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

by Becky Albertalli

The air has that crisp, early fall feeling, and people are already lining their steps with pumpkins. I love that. I’ve loved it since I was a kid.

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.

I fall a little bit in love with everyone. Even Taylor.

The south county late bus doesn’t leave for another fifteen minutes, and then it’s another hour until Abby gets home. She and most of the other black kids spend more time commuting to school each day than I do in a week. Atlanta is so weirdly segregated, and no one ever talks about it.

“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.

My dementor robes end up in a heap on the floor. I did aim for the hamper. I’m kind of comically unathletic.

I don’t think I’ll tell my parents about it. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t get in trouble if I did. I don’t know. I need to spend some time in my head with this new Simon. 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.

As far as I know, coming out isn’t something that straight kids generally worry about.

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.

Fall air always smells like possibility.

I actually hate when people say that. I mean, I feel secure in my masculinity, too. Being secure in your masculinity isn’t the same as being straight.

A part of me feels like I jumped over some kind of border, and now I’m on the other side realizing I can’t cross back. I think it’s a good feeling, or at least an exciting feeling.

“Nice polka dots,” I say. He smiles. “Nice Labradors.” I mean, he’s cute, so I’ll let it slide, but the dogs on my pants are clearly golden retrievers.

is definitely annoying that straight (and white, for that matter) is the default, and that the only people who have to think about their identity are the ones who don’t fit that mold. Straight people really should have to come out, and the more awkward it is, the better. Awkwardness should be a requirement. I guess this is sort of our version of the Homosexual Agenda?

“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. “Well, I do.” “Okay,” she says, putting her hands up like whoa there, buck. “That’s fine, Si. It’s just different. I’m just trying to keep up with you.” If she thinks me drinking coffee is big news, it’s going to be quite a fucking morning.

I don’t know how people do this. How Blue did this. Two words. Two freaking words, and I’m not the same Simon anymore. My hand is over my mouth, and I stare straight ahead.

And my dad says, “Gay, huh?” And my mom says, “So, talk me through this.” It’s one of her favorite psychologist lines. I look at her and shrug.

One girl even confirms that Jesus still loves me.

“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

Taylor may be an undercover, bully-fighting ninja, but she’s still kind of awful.

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.

It’s a perfect night. Everything is perfect. It’s not even cold out anymore. It’s a Friday night, and we’re not at the Waffle House, and we’re not playing Assassin’s Creed in Nick’s basement, and we’re not pining for Blue. We are out and we are alive, and everyone in the universe is out here right now.

But I am. I’m an idiot. I was looking for him to be Cal. 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.

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.