Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda(61)

“Abraham,” I say, trying it out, and there’s this soft ache below my stomach.

His eyes flick toward me.

And the rain makes a kind of curtain, which is probably for the best. Because all of a sudden, I’m leaning over the gear stick, and my hands are on his shoulders, and I’m trying to keep breathing. All I can see are Bram’s lips. Which fall gently open the moment I lean in to kiss him.

And I can’t even describe it. It’s stillness and pressure and rhythm and breathing. We can’t figure out our noses at first, but then we do, and then I realize my eyes are still open. So I shut them. And his fingertips graze the nape of my neck, in constant quiet motion.

He pauses for a moment, and my eyes flutter open, and he smiles, so I smile back. And then he leans in to kiss me again, sweet and feather-soft. And it’s almost too perfect. Almost too Disney. This can’t actually be me.

Ten minutes later, we’re holding hands and eating Oreo mush, and it’s the perfect lunch. More Oreos than milk. And I never would have remembered spoons, but he did. Of course.

“So now what?” I ask.

“We should probably go back to school.”

“No, I mean, us. I don’t know what you want. I don’t know if you’re ready to be out,” I say, but he taps along the creases in my palm with his thumb, and it makes me lose focus.

His thumb stops tapping, and he looks at me, and then he twines his fingers through mine. I lean back, tilting my head toward him.

“I’m all in, if you are,” he says.

“All in?” I say. “Like what? Like boyfriend?”

“I mean, yeah. If that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want,” I say. My boyfriend. My brown eyed, grammar nerd, soccer star boyfriend.

And I can’t stop smiling. I mean, there are times when it’s actually more work not to smile.


That night, as of 8:05, Bram Greenfeld is no longer Single on Facebook—a.k.a. the best thing that has ever happened in the history of the internet.

At 8:11, Simon Spier is no longer Single either. Which generates about five million Likes and an instantaneous comment from Abby Suso: LIKE LIKE LIKE.

Followed by a comment from Alice Spier: Wait—what?

Followed by another comment from Abby Suso: Call me!!

I text her and tell her I’ll talk to her tomorrow. I think I want to keep the details to myself tonight.

Instead, I call Bram. I mean, I almost can’t believe I didn’t have his number until yesterday. He picks up right away.

“Hi,” he says, quickly and softly. Like the word belongs to us.

“Big news on Facebook tonight.” I sink backward onto my mattress.

His quiet laugh. “Yeah.”

“So what’s our next move? Do we keep it classy? Or do we blast everyone’s newsfeeds with kissing selfies?”

“Probably the selfies,” he says. “But just a couple dozen a day.”

“And we have to shout out our anniversary every week. Every Sunday.”

“Well, and every Monday for our first kiss.”

“And a couple dozen posts every night about how much we miss each other.”

“I do miss you, though,” he says.

I mean, Jesus Christ. What a week to be grounded.

“What are you doing right now?” I ask.

“Is that an invitation?”

“I wish it was.”

He laughs. “I’m sitting at my desk, looking through my window, and talking to you.”

“Talking to your boyfriend.”

“Yeah,” he says. I can hear him smiling. “Him.”


“All right.” Abby accosts me at my locker. “I’m about to lose it. What the heck is going on with you and Bram?”

“I’m, uh.” I look at her and smile as a wave of heat rises in my cheeks. She waits. And I shrug. I don’t know why it’s so weird talking about this.

“Oh my gosh. Look at you.”

“What?” I ask.

“Blushing.” She pokes my cheeks. “I’m sorry, but you’re so cute, I can’t even stand it. Just go. Keep walking.”

Bram and I have English and algebra together, which basically amounts to two hours of staring longingly at his mouth and five hours of longingly imagining his mouth. Instead of lunch, we sneak into the auditorium, and it’s strange seeing the stage stripped of the set for Oliver! The school talent show is on Friday, and someone’s already hung spangled gold tassels in front of the curtains.

We’re alone in the theater, but it feels too big, so I take Bram by the hand and pull him into the boys’ dressing room.

“Aha,” he says as I fiddle with the latch. “This is a doors-locked kind of activity.”

“Yup,” I say, and then I kiss him.

His hands fall to my waist, and he pulls me in closer. He’s only a few inches taller than me, and he smells like Dove soap, and for someone whose kissing career began yesterday, he has seriously magical lips. Soft and sweet and lingering. He kisses like Elliott Smith sings.

And then we pull out chairs, and I twist mine around sideways so I can rest my legs across his lap. And he drums his hands across my shins, and we talk about everything. Little Fetus being the size of a sweet potato. Frank Ocean being gay.