Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

Backstage is the best kind of chaos. Props are missing and people wander around partially in costume, and the various Creekwood music prodigies are in the orchestra pit running through the overture. It’s actually our first time doing the play with the orchestra, and just hearing them practice makes it seem that much more real. Taylor is already dressed and in makeup, and she stands in the wings doing some awkward vocal warm-up that she invented herself. Martin can’t find his beard.

I wear my first of three costumes, which is this scraggly, oversized oatmeal-colored shirt and baggy drawstring pants and no shoes. A couple of the girls put some junk in my hair to make it messy, which is basically like putting high heels on a giraffe. And then they tell me I have to wear eyeliner, which I absolutely detest. It’s bad enough that they want me to wear my contacts.

The only person I trust to do it is Abby, who puts me in a chair by the window in the girls’ dressing room. None of the girls care that I’m in there, and it’s not even about me being gay. The dressing rooms are just generally a total free-for-all, and anyone who cares about privacy at all changes in the bathroom.

“Close them,” she says.

I shut my eyes, and Abby’s fingertips tug softly next to my eyelid. Then there’s this scritch scritch feeling like I’m being drawn on, because I’m not even kidding—eyeliner actually comes in a freaking pencil.

“Do I look ridiculous?”

“Not at all,” she says. She’s quiet for a minute.

“I have a question for you.”

“Yep?”

“Why is your dad in DC?”

“Well, he’s still looking for a job here.”

“Oh,” I say. And then, “Are he and your brother moving down here?”

She swipes her fingertip over the edge of my eyelid.

“My dad is, eventually,” she says. “My brother’s a freshman at Howard.”

And then she nods and tugs the other eyelid taut and starts on that one.

“I feel stupid for not knowing that,” I say.

“Why would you feel stupid? I guess I never mentioned it.”

“But I never asked.”

The worst part is when she does the bottom, because I have to hold my eyes open and the pencil goes right onto the edge, and I freaking hate it when things touch my eyes.

“Don’t blink,” says Abby.

“I’m trying not to.”

Her tongue sticks out a little bit between her lips, and she smells sort of like vanilla extract and talcum powder.

“All right. Look at me.”

“Am I done?” I ask.

She pauses, appraising me. “Basically,” she says. But then she attacks me like a ninja with powders and brushes.

“Whoa,” says Brianna, passing through.

“I know,” says Abby. “Simon, don’t take this the wrong way, but you look kind of ridiculously hot.”

Which leads to me almost getting whiplash from turning my head toward the mirror so fast.

“What do you think?” she says, grinning behind me.

“I look weird,” I say.

It’s a little bit surreal. I’m barely used to my face without glasses anyway, and with the eyeliner, the overall impression is: EYES.

“Wait till Cal sees,” Abby says under her breath.

I shake my head. “He’s not . . .”

But I can’t finish the thought. I can’t stop looking at myself.

The first performance of the day goes surprisingly smoothly, though most of the seniors use it as an opportunity to sleep in an extra two hours. But the freshmen are pretty geeked to be missing first and second period, which makes them the most wildly awesome audience ever. The exhaustion from the week falls away, and I’m carried forward by adrenaline, laughter, and applause.

We change out of our costumes, and everyone is really happy and amped up as Ms. Albright gives us notes. And then we’re released for regular lunch with the non-theater civilians. I’m a little bit excited to be going to lunch with my stage makeup still intact. And not just because of my supposed ridiculous hotness. It’s just kind of awesome to be marked as part of the ensemble.

Leah is obsessed with the eye makeup. “Holy fuck, Simon.”

“Don’t you love it?” says Abby.

I feel this tug of self-consciousness. It doesn’t help that Cute Bram is looking at me.

“I had no idea your eyes were so gray,” Leah says. She turns to Nick, incredulously. “Did you know?”

“I did not,” Nick affirms.

“Like, they’re kind of charcoal around the edges,” she says, “and lighter in the middle, and then almost silver around the pupil. But dark silver.”

“Fifty shades of gray,” says Abby.

“Gross,” Leah says, and she and Abby exchange smiles.

It’s actually kind of a miracle.

We meet back in the auditorium after lunch so Ms. Albright can remind us how awesome we are, and then we head backstage to put our costumes back on for the first scene. It’s a little rushed this time, but I think I kind of like that. The orchestra warms up again, and chatter rises in the auditorium as the sophomores and juniors file into the seats.

This is the one I’m excited about. Because it’s my own class. Because Blue will be out there somewhere. And as pissed as I am at him, I still like the idea of him being in the audience.

I stand with Abby, peeking out at the audience through a crack in the curtains. “Nick’s here,” she says, pointing toward the left side of the auditorium. “And Leah. And Morgan and Anna are right behind them.”

“Shouldn’t we be starting soon?”