Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

“Simon,” says my dad, looking confused and stern and amused all at once. “Is there something you’d like to tell us?”


“I’m gay,” I say, and I giggle. Giggles keep escaping around the edges.

“Okay, sit down,” he says, and I’m about to make a joke, but he keeps looking at me, so I sit on the arm of the love seat. “You’re drunk.” He looks a little stunned. I shrug.

“Who drove?” he asks.

“Abby.”

“Did she drink?”

“Dad, come on. No.” He tips his palms up. “No! God.”

“Em, do you want to . . .”

“Yup,” my mom says, shifting Bieber off her legs. And then she gets off the couch and goes out through the entryway, and I hear the front door open and shut.

“She’s going out there to talk to Abby?” I say. “Seriously? You guys don’t even trust me?”

“Well, I don’t know why we should, Simon. You show up at ten thirty, obviously drunk, and you don’t seem to think that’s a problem, so—”

“So you’re saying the problem is I’m not trying to hide it. The problem is I’m not lying to you.”

My dad stands up suddenly, and I look at him, and I realize he’s really freaking pissed off. Which is so unusual that it makes me nervous, but it also makes me a little fearless, and so I say, “Do you like it better when I lie about things? It probably sucks for you now that you can’t make fun of gay people anymore. I bet Mom won’t let you, right?”

“Simon,” says my dad, like a warning.

I giggle, but it comes out too sharp. “That awkward moment when you realize you’ve been making gay jokes in front of your gay kid for the last seventeen years.”

There’s this awful, tense silence. My dad just looks at me.

Finally, my mom comes back in, and she looks back and forth between us for a minute. And then she says, “I sent Abby and Nick home.”

“What? Mom!” I stand up too fast, and my stomach flips. “No. No. I’m just here to get my shirt.”

“Oh, I think you’re staying in tonight,” says my mom. “Your dad and I need a minute to talk. Why don’t you go get yourself a glass of water, and we’ll be right in.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“It’s not a request,” says my mom.

They have to be fucking kidding me. I’m supposed to sit here and drink my water, and they just get to talk about me behind my back. I slam the kitchen door shut.

As soon as the water hits my lips, I gulp it down so fast I almost forget to breathe. My stomach is churning. I think the water makes it worse. I pretzel my arms on the table and tuck my head into my elbow. I’m so freaking tired.

My parents come in a few minutes later and sit down next to me at the table. “Did you have water?” asks my dad.

I nudge my empty glass toward him without lifting my head.

“Good,” he says. He pauses. “Kid, we’ve got to talk consequences.”

Right, because things aren’t shitty enough. People at school think I’m a joke, and there’s a boy I can’t seem to stop being in love with, and he just might be someone I can’t stand. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to puke tonight.

But yeah. They want to talk consequences.

“We’ve discussed it, and—presumably this is a first offense?” I nod into my arms. “Then your mom and I have agreed that you’ll be grounded for two weeks starting tomorrow.”

I whip my head up. “You can’t do that.”

“Oh, I can’t?”

“It’s the play next weekend.”

“Oh, we’re well aware,” says my dad. “And you can go to school and rehearsals and all of your performances, but you’ll come straight home afterward. And your laptop is moving into the living room for a week.”

“And I’ll take your phone right now,” says my mom, putting out her hand. All business.

“That’s so effed up,” I say, because that’s what you say, but I mean, honestly? I don’t even fucking care.



29

IT’S MLK WEEKEND, SO WE don’t get back to school until Tuesday. When I get there, Abby’s waiting in front of my locker. “Where have you been? I’ve been texting you all weekend. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say, rubbing my eyes.

“I was really worried about you. When your mom came out . . . your mom is actually kind of terrifying. I thought she was going to give me a Breathalyzer.”

Oh God. “Sorry,” I say. “They’re really intense about driving.” Abby steps aside, so I can twist in my locker combination.

“No, it was fine,” she says. “I just felt bad leaving you. And then when I didn’t hear back from you all weekend . . .”

I click the latch open. “They took my phone away. And my computer. And I’m grounded for two weeks.” I dig around for my French notebook. “So yeah.”

Abby’s face falls. “But what about the play?”

“No, that’s fine. They’re not messing with that.” I push my locker closed, and the latch clicks dully.

“Well, good,” she says. “But I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“What’s your fault?” Nick asks, falling into step with us on the way to English.