Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda(48)

But I know immediately. Martin plays Fagin. I’m listed as “Fagin’s boy.” I guess some genius thought it would be hilarious to cross out a couple of “i”s and “n”s.

“Oh,” he says, putting it together a moment later. We exchange glances, and he rolls his eyes, and for a moment, it’s almost like we’re friends again.

“Yup. And there was a drawing. Anyway,” Ms. Albright says, “Cal’s taking it down now, and in a minute, I’ll step out there to have a quick chat with your lovely classmates.”

“Are you canceling the show?” asks Martin, hands on his cheeks.

“Would you like me to?”

Martin looks at me.

“No. It’s fine. Just—don’t cancel it.” My heart is pounding.

I feel—I don’t know. I don’t want to think about any of this. But the one thing I’m sure about is this: the thought of Blue not seeing the play is kind of devastating.

I wish it didn’t matter.

Martin buries his face in his hands. “I’m so, so sorry, Spier.”

“Just stop it.” I stand up. “Okay? Stop.”


I guess I’m getting a little f*cking tired of this. I’m trying not to let it touch me. I shouldn’t care if stupid people call me a stupid word, and I shouldn’t care what people think of me. But I always care. Abby puts her arm around my shoulders, and we watch through the wings as Ms. Albright steps onto the stage.

“Hi,” she says into the microphone. She’s holding a notebook, and she’s not smiling. Not even a little bit. “Some of you know me. I’m Ms. Albright, the theater teacher.”

Someone from the audience whistles suggestively, and a few people giggle.

“So I know you’re all here to see an exclusive sneak preview of a pretty awesome play. We’ve got a great cast and crew, and we’re eager to get started. But before we get to that, I want to spend a couple of minutes reviewing Creekwood’s bullying policy together.”

Something about the words “review” and “policy” just shuts people down. There’s this drone of quiet conversation and denim rustling against seats. Someone shrieks with laughter, and someone else yells, “QUIET!” So then a bunch of people start giggling.

“I’ll wait,” Ms. Albright says. And when the laughter dies down, she holds up the notebook. “Does anyone recognize this?”

“Your diary?” Some * sophomore.

Ms. Albright ignores him. “This is the Creekwood handbook, which you should have read and signed at the beginning of the year.”

Everyone immediately stops listening. God. It’s got to freaking suck to be a teacher. I sit cross-legged on the floor backstage, surrounded by girls. Ms. Albright keeps talking and reading from the handbook and talking some more. When she says something about zero tolerance, Abby squeezes my hand. The minutes just drag.

I feel so totally blank right now.

Eventually, Ms. Albright steps back into the wings, slamming the handbook down on a chair. “Let’s do this,” she says. There’s this scary-intense look in her eyes.

The houselights start to dim, and the first notes of the overture rise up from the pit. I step out of the wings and onto the stage. My limbs feel really heavy. I kind of want to go home and crawl into bed with my iPod.

But the curtains start to open.

And I keep moving forward.





28


BUT LATER, IN THE DRESSING room, it hits me.

Martin Van Buren. Our eighth f*cking president.

But there’s no way. It’s not possible.

My washcloth falls to the floor. All around me, girls tug hats off and let their hair down and scrub foamy soap onto their faces and zip up garment bags. A door bursts open somewhere, and there’s a sudden shriek of laughter.

My mind is racing. What do I know about Martin? What do I know about Blue?

Martin is smart, obviously. Is he smart enough to be Blue? I have no idea if Martin is half-Jewish. I mean, he could be. He’s not an only child, but I guess he could be lying about that. I don’t know. I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense at all. Because Martin’s not gay.

But then again, someone thinks he is. Though I probably shouldn’t take anything on the authority of some anonymous * who called me a fag.

“Simon, no!” says Abby, appearing in the doorway.

“What?”

“You washed it off!” She stares at my face for a minute. “I guess you can still kind of see it.”

“You mean the ridiculous hotness?” I say, and she laughs.

“Listen. I just got a text from Nick, and he’s waiting for us in the parking lot. We’re taking you out tonight.”

“What?” I say. “Where?”

“I don’t know yet. But my mom’s up in DC this weekend, meaning the house and car are mine. So you’re spending the night in Suso territory.”

“We’re sleeping at your house?”

“Yup,” she says, and I notice that she’s out of makeup and back in her skinny jeans. “So go drop off your sister. Whatever you have to do.”

I look in the mirror and attempt to push down my hair. “Nora already took the bus,” I say slowly. It’s strange. The Simon in the mirror is still wearing contacts. Still almost unrecognizable. “Why are we doing this again?”