Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda (9 page)

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: Dec 6 at 6:19 PM

SUBJECT: Coming Out Thing

Did you do it, did you do it, did you do it?

—Jacques

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: Dec 6 at 10:21 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Coming Out Thing

Okay. I didn't exactly do it.

I got there, and my dad had everything set up for Hotel Hanukkah: the menorah, presents wrapped and lined up on the nightstand, and a plate of latkes and two glasses of chocolate milk (my dad has to have chocolate milk with all fried stuff). Anyway, it looked like he put a lot of effort into it, so that was kind of nice. My stomach was churning, because I was really planning on telling him. But I didn't want to do it straight out of the gate, so I figured I'd wait until we finished opening presents.

So, you know how you hear stories about people coming out to their parents, and the parents say they already knew somehow? Yeah, my dad isn't going to say that. I'm officially certain that he has no idea I'm gay, because you will not believe what book he picked out to give me.
History of My Life
by Casanova (or, as you would say, by “freaking” Casanova).

Looking back, there was probably a perfect opportunity hiding in there somewhere. Maybe I should have asked him to exchange it for Oscar Wilde. I don't know, Jacques. I guess it kind of stopped me in my tracks. But now I'm thinking it might be a blessing in disguise, because in a weird way, I think it would have hurt my mom's feelings if I told my dad first. It can be a little
complicated with divorced parents. This whole thing is really overwhelming.

Anyway, my new plan is I'm going to tell my mom first. Not tomorrow, because tomorrow is Sunday, and I just think it would be better if I don't do it right after church.

Why is it so much easier talking about this stuff with you?

—Blue

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: Dec 7 at 4:46 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Coming Out Thing

Blue,

I can't believe your dad got you a book by freaking Casanova. Just when you think your parents couldn't be more clueless, right? No wonder you couldn't tell him then. I'm sorry, Blue. I know you were kind of excited to do it. Or maybe you were just nauseated, in which case I'm sorry you got nauseated over nothing. I can't even wrap my mind around the politics of coming out to divorced parents. I was basically planning to sit my parents down on the couch at some point and get it over with in one go. But you really can't do that, can you? It
makes my heart hurt for you, Blue. I just wish you didn't have to deal with that extra layer of awfulness.

As for why it's easier to talk to me about this stuff—maybe it's because I'm so cute and grammatical? And do you really think I'm grammatical? Because Mr. Wise says I have a thing about sentence fragments.

—Jacques

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: Dec 9 at 4:52 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Coming Out Thing

Jacques,

Just so you know, your being cute isn't the reason you're easy to talk to, because it really should be the opposite. In real life, I go totally silent around cute guys. I just freeze up. I can't help it. But I know the real reason you were asking was because you wanted to hear me call you cute again, so I will. You're cute, Jacques. And I guess you do have a thing about sentence fragments, but I sort of love it.

So, I'm not sure whether you meant to tell me your English teacher's name. You're dropping a lot of clues, Jacques. Sometimes I wonder if you drop more clues than you mean to.

Anyway, thanks for listening. Thanks for everything. It was such a strange, surreal weekend, but talking to you about it made it so much better.

—Blue

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: Dec 10 at 7:11 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Coming Out Thing

Blue,

Arg—yeah. Mentioning Mr. Wise was not intentional. I guess you can really narrow things down in a major way, if you choose to. I feel kind of strange about that. Sorry I'm such a huge freaking idiot.

So, who are all these cute guys who make you so nervous? They can't be that cute. You better not love THEIR sentence fragments.

Keep me posted about all forthcoming conversations with your mom, okay?

—Jacques

I GUESS WE'RE MAKING THIS
our thing. Reading Dickens at the WaHo. Abby doesn't have a car tonight, so she comes home with me after school on Friday and brings her overnight bag. I know it must suck for Abby living so far away, but I kind of love our sleepovers.

Predictably, we arrive before Martin. It's more crowded tonight. We get a table, but it's near the entrance, so it already feels like we're under a spotlight. Abby sits down across from me and immediately gets to work building this fussy little house out of jam and sugar pouches.

Martin bursts in, and within sixty seconds, he changes his drink order twice, burps, and manages to level Abby's sugar house with an overly enthusiastic finger poke. “Arg. Sorry. Sorry,” he says.

Abby shoots me a quick smile.

“And I forgot my script. Crap.”

He's on a freaking roll tonight.

“You can look on with me,” says Abby, scooting closer to him. The look on Martin's face. I almost start laughing.

We dive straight into Act Two, and it's a little bit less of a disaster than it was a week ago. At least I don't have to prompt every single line this time. My mind starts to wander.

I'm thinking about Blue—always Blue—because really, my mind only wanders in one direction. I got another email from him this morning. Lately, we've been emailing almost every day, and it's a little crazy how much he's been on my mind. I almost fucked up a chem lab today because I was emailing Blue in my head and I kind of forgot I was pouring nitric acid.

It's weird, because Blue's emails used to be this extra thing that was separate from my actual life. But now I think maybe the emails are my life. Everything else sort of feels like I'm slogging through a dream.

“Oh my gosh, Marty. No,” says Abby, “just no.”

Because, suddenly, Martin is kneeling in the booth, head flung back, clutching his chest, and singing. He's just launched into this big awesome number from the second act of the play. I mean, it's his full-on Fagin voice—low and trembly and vaguely British. And he's completely swept away in the moment.

People are gaping at us. And I'm speechless. Abby and I just
stare at each other in the most stunned holy awkward silence that's ever unfolded.

He sings the entire song. I guess he's been practicing. And then—I'm not even kidding. He slides back down into his seat like nothing happened and starts pouring syrup on his waffle.

“I don't even know what to say to you,” says Abby. And then she sighs. And then she hugs him.

Honest to God, he's like a freaking anime character. I can almost see hearts popping out of his eyes. He catches my eye, and his big banana mouth is just beaming. I can't help but grin back at him.

Maybe he's my blackmailer. Maybe he's also becoming my friend. Who the hell knows if that's even allowed.

Or maybe it's just that I'm feeling weirdly amped up and excited. I don't know how to explain it. Everything is funny. Martin is funny. Martin singing at Waffle House is entirely, incomprehensibly hilarious.

Two hours later, we wave good-bye to him in the parking lot, and Abby tucks into my passenger seat. The sky is dark and clear, and we shiver for a minute while we wait for the heat to kick in. I back out of the spot and pull onto Roswell Road.

“Who's this?” Abby asks.

“Rilo Kiley.”

“I don't know them.” She yawns.

We're listening to the birthday mix Leah made me, which
includes three Rilo Kiley songs from their first two albums. Leah has a girlcrush on Jenny Lewis. You can't not have a crush on Jenny Lewis. I'm twenty years younger than her and unquestionably gay, but yeah. I'd make out with her.

“Martin tonight,” Abby says, shaking her head.

“What a weirdo.”

“Kind of a cute weirdo,” she says.

I make the left onto Shady Creek Circle. The car has warmed up, and the streets are almost empty, and everything feels quiet and cozy and safe.

“Definitely cute,” she decides, “though, sadly, not my type.”

“Not my type either,” I say, and Abby laughs. I feel this tug in my chest.

I should really just tell her.

Blue is coming out to his mom tonight—at least that's the plan. They're having dinner at home, and he's going to try to make sure she has a little wine. And then he's just going to suck it up and do it. I'm nervous for him. Maybe a little jealous of him.

And I guess him telling her feels like a strange sort of loss. I think I liked being the only one who knew.

“Abby. Can I tell you something?”

“Sure, what's up?”

The music seems to fall away. We're stopped at a red, and I'm waiting to turn left, and all I can hear is the frantic clicking of my turn signal.

I think my heart is beating to its rhythm.

“You can't tell anyone,” I say. “No one else knows this.”

She doesn't speak, but I perceive her angling her body toward me. Her knees are folded up onto the passenger seat. She waits.

I didn't plan to do this tonight.

“So. The thing is, I'm gay.”

It's the first time I've said those words out loud. I pause with my hands on the steering wheel, waiting to feel something extraordinary. The light turns green.

“Oh,” says Abby. And there's this thick, hanging pause.

I turn left.

“Simon, pull over.”

There's a little bakery ahead on my right, and I pull into its driveway. It's closed for the night. I put the car in park.

“Your hands are shaking,” Abby says quietly. Then she tugs my arm closer, pushes my sleeve up, and cups my hand between her own. She sits cross-legged on the seat and turns completely sideways, facing me. I barely look at her.

“This is the first time you've told anyone?” she says, after a moment.

I nod.

“Wow.” I hear her take a breath. “Simon, I'm really honored.”

I lean back and sigh and twist my body toward her. My seat belt feels tight. I tug my hand away from Abby's to unlatch
it. Then I give it back to her, and she laces her fingers through mine.

“Are you surprised?” I say.

“No.” She looks at me directly. Lit only by streetlights, Abby's eyes are almost all pupil, edged thinly with brown.

“You knew?”

“No, not at all.”

“But you're not surprised.”

“Do you want me to be surprised?” She looks nervous.

“I don't know,” I say.

She squeezes my hand.

I wonder how it's going for Blue. I wonder if Blue is feeling the same flutter in his stomach that I feel right now. Actually, he's probably feeling more than a flutter. He's probably so nauseated he can hardly choke the words out.

My Blue.

It's weird. I almost think I did this for him.

“What are you going to do?” Abby asks. “Are you going to tell people?”

I pause. “I don't know,” I say. I haven't really thought about it. “I mean, eventually, yeah.”

“Okay, well, I love you,” she says.

She pokes me in the cheek. And then we go home.

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: Dec 13 at 12:09 AM

SUBJECT: out and about

Jacques, I did it. I told her. I almost can't believe it. I'm still feeling so wild and jittery and not myself. I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight.

I think she took it well. She didn't bring Jesus into it at all. She was pretty calm about the whole thing. Sometimes I forget that my mom can be very rational and analytical (she's actually an epidemiologist). She seemed mostly concerned that I understand the importance of Practicing Safe Sex Every Time, Including Oral.
No, I'm not kidding. She didn't seem to believe me when I told her I'm not sexually active. So, I guess that's flattering.

Anyway, I want to thank you. I didn't tell you this before, Jacques, but you should really know that you're the reason I was able to do this. I wasn't sure I'd ever find the courage. It's really kind of incredible. I feel like there's a wall coming down, and I don't know why, and I don't know what's going to happen. I just know you're the reason for it. So, thanks for that.

—Blue

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: Dec 13 at 11:54 AM

SUBJECT: Re: out and about

Blue,

Shut up. I'm so freaking proud of you. I would hug you right now if I could.

Wow, so between Ms. Every Time Including Oral and Mr. Let's Read About Freaking Casanova, your parents are seriously invested in your sex life. Parents need to stop being so freaking awkward. I will say, though, you shouldn't even be thinking about sex unless it's with someone really, really awesome. Someone who is such
a badass that the insane kids in his neighborhood don't even THINK about peeing on his porch. Someone who has a little bit of a problem with fragmented sentences and accidental self-disclosures. Yup.

So, you inspired me, Blue. I had my own Coming Out Thing last night. Not to my parents. But I told one of my best friends, even though I wasn't planning to, and it was awkward and weird and really kind of nice. I feel mostly relieved and a little embarrassed, because I feel like I made it into a bigger deal than it needed to be. It's funny, though. A part of me feels like I jumped over some kind of border, and now I'm on the other side realizing I can't cross back. I think it's a good feeling, or at least an exciting feeling. But I'm not sure. Am I making any sense at all?

But all of this about the walls coming down? I think you're giving me way too much credit. You're the hero tonight, Blue. You brought your own wall down. Maybe mine, too.

—Jacques

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

DATE: Dec 14 at 12:12 PM

SUBJECT: Re: out and about

Jacques,

I don't even know what to say. I'm so proud of you, too. This is really momentous, isn't it? I'm guessing this is the kind of thing we remember for the rest of our lives.

I know exactly what you mean about crossing the border. I think this is the kind of process that moves in one direction. Once you come out, you can't really go back in. It's a little bit terrifying, isn't it? I know we're so lucky we're coming out now and not twenty years ago, but it's still really a leap of faith. It's easier than I thought it would be, but at the same time, it's so much harder.

Don't worry, Jacques. I only ever think about sex with people who hide from their eighth-grade girlfriends in bathrooms on Valentine's Day, and eat tons of Oreos, and listen to weirdly depressing and wonderful music, but never wear band T-shirts.

I guess I have a very specific type.

(I'm not kidding.)

—Blue