Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

“Sorry I didn’t turn out to be much of a boy,” I say.

My dad spins the chair around to face me directly. “Are you kidding me?”

“Sort of.”

“You’re an awesome boy,” he says. “You’re like a ninja.”

“Well, thank you.”

“You’re freaking welcome,” he says.

There’s this distant slam of the front door shutting and dog nails skittering across the hardwoods—Nora’s home.

“Listen,” says my mom, poking my foot again. “I don’t want to cramp your style, but maybe you could just humor us? Keep us in the loop about stuff where you can, and we’ll try not to be weird and obsessed.”

“Fair enough,” I say.

“Good,” she says. They look at each other again. “Anyway, we have something for you.”

“Is it another awkward anecdote about me breast-feeding?”

“Oh my God, you were all about the boob,” my dad says. “I can’t believe you turned out to be gay.”

“Hilarious, Dad.”

“I know I am,” he says. Then he stands up and pulls something out of his pocket. “Here,” he says, tossing it.

My phone.

“You’re still grounded, but you get parole this weekend. And you can get your laptop back after the play tomorrow if you remember all your lines.”

“I don’t have any lines,” I say slowly.

“Then you don’t have anything to worry about, kid.”

But it’s sort of funny, because even without any lines to mess up, I’m nervous. Excited and fluttery and amped up and nervous. As soon as the dismissal bell rings, Ms. Albright takes Abby, Martin, Taylor, and a few of the others to do an extra vocal warm-up in the music room, but the rest of us just sit there on the floor of the auditorium eating pizza. Cal’s running around dealing with the tech people, and it’s kind of a relief to just be hanging out with a bunch of random senior girls at the moment. No Calvin Coolidge or Martin Van Buren or any other confusing presidential boys. No Leah looking at me with weapons for eyes.

The show begins at seven, but Ms. Albright wants us fully in costume by six. I put in my contact lenses and get changed early, and then I sit around in the girls’ dressing room waiting for Abby. It’s five thirty by the time she gets there, and she’s clearly in a weird mood. She barely says hello.

I pull my chair beside her and watch her apply her makeup.

“Are you nervous?” I ask.

“A little.” She stares into the mirror, sort of dabbing a mascara wand against her eyelashes.

“Nick’s coming tonight, right?”

“Yup.”

These clipped, abrupt answers. She almost seems annoyed.

“When you’re done,” I say, “will you help me be ridiculously hot?”

“Eyeliner?” she asks. “Okay. One sec.”

Abby brings over her makeup bag and pulls her chair across from mine. At this point, we’re the only ones left in the dressing room. She uncaps the pencil and pulls my eyelid taut, and I try not to squirm.

“You’re so quiet,” I say, after a moment. “Is everything okay?”

She doesn’t answer. I feel the pencil push across the edge of my lashes. Scritch scritch scritch.

“Abby?” I ask. The pencil lifts away, and I open my eyes.

“Keep them closed,” she says. Then she starts my other eyelid. She’s quiet for a minute. And then she says, “What was this whole thing with Martin?”

“With Martin?” I ask, and my stomach twists.

“He told me everything,” she says, “but I’d sort of like to hear it from you.”

I feel frozen in place. Everything. But what does that even mean?

“The blackmail thing?”

“Yeah,” she says. “That. Okay, open them.” She starts tracing the bottom lid, and I fight the urge to blink. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because,” I say, “I don’t know. I didn’t tell anyone.”

“And you just went along with it?”

“I didn’t exactly have much of a choice.”

“But you knew I wasn’t attracted to him, right?” She caps the pencil again.

“Yeah,” I say, “I did.”

Abby leans back for a moment to examine me, before sighing and leaning forward again. “I’m going to even this out,” she says. And then she’s quiet.

“I’m sorry.” Suddenly, it feels so important for her to understand. “I didn’t know what to do. He was going to tell everyone. I really didn’t want to help him. I barely did help him.”

“Yeah.”

“Which, you know, that’s why he ended up even posting that thing on the Tumblr. Because I wasn’t helping him enough.”

“No, I get it,” she says.

She finishes with the pencil, and then smudges everything with her finger. A moment later, I feel her run some poufy makeup brush all over my cheeks and nose.

“I’m done,” she says, and I open my eyes. She looks at me and frowns. “It’s just, you know. I get that you were in a difficult position. But you don’t get to make the decisions about my love life. I choose who I date.” She shrugs. “I would think you would understand that.”