Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

I love that you’re having Oreos for breakfast. And I love your giant baguette.

So, here’s the thing. I’ve been typing this and deleting this and trying to think of a better way to phrase this. I don’t know. I’m just going to come out and say it: I want to know who you are.

I think we should meet in person.

Love,

Jacques



19

IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE DAY, AND something feels a little bit off.

Not bad. Just off. I don’t know how to explain it. We’re hitting every one of the Spier traditions. My mom made reindeer turds, a.k.a. Oreo truffles. The tree is lit up and fully decorated. We’ve done the Chipmunks song.

It’s noon, and we’re all still in our pajamas, and everyone is sitting in the living room on separate laptops. I guess it’s a little awful that we have five computers—Shady Creek is that kind of suburb, but still. We’re scavenger hunting on Facebook.

“Call it, Dad,” says Alice.

“Okay,” he says. “Someone visiting somewhere tropical.”

“Got it,” says my mom, turning her laptop around to show us someone’s pictures. “Done and done. All right. A breakup.”

We’re all quiet for several minutes, scrolling through our newsfeeds. Finally, Nora’s got one. “Amber Wasserman,” she reads. “Thought I knew u. Looks like I was wrong. One day ur gonna turn around and realize what u thru away.”

“I’d call that an implied breakup,” I say.

“It’s legit.”

“But you could interpret it literally,” I say. “Like she’s calling him out for throwing away her iPhone.”

“That’s Simon logic,” says Alice, “and I won’t allow it. Go, boop. Your turn.”

My dad invented the concept of Simon logic, and I can’t seem to outgrow it. It means wishful thinking supported by flimsy evidence.

“Okay,” says Nora. “The opposite. A mushy, disgusting couple.”

An interesting choice, coming from Nora, who basically never talks about anything related to dating.

“Okay, got one,” I say. “Carys Seward. Feeling so grateful to have Jaxon Wildstein in my life. Last nite was perfect. I love you so much baby. Winky face.”

“Gross,” says Nora.

“Is that your Carys, bub?”

“I don’t have a Carys,” I say. But I know what Alice is asking. I dated Carys for almost four months last spring. Though none of our “nites” together were that sort of perfect.

But here’s the crazy thing: for the first time ever, I almost get it. It’s weird, it’s gross, and that creepy little winky face pushes it into the realm of TMI. But yeah. Maybe I’m losing my edge, but all I can think about is how Blue has been signing emails lately using the word “love.”

I guess I can imagine us having perfect nights sometimes. And I’ll probably feel like shouting it from the rooftops, too.

I refresh my browser. “My turn. Okay. Someone Jewish,” I say, “posting about Christmas.”

My Jewish-Episcopalian email boyfriend. I wonder what he’s doing right now.

“Why doesn’t Nick ever post anything?” asks Nora.

Because he thinks Facebook is the lowest common denominator of social discourse. Though he does like to talk about social media as a vehicle for constructing and performing identity. Whatever the hell that means.

“Got one. Jana Goldstein. Movie theater listings in one hand; takeout menus in the other. Ready for tomorrow. Merry Christmas to Jew!”

“Who’s Jana Goldstein?” my mom asks.

“Someone from Wesleyan,” says Alice. “Okay. Something about lawyers.” She’s distracted, and I realize her phone is buzzing. “Sorry. Be right back.”

“Lawyers? What the heck, Alice?” says Nora. “That blatantly favors Dad.”

“I know. I feel bad for him,” Alice calls over her shoulder, before disappearing up the stairs. “Hey,” she says, answering her phone. A moment later, we hear her bedroom door shut.

“Got one!” My dad beams. He generally sucks at this game, because he has about twelve Facebook friends total. “Bob Lepinski. Happy holidays to you and yours, from Lepinski and Willis, P.C.”

“Good one, Dad,” says Nora. She looks at me. “Who’s she talking to?”

“Hell if I know,” I say.

Alice is on the phone for two hours. It’s unprecedented.

The scavenger hunt fizzles. Nora curls up with her laptop on the couch, and our parents disappear to their room. And I don’t even want to think about what they’re up to in there. Not after what Blue’s dad and stepmom went and did. Bieber whines in the entryway.

My phone buzzes with a text from Leah: We’re outside your door. Leah’s weird about knocking. I think she gets shy around parents.

I walk over to let her in, and find Bieber on his hind legs basically trying to make out with her through the window.

“Down,” I say. “Come on, Bieb.” I grab him by the collar and swing the door open. It’s cold but sunny out, and Leah wears a black woolen hat with cat ears. Nick stands sort of awkwardly behind her.

“Hi,” I say, pulling Bieber to the side so they can step past him.