Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda(57)

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FROM: [email protected] TO: [email protected] DATE: Jan 25 at 9:27 AM

SUBJECT: Us.

Blue,

I’ve been writing and deleting and rewriting this email all weekend, and I still can’t get it right. But I’m going to do this. So here we go.

I know I haven’t written in a while. It’s been a weird couple of weeks.

So, first I want to say this: I know who you are.

I mean, I still don’t know your name, or what you look like, or all the other stuff. But you have to understand that I really do know you. I know that you’re smart and careful and weird and funny. And you notice things and listen to things, but not in a nosy way. In a real way. You overthink things and remember details and you always, always say the right thing.

And I think I like that we got to know each other from the inside out.

So, it occurred to me that I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about you and rereading your emails and trying to make you laugh. But I’ve been spending very little time spelling things out for you and taking chances and putting my heart on the line.

Obviously, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, but what I’m trying to say is that I like you. I more than like you. When I flirt with you, it’s not a joke, and when I say I want to know you, it’s not just because I’m curious. I’m not going to pretend I know how this ends, and I don’t have a freaking clue if it’s possible to fall in love over email. But I would really like to meet you, Blue. I want to try this. And I can’t imagine a scenario where I won’t want to kiss your face off as soon as I see you.

Just wanted to make that perfectly clear.

So, what I’m trying to say is that there’s an extremely badass carnival in the parking lot of Perimeter Mall today, and it’s apparently open until nine.

For what it’s worth, I’ll be there at six thirty. And I hope I see you.

Love,

Simon





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I CLICK SEND AND TRY not to think about it, but I’m restless and punchy and jittery all the way to school. And cranking Sufjan Stevens at top volume doesn’t solve anything, which is probably why people don’t crank Sufjan Stevens. My stomach is apparently on a spin cycle.

First I put my costume on backward, and then I spend ten minutes looking for my contact lenses before remembering I’m wearing them. I’ve achieved Martin levels of twitchiness—Brianna has a ridiculous time putting on my eyeliner. And all through the bustle and pep talks and swelling of the overture, my mind is stuck on Blue Blue Blue.

I don’t know how I make it through the performance. I honestly don’t remember half of it.

Afterward, there’s this big goopy scene onstage of people hugging and thanking the audience and thanking the crew and thanking the orchestra. All the seniors get roses, and Cal gets a bouquet of them, and Ms. Albright’s bouquet is off the freaking charts. My dad calls it the Sunday Matinee Tearfest, which quickly inspired the Sunday Afternoon Unavoidable Golf Conflict. I don’t even blame him.

But then I think about Ms. Albright making it her life’s mission to get those in-tha-butt guys suspended. And how pissed off and determined she looked, slapping the handbook down on that chair backstage.

I wish I had brought her another bouquet or a card or a freaking tiara. I don’t know. Something just from me.

Then we have to get dressed again. And we have to strike the set. Everything takes forever. I never wear a watch, but I pull my phone out again and again and again to check the time. 5:24. 5:31. 5:40. Every part of me twists and flips and screams with anticipation.

At six, I leave. I just walk out the door. And it’s so warm outside. I mean, it’s warm for January. I want to be less excited, because who the hell knows what Blue is thinking, and who the hell knows what I’m setting myself up for. But I can’t help it. I just have a good feeling.

I keep thinking about what my dad said. You’re pretty brave, kid.

Maybe I am.

The carnival is basically our cast party, and everyone’s driving straight from school to the mall. Except for me. I make a left at the light and drive home. Because I don’t care if it’s January. I want the T-shirt.

It’s under my pillow, soft and white and neatly folded, with its wall of red and black swirls, and a picture of Elliott standing in front. Black and white, except for his hand. I pull it on quickly and grab a cardigan to throw over it. At this point, I have to haul ass to the mall if I’m going to make it by six thirty.

Except there’s something stiff and pokey between my shoulder blades, in that exact spot you can never quite scratch. I slide my arm underneath the hem and up through the bottom. A piece of paper is taped to the fabric inside. I catch it and tug it out.

It’s another note on blue-green construction paper, and it starts with a postscript. My fingers tremble as I read it.

P.S. I love the way you smile like you don’t realize you’re doing it. I love your perpetual bed head. I love the way you hold eye contact a moment longer than you need to. And I love your moon-gray eyes. So if you think I’m not attracted to you, Simon, you’re crazy.


And underneath that, he’s written his phone number.

There’s a tingling feeling that radiates outward from a point below my stomach—wrenching and wonderful and almost unbearable. I’ve never been so aware of my heartbeat. Blue and his vertical handwriting and the word “love” repeated over and over again.