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

by Becky Albertalli

“Okay, well, I’m English and German, and Abby’s, you know . . .” Oh God, I don’t know anything about Africa, and I don’t know if that makes me racist. “West African. I think.” “Exactly. I mean, it’s just the randomness of it. How did we all end up here?” “Slavery, in my case,” Abby says. And fucking fuck. I need to shut up. I needed to shut up about five minutes ago.

His hands grip my shoulders, and we’re both laughing, and the rows of lockers are a toothpaste-blue blur. I let down my legs, and we skid to a stop. And I guess I have to get up. I raise my hand to give Cal a high five, but instead, he threads his fingers through mine for just a second. Then he looks down and smiles, and his eyes are hidden by his bangs. We untangle our hands, and my heart is thudding. I have to look away from him.

Abby and I sit like that for so long my arm starts to prickle. But it isn’t until we’re finally about to head back to the auditorium that I realize two people have been watching us. The first is Cal. The second is Martin, and he looks pretty goddamn furious.

“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.”

So when the school day ends and nothing extraordinary has happened, it’s a tiny heartbreak. It’s like eleven o’clock on the night of your birthday, when you realize no one’s throwing you a surprise party after all.

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.

“I thought I was so obvious,” he says. I shake my head. 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.”

And I guess I assumed that Blue would be white. Which kind of makes me want to smack myself. White shouldn’t be the default any more than straight should be the default. There shouldn’t even be a default.

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.