Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

I take a sip, and it’s not awful. “Thanks,” I say, and the fluttery feeling takes over completely. I don’t even know. This is so totally different from my normal.

“You have amazing eyes,” Peter says, smiling down at me. Then the song changes to something with a heavy thumping bass. He opens his mouth to say something else, but the words get swallowed.

“What?”

He takes a step closer. “Are you a student?”

“Oh,” I say. “Yes.” My heart pounds. He stands close enough that our drinks are touching.

“Me too. I’m at Emory. I’m a junior. Hold on.” He empties the rest of his glass in one big swallow, and then turns back to the bar. I crane my neck over the crowd and look for Nick and Abby. They’ve been seated at a table across the room, and they’re watching me, looking uneasy. Abby sees me looking and waves frantically. I grin and wave back.

But then Peter’s hand is on my arm again, and he hands me a shot glass filled with something bright orange, like that cold medicine. Like liquid Triaminic. But I’m only half done with my apple drink, so I sort of chug it, and hand the empty glass back to him. And then he clinks his shot of Triaminic against mine and makes it disappear.

I sip mine, and it tastes like orange soda, and Peter laughs and tugs at my fingertips. “Simon,” he says. “Have you ever taken a shot before?”

I shake my head.

“Aww, okay. Tilt your head back, and just . . .” He demonstrates on his empty shot glass. “Okay?”

“Okay,” I say, and that warm, happy feeling starts to creep in. I take the shot in two gulps, and I manage not to spit anything. And I grin at Peter, and he takes my glass away, and then he takes my other hand and laces his fingers through mine.

“Cute Simon,” he says. “Where are you from?”

“Shady Creek,” I say.

“Okay,” he says, and I can tell he hasn’t heard of it, but he smiles and sits back down on his barstool and pulls me closer. And his eyes are sort of hazel, and I sort of like this. And talking is just easier now, and it’s easier than not talking, and everything I say is the right thing, and he nods and laughs and presses my palms. I tell him about Abby and Nick, who I’m trying not to look at, because every time I look at them, their eyes start yelling at me. And then Peter tells me about his friends, and he says, “Oh my gosh, you have to meet my friends. You have to meet Alex.”

So he buys us each another Triaminic shot, and then he takes me by the hand and leads me to a big round table in the corner of the room. Peter’s friends are a big group of mostly guys, and they’re all cute, and everything is spinning. “This is Simon,” Peter says, flinging his arm around me and hugging me sideways. He introduces everyone, and I forget their names instantly, except for Alex. Whom Peter presents by saying, “Meet your doppelg?nger.” But it’s really a little baffling, because Alex doesn’t look like me at all. I mean, we’re both white. But even our famously similar hair is totally different. His is purposely messy. Mine is just messy. But Peter keeps looking back and forth between us and giggling, and someone sits on someone else’s lap to clear a chair for me, and someone passes me a beer. I mean, drinks are just everywhere.

Peter’s friends are loud and funny, and I laugh so hard I’m hiccupping, but I can’t even remember what I’m laughing about. And Peter’s arm is tight around my shoulders, and at one point out of nowhere, he leans over to kiss me on the cheek. It’s this strange other universe. It’s like having a boyfriend. And somehow I start telling them about Martin and the emails and how he actually freaking blackmailed me, and it’s actually kind of a hilarious story, now that I think about it. And everyone is full-on belly laughing, and the one girl at the table says, “Oh my God, Peter, oh my God. He’s adorable.” And it feels amazing.

But then Peter leans toward me and his lips are close to my ear and he says, “Are you in high school?”

“I’m a junior,” I say.

“In high school,” he repeats. His arm is still around me. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” I whisper, feeling sheepish.

He looks at me and shakes his head. “Oh, honey,” he says, smiling sadly. “No. No.”

“No?” I ask.

“Who did you come here with? Where are your friends, cute Simon?”

I point out Nick and Abby.

“Ah,” he says.

He helps me up and holds my hand, and the room keeps lurching, but I end up in a chair somehow. Next to Abby and across from Nick, in front of an untouched cheeseburger. Cold, but totally plain and perfect with nothing green and lots of fries. “Good-bye, cute Simon,” says Peter, hugging me, and then kissing me on the forehead. “Go be seventeen.”

And then he stumbles away, and Abby and Nick look like they don’t know whether to laugh or panic. Oh my God. I love them. I mean, I seriously love them. But I feel sort of wavy inside.

“How much did you have?” asks Nick.

I try to count it on my fingers.

“Forget it. I don’t want to know. Just eat something.”