t like that. I don’t know why keeping it from them makes me feel like I’m living a secret life.

My phone starts vibrating, and it’s my dad calling. Which probably means dinner is on the table.

I hate that I feel so relieved.

I really am going to tell Nick and Leah eventually.

I spend the first Saturday of Christmas break at school. Everyone sits in a circle on the stage in pajamas, eating donut holes and drinking coffee out of Styrofoam cups. Except I’m next to Abby at the edge of the stage. My feet dangle over the orchestra pit, and her legs are in my lap.

My fingers are sticky with powdered sugar. I feel so far away. I stare at the bricks. Some of the bricks on the back wall of the auditorium are a darker shade, almost brown, and they form this double helix design. It’s just so random. But so weirdly deliberate.

Double helixes are interesting. Deoxyribonucleic acid. I’ll think about that.

Trying not to think about something is like playing freaking Whac-a-Mole. Every time you push one thought down, another one nudges its way to the surface.

I guess there are two moles. One is the fact that I’ve hung out with Nick and Leah after rehearsal three days this week, which means three chances to tell them about the gay thing, and three times wussing out. And then there’s Blue, with his perfect grammar, who has no freaking clue how many times I proofread every email I send to him. Blue, who is so guarded and yet so surprisingly flirtatious sometimes. Who thinks about sex, and thinks about it with me.

But, you know: double helixes. Twisty, loopy, double helixes.

Martin walks in through the doors in the back of the auditorium. He’s wearing a long, old-fashioned nightgown and curlers.

“Oh. Wow. He really—okay.” Abby nods, grinning up at Martin, who does a pirouette and immediately gets tangled in his nightgown. But he catches himself on the armrest of a chair, and gives this triumphant smile. That’s Martin. Everything’s part of the show with him.

Ms. Albright joins the circle onstage and calls us to order. Abby and I scoot in closer to the group. I end up next to Martin, and flash him a smile. He punches my arm lightly but keeps his eyes locked forward, like a T-ball dad. A T-ball dad who dresses like my grandma.

“So, here’s the plan, pajama gang,” says Ms. Albright. “We’re going to fine-tune the musical numbers this morning. Big ensemble numbers first, and then we’ll split into smaller groups. We break for pizza at noon, and after that, we run through the whole caboodle.”

Over her shoulder, I see Cal sitting on a platform, writing something in the margin of his script.

“Any questions?” she asks.