Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda(39)

Leah sits on one end of the couch, and then me, and then Abby—and Nick is on the other end, plucking the strings of Nora’s old guitar. Bieber whimpers from the top of the stairs, and there are footsteps above us, and Abby’s telling a story about Taylor. Apparently Taylor said something annoying. I’m trying to laugh in the right places. I think I’m a little overstimulated. Leah is intently focused on the television.

When we finish eating, I run up to open the door for Bieber, who almost trips down the stairs and then flings himself into the room like a cannonball.

Nick mutes the TV and plays a slow, acoustic version of “Brown Eyed Girl.” The footsteps above us stop, and I can hear someone say, “Whoa. That’s beautiful.” One of Nora’s friends. Nick’s singing voice has this supernatural effect on freshman girls.

Nick sits very, very close to Abby on the couch, and I honestly think I can feel the waves of panic radiating off of Leah. She and I are on the floor now, rubbing Bieber’s belly. She hasn’t said a word.

“Look at this dog,” I say. “No shame. He’s like, ‘Grope me.’”

I’m feeling this weird pressure to be extra jolly and talkative.

Leah trails her fingers through the curls on Bieber’s belly and doesn’t respond.

“He has Coke-bottle mouth,” I point out.

She looks at me. “I don’t think that’s a thing.”

“No?” I say. Sometimes I forget what’s a Spier family invention and what’s real.

And then, out of nowhere and without any change in intonation, she says, “So, they took that post down.”

“I know,” I say, and there’s a nervous flutter in my gut. I haven’t talked about the Tumblr post yet with Nick or Leah, though I know they’ve seen it.

“We don’t have to talk about it, though,” says Leah.

“It’s fine.” I glance up at the couch. Abby is leaning back against the cushions with her eyes closed and a smile on her lips. Her head is tilted toward Nick.

“Do you know who wrote it?” Leah says.

“Yes.”

She looks at me expectantly.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say.

We’re both quiet for a moment. Nick stops playing, but he hums and taps out a rhythm on the body of the guitar. Leah twists her hair up for a minute and then lets it fall back down, where it hangs past her boobs. I look at her without meeting her eye.

“I know what you’re not asking me,” I say finally.

She shrugs, smiling slightly.

“I am gay. That part’s true.”

“Okay,” she says.

I realize that Nick has stopped humming.

“But I’m not turning this into a big thing tonight, okay? I don’t know. Do you guys want ice cream?” I pull myself up.

“Did you just tell us you’re gay?” asks Nick.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” he says. Abby swats him. “What?”

“That’s all you’re going to say? ‘Okay’?”

“He said not to make a big deal out of it,” Nick says. “What am I supposed to say?”

“Say something supportive. I don’t know. Or awkwardly hold his hand like I did. Anything.”

Nick and I look at each other.

“I’m not holding your hand,” I tell him, smiling a little.

“All right”—he nods—“but know that I would.”

“Aww, that’s better,” says Abby.

Leah has been quiet, but she turns to Abby suddenly. “Simon already told you?”

“He, um, yes,” says Abby, cutting her eyes to me quickly.

“Oh,” says Leah.

And there’s this silence.

“Well, I’m getting ice cream,” I say, moving toward the stairs, and Bieber collides with my legs in his eagerness to follow.


Hours later, the ice cream’s been eaten and the Peach has dropped and my neighbors have finally used up their fireworks. I stare at the ceiling. We have a popcorn ceiling in our basement, and in the darkness, its texture makes shadowy pictures and faces. Everyone brought sleeping bags, but instead of using them, we set up a nest of blankets and sheets and pillows on top of the carpet.

Abby, next to me, is asleep, and I can hear Nick snoring a few feet away. Leah’s eyes are closed, but she’s breathing like she’s awake. I guess it would be wrong of me to nudge her to find out. But then, all of a sudden, she rolls onto her side and sighs, and her eyes snap open.

“Hey,” I whisper, rolling my body toward her.

“Hey.”

“Are you mad?”

“About what?” she asks.

“About me telling Abby first.”

She’s quiet for several seconds, and then: “I don’t have a right to be mad.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This is your thing, Simon.”

“But you’re entitled to your emotions,” I say. I mean, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from having a psychologist for a mother . . .

“This isn’t about me, though.” She rolls onto her back, folding one arm behind her head.

I don’t know what to say to that. We’re both quiet for a minute.