Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda(7)

I end up playing around on my phone, refreshing my email and watching music videos on YouTube. But there’s a knock on the passenger side window, and I almost jump. I think I’ve started expecting to see Martin everywhere. Except it’s just Nick. I gesture through the window for him to come in.

He climbs into the seat. “What are you doing?”

Avoiding Martin.

“Watching videos,” I say.

“Oh man. Perfect. I’ve got this song in my head.”

“If it’s by the Who,” I inform him, “or Def Skynyrd or anyone like that, then no freaking way.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say ‘Def Skynyrd.’”

I love messing with Nick.

We end up watching part of an episode of Adventure Time as a compromise, and it’s the exact perfect distraction. I keep an eye on the clock, because I don’t actually want to miss English class. I just want to cut off that margin of time before class begins, where Martin might try to talk to me.

And it’s funny. I know Nick can tell something’s up with me, but he doesn’t ask questions or try to make me talk. It’s just one of those things about us. I know his voice and expressions and his weird little habits. His random existential monologues. The way he taps his fingertips along the pad of his thumb when he’s nervous. And I guess he probably knows the same kinds of things about me. I mean, we’ve known each other since we were four. But really, I don’t have a clue what goes on inside his head most of the time.

It actually reminds me a lot of the thing Blue posted on the Tumblr.

Nick takes my phone and starts scrolling through the videos. “If we can find one with Christ imagery, we can totally justify skipping English.”

“Um, if we find Christ imagery, I’m using Adventure Time for my free-response essay.”

He looks at me and laughs.

The thing is, it isn’t lonely with Nick. It’s just easy. So maybe it’s a good thing.


I’m a little early for Thursday’s rehearsal, so I slip out the side door of the auditorium and walk around to the back of the school. It’s actually pretty chilly for Georgia, and it looks like it rained sometime after lunch. Really, though, there are only two kinds of weather: hoodie weather and weather where you wear a hoodie anyway.

I must have left my earbuds in my backpack in the auditorium. I hate listening to stuff through the speakers of my phone, but music is always better than no music. I lean against the brick wall behind the cafeteria, searching my music library for an EP by Leda. I haven’t listened to it yet, but the fact that Leah and Anna are obsessed is a promising sign.

Suddenly, I’m not alone.

“Okay, Spier. What’s your deal?” Martin asks, sidling up beside me against the wall.

“My deal?”

“I think you’re avoiding me.”

We’re both wearing Chucks, and I can’t decide if my feet look small or if his look huge. Martin probably has six inches on me. Our shadows look ridiculous next to each other.

“Well, I’m not,” I say. I step off the wall and start walking back toward the auditorium. I mean, I’m not trying to piss off Ms. Albright.

Martin catches up to me. “Seriously,” he says, “I’m not going to show anyone the emails, okay? Stop freaking out about it.”

But I think I’ll take that with about a million f*cking grains of salt. Because he sure as hell didn’t say he was deleting them.

He looks at me, and I can’t quite read his expression. It’s funny. All the years I’ve been in class with this kid, laughing along with everyone at the random shit he says. All the times I’ve seen him in plays. We even sat next to each other in choir for a year. But really, I barely know him. I guess I don’t know him at all.

Never in my life have I underestimated someone so severely.

“I said I was going to talk to her,” I say finally. “Okay?”

My hands are on the auditorium door.

“Wait,” he says. I look up at him, and he’s holding his phone. “Would it be easier if we exchanged numbers?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I mean . . .” He shrugs.

“Jesus Christ, Martin.” I grab his phone, and my hands are practically vibrating with total fury as I punch my number into his contacts.

“Awesome! And I’ll just call you so you have mine.”

“Whatever.”

Fucking Martin Addison. I’m definitely putting him in my contacts as “Monkey’s Asshole.”

I push through the door, and Ms. Albright herds us on stage. “All right. I need Fagin, Dodger, Oliver, and boys. Act One, Scene Six. Let’s go.”

“Simon!” Abby flings her arms around me, and then pokes me in the cheeks. “Never leave me again.”

“What did I miss?” I kind of force a smile.

“Nothing,” she says under her breath, “but I’m in Taylor hell here.”

“The blondest circle of hell.”

Taylor Metternich. She’s the worst kind of perfect. Like, if perfection had a dark side. I don’t know how else to explain it. I always imagine her sitting in front of a mirror at night, counting strokes as she brushes her hair. And she’s the kind of person who posts on Facebook asking you how you did on the history quiz. Not to be supportive. She wants to know your grade.