Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda(37)

“So, that’s pretty big news, bub,” Alice says, following me into my room. She shuts the door behind her, and settles in cross-legged on the end of my bed.

“Ugh,” I say. I collapse facedown into the pillows.

“Hey.” She leans her body sideways, until it’s level with mine. “Everything’s cool. It’s nothing to mope about.”

I ignore her.

“I’m not leaving, bub. Because you’re going to wallow. You’re going to put on that playlist. What’s it called?”

“The Great Depression,” I mutter. It’s like all Elliott Smith and Nick Drake and the Smiths. I already have it cued up.

“Right,” she says. “The Great Depression. That romp. No way.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because I’m your big sister and you need me.”

“I need to be left alone.”

“No way. Talk to me, bub!” she says. She slides toward me, squeezing in between my body and the wall. “This is exciting. We can talk about guys.”

“Okay,” I say, pushing up off the bed and maneuvering into a sitting position. “Then tell me about your boyfriend.”

“Whoa there,” she says. “What?”

I look at her. “The phone calls. Disappearing into your room for hours. Come on.”

“I thought we were discussing your love life.” She blushes.

“So I get to make a scene and come out and have everyone awkwardly debate the whole thing right in front of me. On freaking Christmas,” I say, “and you won’t even tell me you have a boyfriend?”

She’s silent for a moment, and I know I have her. She sighs. “How do you know I don’t have a girlfriend?”

“Is it a girlfriend?”

“No,” she says finally, leaning back against the wall. “Boyfriend.”

“What’s his name?”

“Theo.”

“Is he on Facebook?”

“Yes.”

I pull up the app on my phone and start scrolling through her friends list.

“Oh God. Just stop,” she says. “Simon, seriously. Stop.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you guys. I knew you were going to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Ask a lot of questions. Stalk him online. Call him out for not liking pie or having facial hair or something.”

“He has facial hair?”

“Simon.”

“Sorry,” I say, leaving the phone on my nightstand. I do get it. Actually, I really get it.

We’re quiet for a moment.

“I am going to tell them,” she says finally.

“Whatever you want to do.”

“No, you’re right. I’m not trying to be—I don’t know.” She sighs again. “I mean, if you have the guts to tell them you’re gay, I should . . .”

“You should have the guts to come out as straight.”

She cracks a smile. “Something like that. You’re funny, bub.”

“I try.”





20


FROM: [email protected] TO: [email protected] DATE: Dec 25 at 5:12 PM

SUBJECT: Oh holy nightmare Blue,

I officially had the most epically weird and awful Christmas ever, and most of it I can’t even tell you about. Which really sucks. So, yeah. Basically, due to certain mysterious circumstances, I’m now out to my whole family and will soon be out to the whole freaking universe. And I guess that’s all I can say about it.

So, it’s your turn to distract me, okay? Give me updates about Little Fetus or the horrifying sexcapades of your parents, or talk about how you think I’m cute. And talk about how you ate too much turkey and now you feel nauseated. Did you know you’re the only person I’ve ever met who uses the word “nauseated” instead of “nauseous”? I finally Googled it, and of course you’re right. Of course.

Anyway, I know you’re off to Savannah tomorrow, but I hope to God your dad has internet, because I don’t think my heart can handle waiting a full week for an email from you. You should give me your number so I can text you. I promise I’m still relatively grammatical over text.

Well, Merry Christmas, Blue. I mean it. And I hope everyone leaves you alone tonight, because that sounds like WAY too much family time. Maybe next year we can sneak away and spend Christmas together somewhere far away, where our families can’t find us.

Love,

Jacques

FROM: [email protected] TO: [email protected] DATE: Dec 25 at 8:41 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Oh holy nightmare Oh, Jacques, I’m so sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine what mysterious circumstances led to your being outed to the universe, but it doesn’t sound pleasant, and I know it’s not what you wanted. I wish I could fix it somehow.

No updates on Little Fetus, but suffice it to say that I’m more than a little nauseated now that I’ve had the pleasure of reading the word “sexcapades” in reference to my parents. And I do think you’re cute. You’re absurdly cute. I think I spend a little too much time thinking how adorable you are in emails and trying to translate that into a viable mental image for daydreams and the like.