Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda(56)

“You’re so quiet,” I say, after a moment. “Is everything okay?”

She doesn’t answer. I feel the pencil push across the edge of my lashes. Scritch scritch scritch.

“Abby?” I ask. The pencil lifts away, and I open my eyes.

“Keep them closed,” she says. Then she starts my other eyelid. She’s quiet for a minute. And then she says, “What was this whole thing with Martin?”

“With Martin?” I ask, and my stomach twists.

“He told me everything,” she says, “but I’d sort of like to hear it from you.”

I feel frozen in place. Everything. But what does that even mean?

“The blackmail thing?”

“Yeah,” she says. “That. Okay, open them.” She starts tracing the bottom lid, and I fight the urge to blink. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because,” I say, “I don’t know. I didn’t tell anyone.”

“And you just went along with it?”

“I didn’t exactly have much of a choice.”

“But you knew I wasn’t attracted to him, right?” She caps the pencil again.

“Yeah,” I say, “I did.”

Abby leans back for a moment to examine me, before sighing and leaning forward again. “I’m going to even this out,” she says. And then she’s quiet.

“I’m sorry.” Suddenly, it feels so important for her to understand. “I didn’t know what to do. He was going to tell everyone. I really didn’t want to help him. I barely did help him.”

“Yeah.”

“Which, you know, that’s why he ended up even posting that thing on the Tumblr. Because I wasn’t helping him enough.”

“No, I get it,” she says.

She finishes with the pencil, and then smudges everything with her finger. A moment later, I feel her run some poufy makeup brush all over my cheeks and nose.

“I’m done,” she says, and I open my eyes. She looks at me and frowns. “It’s just, you know. I get that you were in a difficult position. But you don’t get to make the decisions about my love life. I choose who I date.” She shrugs. “I would think you would understand that.”

I hear myself inhale. “I’m so sorry.” I hang my head. I mean, I wish I could just disappear.

“Well, you know. It is what it is.” She shrugs. “I’m gonna head out there, okay?”

“Okay.” I nod.

“Maybe someone else could do your makeup tomorrow,” she says.


The play goes fine. I mean, it’s better than fine. Taylor is perfectly earnest, and Martin is perfectly crotchety, and Abby is so lively and funny that it’s almost like our conversation in the dressing room never happened. But after it’s over, she disappears without saying good-bye, and Nick’s gone by the time I get out of costume. And I have no idea if Leah was here at all.

So, yeah. The play’s great. I’m the one who’s miserable.

I meet my parents and Nora in the atrium, and my dad’s carrying this giant bouquet of flowers that looks like something out of Dr. Seuss. Because even without a speaking part, I’m apparently God’s gift to theater. And all the way home, they hum the songs and talk about Taylor’s amazing voice and ask me if I’m friends with the hilarious kid with the beard. A.k.a. Martin. God, what a question.

I reunite with my laptop as soon as we get home. To be honest, I’m more confused than ever.

I guess it’s not a huge surprise that Leah’s pissed about last Friday. I think she’s going a little overboard with it, but I get it. I probably had it coming. But Abby?

It honestly hit me out of nowhere. It’s weird, because of all the things I felt guilty about, it never occurred to me to feel guilty about Abby. But I’m a f*cking idiot. Because who you like can’t be forced or persuaded or manipulated. If anyone knows that, it’s me.

I’m a shitty friend. Worse than a shitty friend, because I should be begging for Abby’s forgiveness right now, and I’m not. I’m too busy wondering what exactly Martin told her. Because it doesn’t sound like he mentioned anything other than the blackmail.

Which could mean he doesn’t want to admit that he’s Blue. Or it could mean he’s not Blue at all. And the thought of Blue being someone other than Martin gives me this breathless, hopeful feeling.

Actually hopeful, despite the mess I’ve made. Despite the drama. Despite everything. Because even with all the shit that’s gone down this week, I still care about Blue.

The way I feel about him is like a heartbeat—soft and persistent, underlying everything.

I log into my Jacques email, and when I do, something clicks. And it isn’t Simon logic. It’s objective, indisputable truth: Every email Blue ever sent me is time-stamped.

So many of the emails were sent right after school. So many were sent when I was in rehearsal. Which means Martin was also in rehearsal, with no time to write and no wireless internet.

Blue isn’t Martin. He’s not Cal. He’s just someone.

So, I go all the way back to the beginning, back to August, and I read through everything. His subject lines. Every line of every email.

I have no idea who he is. No freaking clue.

But I think I’m falling for him again.