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

by Becky Albertalli

Or maybe it’s because I’m spending every minute pining for some boy who doesn’t want to meet me in person. Or who’s “not ready” to meet me in person. But he’s also a boy who signs his emails with “love.” I don’t know. I don’t know.

I pour myself a mug of coffee and add an avalanche of sugar. My mom watches me stir. “I didn’t know you drink coffee.” Okay, this. She does this every freaking time. Both of them. They put me in a box, and every time I try to nudge the lid open, they slam it back down. It’s like nothing about me is allowed to change.

I’m trying to laugh in the right places. I think I’m a little overstimulated.

Mood, always

As soon as she leaves, Garrett looks at Bram, and Bram bites his lip. Which I’m pretty sure is straight-dude code for Bram likes Leah. And I don’t know why, but it pisses me the fuck off. “If you like her, just ask her out,” I say to Bram, and he immediately starts blushing. I don’t even know. I’m just so sick of straight people who can’t get their shit together.

Also, Bram is cute. Like, really, really cute. He stands a foot or so back from the fence, totally sweaty, with a white turtleneck under his soccer shirt. And he’s not really talking, but he has very expressive brown eyes. And light brown skin and soft dark curls and cute, knobbly hands.

“What happens if you really screw up the audition?” I ask. “Can they kick you off the team?” “Audition?” asks Bram, smiling so quietly. And when he looks at me, I feel this happy sort of ache. “Tryouts.” I blush. And I smile back at him. And then I feel a little guilty. Because of Blue. Even though he’s still not ready. Even though he’s just words on a laptop screen. It’s just that I also kind of feel like he’s my boyfriend. I don’t even know.

I don’t know how to explain to her that, for all intents and purposes, I’m already taken. By someone who evidently shares a first name with a president and an obscure cartoon character, and doesn’t like to draw, and doesn’t have blue eyes, and has not yet pushed me in a rolling chair. Someone who seemed to like me better before he knew who I was.

I don’t know what else to say. Anonymity served a purpose for us, and I get that. But now I want to know you for real.

This makes me emotional

Love, Simon

On Monday, there’s a plastic grocery bag looped through the handle of my locker, and my first thought is that it’s a jockstrap. I guess I’m picturing some stupid athlete giving me a sweaty jockstrap as a grand gesture of humiliation and douchery. I don’t know. Maybe I’m paranoid. Anyway, it’s not a jockstrap. It’s a jersey cotton T-shirt with the logo from Elliott Smith’s Figure 8. Resting on top is a note that says this: “I’m assuming Elliott understands that you would have made it to his shows if you could have.” The note is written on blue-green construction paper in perfectly straight print—not a hint of slant. And of course he remembered the second “t” in Elliott. Because he’s Blue. He would.

I’m too busy trying not to be in love with someone who isn’t real.

I feel this tug of self-consciousness. It doesn’t help that Cute Bram is looking at me.

“Wow, I get nauseous just from reading my phone in the car,” says Nick. “Nauseated,” I say, and my heart twists. “Well, listen to you, Mr. Linguist.” Nick turns around in his seat to grin at me.

“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.

Lunch is actually amazing, because Morgan and Bram both had birthdays over the long weekend, and Leah’s very strict about everyone getting their own giant sheet cake. Which means two cakes, both chocolate.

Every email Blue ever sent me is time-stamped. So many of the emails were sent right after school. So many were sent when I was in rehearsal. Which means Martin was also in rehearsal, with no time to write and no wireless internet. Blue isn’t Martin. He’s not Cal. He’s just someone. So, I go all the way back to the beginning, back to August, and I read through everything. His subject lines. Every line of every email. I have no idea who he is. No freaking clue. But I think I’m falling for him again.

So, it occurred to me that I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about you and rereading your emails and trying to make you laugh. But I’ve been spending very little time spelling things out for you and taking chances and putting my heart on the line. Obviously, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, but what I’m trying to say is that I like you. I more than like you. When I flirt with you, it’s not a joke, and when I say I want to know you, it’s not just because I’m curious. I’m not going to pretend I know how this ends, and I don’t have a freaking clue if it’s possible to fall in love over email. But I would really like to meet you, Blue. I want to try this. And I can’t imagine a scenario where I won’t want to kiss your face off as soon as I see you. Just wanted to make that perfectly clear. So, what I’m trying to say is that there’s an extremely badass carnival in the parking lot of Perimeter Mall today, and it’s apparently open until nine. For what it’s worth, I’ll be there at six thirty. And I hope I see you. Love, Simon

The carnival is basically our cast party, and everyone’s driving straight from school to the mall. Except for me. I make a left at the light and drive home. Because I don’t care if it’s January. I want the T-shirt.

A piece of paper is taped to the fabric inside. I catch it and tug it out. It’s another note on blue-green construction paper, and it starts with a postscript. My fingers tremble as I read it. 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. And underneath that, he’s written his phone number.

And then someone slides in beside me. “Can I sit here?” he asks, and my eyes snap open. It’s Cute Bram Greenfeld, of the soft eyes and soccer calves. I loosen the seat belt to let him in. And I smile at him. It’s impossible not to. “I like your shirt,” he says. He seems nervous. “Thanks,” I say. “It’s Elliott Smith.” The operator reaches over us and pulls the guardrail down, locking us in. “I know,” says Bram. There’s something in his voice. I turn to him, slowly, and his eyes are wide and brown and totally open. There’s this pause. We’re still looking at each other. And there’s this feeling in my stomach like a coil pulled taut. “It’s you,” I say. “I know I’m late,” he says. Then there’s a grinding noise and a jolt and a swell of music. Someone shrieks and then laughs, and the ride spins to life.

“I just got your email,” he says. “I was sure I was going to miss you.” “I can’t believe it’s you,” I say. “It’s me,” he says. His eyes slide open. “You really didn’t know?” “Not a clue,” I say. I study his profile. He has these lips that meet just barely, like the slightest touch would coax them open. His ears are slightly big and there are two freckles on his cheekbone. And his eyelashes are more dramatic than I’ve ever noticed.

“And I can’t believe you rode the Tilt-A-Whirl for me.” “I must really like you,” he says. So I lean in toward him, and my heart is in my throat. “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.

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.”

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. And I can’t even describe it. It’s stillness and pressure and rhythm and breathing. We can’t figure out our noses at first, but then we do, and then I realize my eyes are still open. So I shut them. And his fingertips graze the nape of my neck, in constant quiet motion. 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. Ten minutes later, we’re holding hands and eating Oreo mush, and it’s the perfect lunch. More Oreos than milk. And I never would have remembered spoons, but he did. Of course.

“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. And I can’t stop smiling. I mean, there are times when it’s actually more work not to smile.

That night, as of 8:05, Bram Greenfeld is no longer Single on Facebook—a.k.a. the best thing that has ever happened in the history of the internet. At 8:11, Simon Spier is no longer Single either. Which generates about five million Likes and an instantaneous comment from Abby Suso: LIKE LIKE LIKE. Followed by a comment from Alice Spier: Wait—what? Followed by another comment from Abby Suso: Call me!! I text her and tell her I’ll talk to her tomorrow. I think I want to keep the details to myself tonight. Instead, I call Bram. I mean, I almost can’t believe I didn’t have his number until yesterday. He picks up right away. “Hi,” he says, quickly and softly. Like the word belongs to us. “Big news on Facebook tonight.” I sink backward onto my mattress. His quiet laugh. “Yeah.”

His hands fall to my waist, and he pulls me in closer. He’s only a few inches taller than me, and he smells like Dove soap, and for someone whose kissing career began yesterday, he has seriously magical lips. Soft and sweet and lingering. He kisses like Elliott Smith sings.

I float through the rest of the day, and he’s all I can think about. And then I text him as soon as I get home. Miss you sooooo much!!! I mean, it’s a joke. Mostly. He texts back immediately. Happy two day anniversary!!!!!! Which makes me cackle at the kitchen table.

“And no, I don’t have that kind of a history with Abby. But that’s what made it easier. There’s this huge part of me, and I’m still trying it on. And I don’t know how it fits together. How I fit together. It’s like a new version of me. I just needed someone who could run with that.” I sigh. “But I really wanted to tell you.” “Okay.” “It’s just, it got to the point where it was hard to bring it up.”

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

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.

I wonder if we know each other in real life.

Now I’m trying to think of mine. Maybe it was the day we got our dog. Blue, you don’t even know. We got him when he was like nine weeks old, and I almost died because he was so freaking cute. We have these family friends in Alabama, and their dog had a whole litter of babies. I was like ten at the time. Anyway, we drove to Alabama right after they were born, and they were these tiny squeaky beans, so precious and cute. So we picked our favorite little pupper, and he was such a mush. But he was too little to come home with us yet, so we went back to get him a few weeks later. And that whole time, I was so hyped, I couldn’t even sleep. This went on for weeks. And then we got there, and he ran right to me. He totally remembered me. He slept in my lap on a towel for the whole ride home, and I fell asleep holding him, and I think that was the best moment of my life. All downhill from there.

But Jacques, your dog story is so ridiculously cute. I can totally picture it. I’m thinking beagle, right? A TINY SLEEPY BEAGLE PUPPY? Now I just want to hold him and maybe wrap him up in a blanket and feed him one kibble of dog food at a time. I love dogs so much. I’ve never had one, but I’ve wanted one my whole life. So, I guess your dog must be six or seven now? Give him a hug from me, okay?

Your dog sleeps in your bed, and I am so jealous. I think my vision for the perfect future is basically a king-sized bed with a husband and a dog. Anyway, I’m not usually up this late (I’M A NERD. SHH. I KNOW THIS), so this will be a quick email. I’m sorry! But I just wanted to write back today. Also, I have another question for you. Most embarrassing moment. Go.