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

by Becky Albertalli

I think I’m getting that Nick-and-Leah sixth-grade field trip feeling. I don’t know how to explain it. But when it’s just the three of us, we have these perfect, stupid moments.

Bram Greenfeld

<3!!

Like the way you can memorize someone’s gestures but never know their thoughts. And the feeling that people are like houses with vast rooms and tiny windows.

I mean, I just had to know him.

For the next few days at school after that, it felt like I was a character in a movie. I could almost imagine a close-up of my face, projected wide-screen.

I guess I didn’t really think of myself as interesting until I was interesting to Blue.

Really, though, there are only two kinds of weather: hoodie weather and weather where you wear a hoodie anyway.

It’s the weirdest thing. There are these moments with Abby and Leah where it honestly just seems like they’re showing off for each other.

But I’m gay. GAY. Gaaaaaaaayyyyy.

It’s like they have this idea of me, and whenever I step outside of that, it blows their minds.

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.

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 think you’re cute and grammatical, too.

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.

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 think I’m a little bit in love with him.

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.

The Homosexual Agenda? I don’t know. I think it’s more like the Homo Sapiens Agenda. That’s really the point, right?

If she thinks me drinking coffee is big news, it’s going to be quite a fucking morning.

“I’m not holding your hand,” I tell him, smiling a little. “All right”—he nods—“but know that I would.”

I don’t even know. I’m just so sick of straight people who can’t get their shit together.

“And you know what? You don’t get to say it’s not a big thing. This is a big fucking thing, okay? This was supposed to be—this is mine. I’m supposed to decide when and where and who knows and how I want to say it.”

We are out and we are alive, and everyone in the universe is out here right now.

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

I have no idea who he is. No freaking clue. But I think I’m falling for him again.

So, first I want to say this: I know who you are. I mean, I still don’t know your name, or what you look like, or all the other stuff. But you have to understand that I really do know you. I know that you’re smart and careful and weird and funny. And you notice things and listen to things, but not in a nosy way. In a real way. You overthink things and remember details and you always, always say the right thing.

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 Cute Bram Greenfeld, of the soft eyes and soccer calves.

And I smile at him. It’s impossible not to.

White shouldn’t be the default any more than straight should be the default. There shouldn’t even be a default.

“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.

“I mean,” he says, “Greenfeld made me go three times.”

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 it’s almost too perfect. Almost too Disney. This can’t actually be me.

He kisses like Elliott Smith sings.

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.

“I like no endings,” I say. “I like things that don’t end.”