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

by Becky Albertalli

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 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.

And Leah’s also into slash fanfiction, which got me curious enough to poke around the internet and find some last summer. I couldn’t believe how much there was to choose from: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy hooking up in thousands of ways in every broom closet at Hogwarts. I found the ones with decent grammar and stayed up reading all night. It was a weird couple of weeks. That was the summer I taught myself how to do laundry. There are some socks that shouldn’t be washed by your mom.

And Leah’s also into slash fanfiction, which got me curious enough to poke around the internet and find some last summer. I couldn’t believe how much there was to choose from: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy hooking up in thousands of ways in every broom closet at Hogwarts. I found the ones with decent grammar and stayed up reading all night. It was a weird couple of weeks. That was the summer I taught myself how to do laundry. There are some socks that shouldn’t be washed by your mom.

My whole body tenses. Leah once said that she’d rather have people call her fat directly than have to sit there and listen to them talking shit about some other girl’s weight. I actually think I agree with that. Nothing is worse than the secret humiliation of being insulted by proxy.

My whole body tenses. Leah once said that she’d rather have people call her fat directly than have to sit there and listen to them talking shit about some other girl’s weight. I actually think I agree with that. Nothing is worse than the secret humiliation of being insulted by proxy.

Garrett quickly pulls down the lid over the piano keys, and the fact that he’s worried about the piano makes me like him better.

Because right now he’s singing Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here,” and I’m thinking about Blue. And I’m thinking about Cal Price.

It feels like we’re the last survivors of a zombie apocalypse. Wonder Woman and a gay dementor. It doesn’t bode well for the survival of the species.

“You could ask Leah,” Abby says. She looks at me sidelong, with a weird, probing expression. 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.

My parents have a way of ruining things like this. They get so curious. It’s like they have this idea of me, and whenever I step outside of that, it blows their minds. There’s something so embarrassing about that in a way I can’t even describe.

But 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.

Are you doing anything interesting this weekend? We’re supposed to have suck nice weather. Excuse me, dick nice weather. ☺ —Blue

My God I love him

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.

This is so relatable

Today, it’s been taken over by soccer boys in Creekwood cheerleading uniforms—specifically, Nick, Garrett, and Bram.

But I have to admit that there’s something kind of awesome about soccer calves and scuffed tennis shoes coming out of pleated cheerleading skirts. I can’t believe Bram Greenfeld dressed up. Bram from my lunch table. He’s this quiet black kid who’s supposed to be really smart, but I’ve never heard him speak unless he’s forced to. He leans way back into the corner of the couch, shuffling the toe of one foot against the other, and I never noticed it before, but he’s actually kind of adorable.

Hell yeah he is!

Martin stretches his arms up against the frame of the doorway like he’s hanging from monkey bars, and the top of his uniform rides up even higher. Some of the girls giggle a little bit, and Martin grins and blushes. I swear to God, that kid will whore himself out completely for a cheap laugh. But I guess he’s kind of a genius for that, because I’ve never met a nerd so beloved by the popular kids. I mean, I’m not going to lie. They kind of live to tease him. But there’s no bite to it. It’s like he’s their mascot.

And maybe my timing sucks here, but I guess I’m not really thinking about Leah. “I’ll go to the game,” I say. Because I’m pretty sure Blue will be at the game. I like the idea of sitting in the same bleachers as Blue.

I guess a lot of people like football.

This is hilarious

It’s really the first time I’ve ever noticed the stadium lights. I mean, they’ve always been there, and I’ve probably seen them turned on before. I never realized how incredibly bright they are. Blue loves them. I wonder if he’s already a part of the mass of people milling around the field. We pay a couple of dollars and they give us tickets, and then we’re in. The marching band plays a weirdly awesome medley of Beyoncé songs and does this stiff little dance in the stands. And really, despite the rain and the fact that it’s homecoming, I think I understand why Blue loves this. It feels like anything could happen.

A couple of the others including Cal Price. My heart beats faster. I knew Cal would be here.

You idiot!!!

I have to admit I like to imagine you as a kid fantasizing about junk food. I also like to imagine you now fantasizing about sex. I can’t believe I just wrote that. I can’t believe I’m hitting send. —Blue

He likes to imagine me fantasizing about sex! I thought I was the only one who had those kinds of thoughts about us.

“Your golden birthday. Seventeen on the seventeenth,”

Simon's birthday is 2 days before mine!

So didn’t there used to be a reality show where people had to date each other in pitch-darkness? We should do that. We should find a room somewhere that’s totally dark and then we could hang out and it would be totally anonymous. That way we wouldn’t ruin anything. What do you think?

On the other hand, you’re pretty cute when you’re exhausted.

You bring up a good point about our voices. I guess we would have to use some kind of robotic megaphone to warp them so they sound like Darth Vader. Or we could just do other things instead of talking. I mean. I’m just saying. —Your Zombie Jacques

Oh wait. I’m right. There is no freaking way, because this isn’t my freaking test. Way to remember my name, Mr. Wise. “Hey,” I say. I lean across the aisle to tap Bram on the shoulder. He turns sideways in his chair to face me. “Looks like this is yours.” “Oh. Thanks,” he says, reaching out to take it. He has long, kind of knobbly fingers. Cute hands. He looks down at the paper, glances back up at me, and blushes slightly. I can tell he feels weird about me seeing his grade. “No problem. I mean, I’d keep the grade if I could.” He smiles a little bit and looks back down at his desk. You never really know what he’s thinking. But I have this theory that Bram’s probably really funny inside his own head. I don’t even know why I think that. But seriously: whatever inside jokes he has with himself, I think I’d like to be in on them.

So here’s the thing: Simon means “the one who hears” and Spier means “the one who watches.” Which means I was basically destined to be nosy.

I should be . . . . . . writing an essay for English class. I’d rather write to you.

So, I know you and I can’t really buy each other gifts in real life, but just know that if I could, I would order you all kinds of band T-shirts online. Even if it meant losing the respect of musicians everywhere (because I’m sure that’s how it works, Jacques). Or we could just go to a live show. I mean, I don’t actually know anything about music, but I’m guessing it would be fun if it was with you. Maybe one day. I’m glad that you find me distracting. It wouldn’t be fair, otherwise. —Blue

What I want is to sit here and think about Blue. I think I’m starting to get a little obsessed with him. On one hand, he’s so careful all the time about not giving me details about himself—and then he turns around and tells me all kinds of personal stuff, and it’s the kind of stuff that I could totally use to figure out his identity if I really wanted to. And I do want to. But I also don’t. It’s just so totally confusing. He’s confusing.

As for why it’s easier to talk to me about this stuff—maybe it’s because I’m so cute and grammatical?

I can basically hear Lucius from OFMD saying this

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.

So, who are all these cute guys who make you so nervous? They can’t be that cute. You better not love THEIR sentence fragments.

I’m thinking about Blue—always Blue—because really, my mind only wanders in one direction. I got another email from him this morning. Lately, we’ve been emailing almost every day, and it’s a little crazy how much he’s been on my mind. I almost fucked up a chem lab today because I was emailing Blue in my head and I kind of forgot I was pouring nitric acid. It’s weird, because Blue’s emails used to be this extra thing that was separate from my actual life. But now I think maybe the emails are my life. Everything else sort of feels like I’m slogging through a dream.

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. It’s weird. I almost think I did this for him.

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

“Yeah.” I turn the doorknob and push the door open. “Bieber. NO. Come on.” Like he’s never seen a squirrel before. Good freaking lord.

So I let my eyes slide closed. And I think about Blue. Okay. I have a crush. But it’s not like having a crush on some random musician or actor or Harry freaking Potter. This is the real deal. It has to be. It’s almost debilitating.

Love, Blue

As a side note, don’t you think everyone should have to come out? Why is straight the default? Everyone should have to declare one way or another, and it should be this big awkward thing whether you’re straight, gay, bi, or whatever. I’m just saying.

But just know I’m sorry this is hitting you out of nowhere. And I’m thinking about you. Love, Jacques

Love, Jacques P.S. You have me curious. A banana? Hot dog? Cucumber? ☺

Love, Blue P.S. Mind out of the gutter, Jacques. P.P.S. More like a giant baguette. P.P.P.S. No, really. It’s Oreos. In your honor.

So, here’s the thing. I’ve been typing this and deleting this and trying to think of a better way to phrase this. I don’t know. I’m just going to come out and say it: I want to know who you are. I think we should meet in person. Love, Jacques

My dad invented the concept of Simon logic, and I can’t seem to outgrow it. It means wishful thinking supported by flimsy evidence.

But yeah. Maybe I’m losing my edge, but all I can think about is how Blue has been signing emails lately using the word “love.”

I guess I can imagine us having perfect nights sometimes. And I’ll probably feel like shouting it from the rooftops, too.

My Jewish-Episcopalian email boyfriend. I wonder what he’s doing right now.