Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda (Creekwood, #1)

by Becky Albertalli

The thing about Blue is that he’s kind of a private person. The kind of person who wouldn’t forget to log out of his email. The kind of person who might never forgive me for being so totally careless.

I don’t exactly talk about gay stuff with anyone. Except Blue.

He’s married, and I think his wife is pregnant now. It’s not awkward, exactly, because the whole thing was in my head. It’s really amazing, isn’t it? Someone can trigger your sexual identity crisis and not have a clue they’re doing it.

Honestly, though? I think the real reason I had girlfriends was because I didn’t one hundred percent believe I was gay. Or maybe I didn’t think it was permanent.

The way he feels so hidden and so exposed about the fact that he’s gay.

He talked about the ocean between people. And how the whole point of everything is to find a shore worth swimming to.

I guess I didn’t really think of myself as interesting until I was interesting to Blue. So I can’t tell him. I’d rather not lose him.

I know Nick can tell something’s up with me, but he doesn’t ask questions or try to make me talk. It’s just one of those things about us. I know his voice and expressions and his weird little habits. His random existential monologues. The way he taps his fingertips along the pad of his thumb when he’s nervous. And I guess he probably knows the same kinds of things about me. I mean, we’ve known each other since we were four.

The thing is, it isn’t lonely with Nick. It’s just easy. So maybe it’s a good thing.

I feel a storm of laughter brewing. “You think I like Leah.” “I don’t know,” she says, smiling and shrugging. “You looked so sweet together tonight.” “Me and Leah?” I ask. But I’m gay. GAY. Gaaaaaaaayyyyy.

“And Nick played guitar,” Abby says. “Nick’s very talented,” says my mom. “Oh, I know,” Abby replies. “Girls were like swooning over him.” “That’s why I keep telling Simon to learn guitar.

I’m tired of coming out. All I ever do is come out. I try not to change, but I keep changing, in all these tiny ways. I get a girlfriend. I have a beer. And every freaking time, I have to reintroduce myself to the universe all over again.

So, I keep thinking about the idea of secret identities. Do you ever feel locked into yourself? I’m not sure if I’m making sense here. I guess what I mean is that sometimes it seems like everyone knows who I am except me.

I have to admit I’m curious about you sometimes, too. —Blue

“Hey,” I say. “Can I join you guys?” “Definitely.” He scoots over a few feet. “Plenty of room.” And there is—I won’t have to sit on his lap, anyway. It’s actually kind of unfortunate.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a game,” Cal says, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. And seriously, I can’t even. Because Cal’s bangs. Cal’s eyes. The fact that he apparently notices me enough to know I’m not at football games. “This is my first time,” I say. Because I just have to say the most virginy thing ever.

Simon means “the one who hears” and Spier means “the one who watches.” Which means I was basically destined to be nosy.

It shouldn’t bother me when Nick and Leah hang out without me. It just feels like I’m on the outside somehow. Not all the time. Just sometimes. But yeah. I feel irrelevant. I hate that.

I’ll say this: you are dead right about the Oreos and the carpet, but wrong about the journal. The closest thing I’ve ever had to a journal is probably you.

Why is it so much easier talking about this stuff with you? —Blue

Jacques, Just so you know, your being cute isn’t the reason you’re easy to talk to, because it really should be the opposite. In real life, I go totally silent around cute guys. I just freeze up. I can’t help it. But I know the real reason you were asking was because you wanted to hear me call you cute again, so I will. You’re cute, Jacques. And I guess you do have a thing about sentence fragments, but I sort of love it.

I wonder how it’s going for Blue. I wonder if Blue is feeling the same flutter in his stomach that I feel right now. Actually, he’s probably feeling more than a flutter. He’s probably so nauseated he can hardly choke the words out. My Blue.

“Okay, well, I love you,” she says. She pokes me in the cheek. And then we go home.

Don’t worry, Jacques. I only ever think about sex with people who hide from their eighth-grade girlfriends in bathrooms on Valentine’s Day, and eat tons of Oreos, and listen to weirdly depressing and wonderful music, but never wear band T-shirts. I guess I have a very specific type. (I’m not kidding.) —Blue

I hate feeling so distant from Nick and Leah. It’s not like keeping a normal crush a secret, because we never talk about our crushes anyway, and it works out fine. Even Leah’s crush on Nick. I see it, and I’m sure Nick sees it, but there’s this unspoken agreement that we never talk about it.

I mean, I guess it’s about what I expected. My mom’s asking me about my feelings, Dad’s turning it into a joke, Alice is getting political, and Nora is keeping her mouth shut. You could say there’s a kind of comfort in predictability, and my family is pretty goddamn predictable.

And I do think you’re cute. You’re absurdly cute. I think I spend a little too much time thinking how adorable you are in emails and trying to translate that into a viable mental image for daydreams and the like.

Not until you’re ready, though. And I could never hate you. You’re not going to lose me. Just think about it. Okay? Love, Jacques

The way I feel about him is like a heartbeat—soft and persistent, underlying everything.

P.S. I love the way you smile like you don’t realize you’re doing it. I love your perpetual bed head. I love the way you hold eye contact a moment longer than you need to. And I love your moon-gray eyes. So if you think I’m not attracted to you, Simon, you’re crazy.

“It’s you,” I say. “I know I’m late,” he says.

He stares straight ahead. “I think I wanted you to know.” “Then why didn’t you just tell me?” “Because,” he says, and his voice sort of shakes. And I’m aching to touch him. Quite honestly, I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life. “Because, if you had been looking for it to be me, I think you would have guessed it yourself.”

“I want to hold your hand,” I say softly. Because we’re in public. Because I don’t know if he’s out. “So hold it,” he says. And I do.

IN ENGLISH CLASS ON MONDAY, my eyes find Bram immediately. He sits on the couch beside Garrett, wearing a collared shirt under a sweater, and he’s so freaking adorable that it almost hurts to look at him.

And then Bram stretches his legs forward and pushes his knee into mine. Which means the rest of the period is pretty much devoted to staring at Bram’s knee. There’s a place where his jeans are fraying, and a tiny patch of brown skin is barely visible between the fibers of the denim. And all I want to do is touch it.

An auxiliary cable strings out from the cigarette lighter, attached to an iPod. He tells me to pick the music. I’m not sure if Bram knows that handing me his iPod is like handing me the window to his soul.

And of course his music selection is perfect. A lot of classic soul and newer hip-hop. A surprising amount of bluegrass. A single guilty pleasure song by Justin Bieber. And, without exception, every album or musician I’ve ever mentioned in my emails. I think I’m in love.

And then I touch Bram’s elbow. “You’re so quiet,” I say. “Now or in general?” “Well, both.” “I’m quiet around you,” he says, smiling. I smile back. “I’m one of the cute guys who gets you tongue-tied?” He squeezes the steering wheel. “You’re the cute guy.”

“Abraham,” I say, trying it out, and there’s this soft ache below my stomach. His eyes flick toward me. And the rain makes a kind of curtain, which is probably for the best. Because all of a sudden, I’m leaning over the gear stick, and my hands are on his shoulders, and I’m trying to keep breathing. All I can see are Bram’s lips. Which fall gently open the moment I lean in to kiss him.

He pauses for a moment, and my eyes flutter open, and he smiles, so I smile back. And then he leans in to kiss me again, sweet and feather-soft. And it’s almost too perfect. Almost too Disney. This can’t actually be me.

“So now what?” I ask. “We should probably go back to school.” “No, I mean, us. I don’t know what you want. I don’t know if you’re ready to be out,” I say, but he taps along the creases in my palm with his thumb, and it makes me lose focus.

“I’m all in, if you are,” he says. “All in?” I say. “Like what? Like boyfriend?” “I mean, yeah. If that’s what you want.” “That’s what I want,” I say. My boyfriend. My brown eyed, grammar nerd, soccer star boyfriend.

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.

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.

“Are you warm enough?” Bram asks. I nod. “So, I guess we’re going to your place.” He sounds nervous, and it makes me nervous. “Is that okay?” “Yeah,” he says, eyes flicking to me. “I mean, yeah.” “Okay. Yeah,” I say. And my heart pounds.

“Are you hungry?” I ask. “Or thirsty?” “I’m fine,” he says. “We probably have Coke.” I very badly want to kiss him, and I don’t know why I’m stalling. “Do you want to watch something?” “Sure.” I look at him. “I don’t.”

“Hi,” I say. He smiles. “Hi.” And then I kiss him for real, and he kisses me back, and his hands fist my hair. And we’re kissing like it’s breathing. My stomach flutters wildly. And somehow we end up horizontal, his hands curved up around my back. “I like this,” I say, and my voice comes out breathless. “We should do this. Every day.” “Okay.”

“I was going to ask you to see a movie,” he says, smiling. When he smiles, I smile. “No movies. I hate movies.” “Oh, really?” “Really, really. Why would I want to watch other people kissing,” I say, “when I could be kissing you?”

I was lonelier two weeks ago, too. It’s funny—my mom even commented that I’ve been in a good mood lately. I told her it was because Taylor Swift has a new album. Not sure she believed me.

My least favorite sport is all sports. I don’t know, maybe we should ask each other questions that are less grounded in day-to-day life.