Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda(55)

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Did we make it a big deal?”

“Oh my God. Seriously? You guys make everything a big deal.”

“Really?” she says.

“When I started drinking coffee. When I started shaving. When I got a girlfriend.”

“That stuff is exciting,” she says.

“It’s not that exciting,” I say. “It’s like—I don’t even know. You guys are so freaking obsessed with everything I do. It’s like I can’t change my socks without someone mentioning it.”

“Ah,” says my dad. “So, what you’re trying to say is that we’re really creepy.”

“Yes,” I say.

My mom laughs. “See, but you’re not a parent yet, so you can’t understand. It’s like—you have this baby, and eventually, he starts doing stuff. And I used to be able to see every tiny change, and it was so fascinating.” She smiles sadly. “And now I’m missing stuff. The little things. And it’s hard to let go of that.”

“But I’m seventeen. Don’t you think I’m supposed to be changing?”

“Of course you are. And I love it. It’s the most exciting time,” she says. She squeezes the end of my foot. “I’m just saying I wish I could still watch it all unfold.”

I don’t quite know what to say.

“You guys are just so grown-up now,” she continues, “all three of you. And you’re all so different. I mean, even when you were babies. Alice was fearless, and Nora was so self-contained, and then you were this complete ham. I mean, everyone kept saying you were your father’s son.”

My dad grins, and I’m honestly a little bit speechless. I have never, ever thought of myself that way.

“I actually remember holding you for the first time. Your little mouth. You latched right onto my breast—”

“Mom.”


“Oh, it was the most incredible moment. And your dad carried your sister in, and she kept saying, ‘No baby!’” My mom laughs. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I couldn’t believe we were the parents of a boy. I guess we had gotten so used to thinking of ourselves as girl parents, so it was like this whole new thing to discover.”

“Sorry I didn’t turn out to be much of a boy,” I say.

My dad spins the chair around to face me directly. “Are you kidding me?”

“Sort of.”

“You’re an awesome boy,” he says. “You’re like a ninja.”

“Well, thank you.”

“You’re freaking welcome,” he says.

There’s this distant slam of the front door shutting and dog nails skittering across the hardwoods—Nora’s home.

“Listen,” says my mom, poking my foot again. “I don’t want to cramp your style, but maybe you could just humor us? Keep us in the loop about stuff where you can, and we’ll try not to be weird and obsessed.”

“Fair enough,” I say.

“Good,” she says. They look at each other again. “Anyway, we have something for you.”

“Is it another awkward anecdote about me breast-feeding?”

“Oh my God, you were all about the boob,” my dad says. “I can’t believe you turned out to be gay.”

“Hilarious, Dad.”

“I know I am,” he says. Then he stands up and pulls something out of his pocket. “Here,” he says, tossing it.

My phone.

“You’re still grounded, but you get parole this weekend. And you can get your laptop back after the play tomorrow if you remember all your lines.”

“I don’t have any lines,” I say slowly.

“Then you don’t have anything to worry about, kid.”


But it’s sort of funny, because even without any lines to mess up, I’m nervous. Excited and fluttery and amped up and nervous. As soon as the dismissal bell rings, Ms. Albright takes Abby, Martin, Taylor, and a few of the others to do an extra vocal warm-up in the music room, but the rest of us just sit there on the floor of the auditorium eating pizza. Cal’s running around dealing with the tech people, and it’s kind of a relief to just be hanging out with a bunch of random senior girls at the moment. No Calvin Coolidge or Martin Van Buren or any other confusing presidential boys. No Leah looking at me with weapons for eyes.

The show begins at seven, but Ms. Albright wants us fully in costume by six. I put in my contact lenses and get changed early, and then I sit around in the girls’ dressing room waiting for Abby. It’s five thirty by the time she gets there, and she’s clearly in a weird mood. She barely says hello.

I pull my chair beside her and watch her apply her makeup.

“Are you nervous?” I ask.

“A little.” She stares into the mirror, sort of dabbing a mascara wand against her eyelashes.

“Nick’s coming tonight, right?”

“Yup.”

These clipped, abrupt answers. She almost seems annoyed.

“When you’re done,” I say, “will you help me be ridiculously hot?”

“Eyeliner?” she asks. “Okay. One sec.”

Abby brings over her makeup bag and pulls her chair across from mine. At this point, we’re the only ones left in the dressing room. She uncaps the pencil and pulls my eyelid taut, and I try not to squirm.