Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

But I’m probably just making excuses, because maybe it was all about me having a crush on a girl and feeling desperate. And me being jealous of how a girl like Abby could move here and choose to befriend you out of everyone, and you have so many friends already, and I don’t think you even get what a big deal that is. I don’t mean to call you out or insult you or anything. I’m just saying that it seems like it’s so easy for you, and you should know you’re actually really lucky.

So I don’t even know if that makes any sense at all, and you probably stopped reading this ages ago, but I’m just putting all of it out there. And for what it’s worth, I’m so incredibly, impossibly sorry. Anyway, word on the street is that you are now deliriously happy in gay love with one Abraham Greenfeld, and I want you to know that I’m way beyond happy for you. You deserve it completely. You’re an awesome dude, Spier, and it was cool getting to know you. If I could do it again, I would have blackmailed you into being my friend and left it at that.

Extremely sincerely,

Marty Addison



35

THE TALENT SHOW STARTS AT seven, and Nick and I arrive just as they’re dimming the lights. Bram and Garrett are supposed to be sitting in the back toward the middle, with two seats saved. My eyes find him immediately. He’s twisted all the way around in his chair, watching the door, and he smiles when he sees me.

We squeeze through the row, and I sit beside Bram, with Nick and Garrett on either side of us. “Is that a program?” Nick asks, leaning over me.

“Yup. Want it?” Garrett asks, passing down an already-worn cylinder of paper.

Nick scans through the list of acts, and I know he’s looking for Abby.

“Bet she comes on first or last,” I say.

He smiles. “Second to last.” And then the houselights shut off.

The audience chatter tapers off as the stage lights come up, and Student Council Maddie steps up to the microphone. I lean closer to Bram. And because it’s so dark, I slide a hand onto his knee. I feel him shift quietly as he laces his fingers through mine. He lifts them and presses his lips to the edge of my palm.

He pauses, holding them there. And there’s this fluttery yank below my navel.

Then he lets our intertwined hands fall back onto his lap. And if this is what it’s like having a boyfriend, I don’t know why in God’s name I waited so long.

Onstage, it’s one girl after another. All in short dresses. All singing songs by Adele.

And then it’s Abby’s turn, and she emerges from the wings, dragging a skinny black music stand to the edge of the stage. My eyes cut to Nick, but he doesn’t see me. He’s staring raptly forward, with straight posture and a smile edging his lips. A blond sophomore girl steps out with a violin and sheet music. Then she tucks the violin beneath her chin, and looks at Abby. Who nods at her and inhales, visibly. And the violinist starts to play.

It’s a strange, almost mournful version of “Time After Time.” Abby’s movements convey every note. I’ve never watched anyone dance solo before, beyond the awkward showboating that happens when people circle up at bar mitzvahs. At first, I have no point of reference. In a group, you can look for synchronicity. But Abby controls her own motion; and yet, every movement and gesture feels rich and deliberate and true.

I can’t help but look at Nick as he watches. He smiles quietly into his fist the entire time.

Abby and her violinist finish to surprised, appreciative applause, and then the curtains close partially while the stage is set for the final act. They pull out a drum set, so I guess it’s some kind of band. Maddie takes the mic and makes a bunch of announcements about various ways you can give the student council money. There are a few experimental twangs and booms from behind the curtain as the instruments are plugged in and tested.

“Who is this?” I ask Nick.

He checks his program. “They’re called Emoji.”

“Cute.”

The curtain opens on five girls with instruments, and the first thing I notice is the colors. They’re all wearing different patterned fabrics, and the colors are so bright that it’s weirdly punk rock. And then the drummer kicks in with a fast twitchy beat.

Which is when I notice that the drummer is Leah.

I’m actually speechless. Her hair hangs past her shoulders, and her hands move impossibly quickly. And then she’s joined by the other instruments—Morgan on the keyboard and Anna on the bass. Taylor on vocals.

And my sister Nora on lead guitar, looking so relaxed and confident that I almost don’t recognize her. I mean, I’m gobsmacked. I didn’t even know she was playing guitar again.

Bram looks at me and laughs. “Simon, your face.”

They cover Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean,” and I’m not even kidding. It’s absolutely electric. Girls are getting up and dancing in the aisles. And then they transition straight into the Cure’s “Just Like Heaven.” Taylor’s voice is sweet and high and effortless, and it’s somehow perfect. But I’m still so stunned. I can barely process it.

Bram was right: people really are like houses with vast rooms and tiny windows. And maybe it’s a good thing, the way we never stop surprising each other.

“Nora’s not bad, right?” says Nick, leaning toward me.

“You knew about this?”

“I’ve been working with her for months. But she told me not to tell you.”