Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda(46)

It’s actually really terrible, now that I think about it.

But it’s pointless. Because even if I crack the code somehow, it doesn’t change the fact that Blue isn’t interested. He found out who I am. And now it’s broken, and I don’t know what to do. I told him I understand if he’s not attracted to me. I tried to make it sound like I don’t mind.

But I don’t understand. And I totally mind.

This f*cking sucks, actually.

On Monday, there’s a plastic grocery bag looped through the handle of my locker, and my first thought is that it’s a jockstrap. I guess I’m picturing some stupid athlete giving me a sweaty jockstrap as a grand gesture of humiliation and douchery. I don’t know. Maybe I’m paranoid.

Anyway, it’s not a jockstrap. It’s a jersey cotton T-shirt with the logo from Elliott Smith’s Figure 8. Resting on top is a note that says this: “I’m assuming Elliott understands that you would have made it to his shows if you could have.”

The note is written on blue-green construction paper in perfectly straight print—not a hint of slant. And of course he remembered the second “t” in Elliott. Because he’s Blue. He would.

The shirt is a medium, and it’s vintage soft, and everything about it is entirely, amazingly perfect. For one wild moment, I think I’ll find a bathroom and change into it right now.

But I stop myself. Because it’s still weird. Because I still don’t know who he is. And the idea of him seeing me in the shirt makes me really self-conscious for some reason. So, I keep it neatly folded in the bag, and then I put the bag in my locker. And then I float through the day in a jittery, happy daze.

But then I get to rehearsal, and there’s this sudden seismic shift. I don’t even know. It has something to do with Cal. He’s leaving the auditorium to go to the bathroom just as I arrive, and he stops for a minute in the doorway. And then we sort of smile at each other and both keep walking.

It’s nothing. It’s not even a moment. But there’s this sunburst of anger that starts in my chest. I mean, I can actually physically feel it. And it’s all because Blue is a goddamn coward. He’ll hang a f*cking T-shirt from the door of my locker, but he doesn’t have the guts to approach me in person.

He’s ruined everything. Now there’s this adorable guy with awesome bangs who maybe even likes me, and it’s completely pointless. I’m not ever going to hang out with Cal. I’ll probably never have a boyfriend. I’m too busy trying not to be in love with someone who isn’t real.


The rest of the week is this exhausting blur. Rehearsals are an extra hour every night now, which means I’m having vertical dinners over the kitchen counter and trying not to drop crumbs in my textbooks. My dad says he misses me this week, which really just means he’s sad about having to TiVo The Bachelor. I haven’t heard from Blue at all, and I haven’t emailed him either.

Friday’s a big day, I guess. It’s a week before opening night, and we’re performing Oliver! twice in full costume during the school day: freshmen and seniors in the morning, and juniors and sophomores in the afternoon. We have to be at school an hour early to get ready, which means Nora gets stuck hanging out in the auditorium. But Cal puts her to work, and she seems content taping up cast photos on the wall of the atrium, next to some screenshots from the Mark Lester movie version and a super-enlarged list of the cast and crew.

Backstage is the best kind of chaos. Props are missing and people wander around partially in costume, and the various Creekwood music prodigies are in the orchestra pit running through the overture. It’s actually our first time doing the play with the orchestra, and just hearing them practice makes it seem that much more real. Taylor is already dressed and in makeup, and she stands in the wings doing some awkward vocal warm-up that she invented herself. Martin can’t find his beard.

I wear my first of three costumes, which is this scraggly, oversized oatmeal-colored shirt and baggy drawstring pants and no shoes. A couple of the girls put some junk in my hair to make it messy, which is basically like putting high heels on a giraffe. And then they tell me I have to wear eyeliner, which I absolutely detest. It’s bad enough that they want me to wear my contacts.

The only person I trust to do it is Abby, who puts me in a chair by the window in the girls’ dressing room. None of the girls care that I’m in there, and it’s not even about me being gay. The dressing rooms are just generally a total free-for-all, and anyone who cares about privacy at all changes in the bathroom.

“Close them,” she says.

I shut my eyes, and Abby’s fingertips tug softly next to my eyelid. Then there’s this scritch scritch feeling like I’m being drawn on, because I’m not even kidding—eyeliner actually comes in a freaking pencil.

“Do I look ridiculous?”

“Not at all,” she says. She’s quiet for a minute.

“I have a question for you.”

“Yep?”

“Why is your dad in DC?”

“Well, he’s still looking for a job here.”

“Oh,” I say. And then, “Are he and your brother moving down here?”

She swipes her fingertip over the edge of my eyelid.

“My dad is, eventually,” she says. “My brother’s a freshman at Howard.”

And then she nods and tugs the other eyelid taut and starts on that one.