Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda(66)

I walk over to Leah, and she grins and shrugs. So I give her this crushing hug. “You are a freaking boss,” I tell her. “I had no idea.”

“They let me borrow some of the school drums. I’ve been teaching myself.”

“For how long?”

“About two years.”

I just look at her. She bites her lip.

“I guess I’m awesome?” she says.

“YES,” I say. And I’m sorry, but I just have to hug her again.

“All right,” she says, squirming a little. But I can tell she’s smiling.

So I kiss her on the forehead, and she turns unbelievably red. When Leah blushes, it’s so hardcore.

And then my parents walk over to propose a celebratory trip to The Varsity.

“I should probably catch up on homework,” I tell them.

“You sure, kid?” asks my dad. “Want me to bring you back a Frosted Orange?”

“Or two,” says Alice. And then she grins.

Alice tells me to keep my phone on, so she can text me when they’re on the way home.

“And you won’t forget the Frosties.”

“Simon. I believe this is known as having your cake and eating it, too.”

“Large ones,” I say. “Souvenir cups.”

There are probably a hundred people still walking toward the parking lot. I’m riding back with Bram. It’s too public to hold hands. This being Georgia. So, I walk next to him, leaving a space between us. Just a couple of guys hanging out on a Friday night. Except the air around us seems to crackle with electricity.

Bram is parked in the raised area of the parking lot, on the top level. He unlocks his car from the top of the stairs, and I walk around to the passenger side. Then the car next to me comes noisily to life, startling me. I wait for it to pull out before opening my door, but the driver doesn’t move. And then I look into the window and see that it’s Martin.

We lock eyes. I’m surprised he’s here, because he wasn’t in school today. Which means I haven’t seen him since he emailed me.

He rakes his hand through his hair, and his mouth sort of twists.

And I just sort of look at him.

I haven’t written back to his email. Not yet.

I don’t know.

But it’s chilly outside, so I slide into the car, and then watch through the window as Martin backs out.

“Are you warm enough?” Bram asks. I nod. “So, I guess we’re going to your place.”

He sounds nervous, and it makes me nervous. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes flicking to me. “I mean, yeah.”

“Okay. Yeah,” I say. And my heart pounds.


Stepping into the entryway with Bram is like seeing it for the first time. The random painted wood dresser against the wall, overflowing with catalogs and junk mail. A creepy, framed drawing of Alvin and the Chipmunks that Nora made in kindergarten. There’s the muffled thud of Bieber jumping off the couch, followed by jangling and clicking as he skitters toward us.

“Well, hi,” Bram says, practically crouching. “I know who you are.”

Bieber greets him passionately, all tongue, and Bram laughs in surprise.

“You have that effect on us,” I explain.

He kisses Bieber on the nose and follows me into the living room. “Are you hungry?” I ask. “Or thirsty?”

“I’m fine,” he says.

“We probably have Coke.” I very badly want to kiss him, and I don’t know why I’m stalling. “Do you want to watch something?”

“Sure.”

I look at him. “I don’t.”

He laughs. “So, let’s not.”

“Do you want to see my room?”

He smiles his mischievous smile again. So maybe it is Bram-like. Maybe I’m still figuring him out.

Framed photographs line the wall by the staircase, and Bram pauses to look at each one. “The famous trash can costume,” he says.

“Nora’s finest hour,” I say. “I forgot you knew about that.”

“And this is you with the fish, right? So obviously thrilled.”

In the picture, I’m six or seven, sun-flushed, my arm extended as far away from my body as possible, dangling a caught fish from a piece of twine. I look like I’m about to burst into horrified tears.

“I’ve always loved fishing,” I say.

“I can’t believe how blond you were.”

When we reach the top of the stairs, he takes my hand and squeezes it. “You’re really here,” I say, shaking my head. “So, this is it.”

I open the door, and try to kick some of the clothes aside as we walk in. “Sorry about . . . all of this.” There’s a dirty-clothes pile next to the empty hamper, and a clean-clothes pile next to the empty dresser. Books and papers everywhere. An empty bag of Goldfish crackers on the desk, next to a nonfunctioning Curious George alarm clock, my laptop, and a plastic robotic arm. Backpack on the desk chair. Framed vinyl album covers hanging askew on the walls.

But my bed is made. So that’s where we sit, leaning against the wall with our legs stretched forward.

“When you email me,” he says, “where are you?”

“Usually here. Sometimes at the desk.”