Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda by Becky Albertalli

Waffle House tomorrow, after school? I could quiz you on your lines.”
    I hate myself. I hate myself.
    â€œI mean, if you can’t—”
    â€œOh my gosh. Seriously, Simon? That would be awesome. Tomorrow after school, right? I actually think I can get my mom’s car.” Abby smiles and pokes me in the cheek.
    â€œYeah, thanks, Simon,” Martin says quietly. “That would be great.”
    â€œGreat,” I say.
    I’m officially doing it. I’m letting Martin Addison blackmail me. I don’t even know how I feel. Disgusted with myself. Relieved.
    â€œYou’re seriously amazing, Simon,” says Abby.
    I’m not. At all.
    And now it’s Friday night, and I’m on my second plate of hash browns, and Martin won’t stop asking Abby questions. I think it’s his way of flirting.
    â€œDo you like waffles?”
    â€œI do like waffles,” she says. “That’s why I got them.”
    â€œOh,” he says, and there’s a lot of wild, unnecessary nodding. He’s basically a Muppet.
    They’re sitting next to each other, and I’m across from them, and we’ve managed to get the booth back near the bathrooms where no one really bothers you. It’s not all that crowded for a Friday night. There’s a pissed-off-looking middle-aged couple in the booth behind us, two hipster guys at the counter, and a couple of girls in private school uniforms eating toast.
    â€œAren’t you from DC?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThat’s cool. What part?”
    â€œTakoma Park,” she says. “You know DC?”
    â€œI mean, not really. My brother’s a sophomore at Georgetown,” Martin says.
    Martin and his freaking brother.
    â€œAre you okay, Simon?” asks Abby. “Drink some water!”
    Can’t stop coughing. And now Martin’s offering me his water. Pushing it toward me. Martin can freaking bite me. Seriously. Like he’s so calm and collected.
    He turns back to Abby. “So, you live with your mom?”
    She nods.
    â€œWhat about your dad?” he says.
    â€œHe’s still in DC.”
    â€œOh. I’m sorry.”
    â€œDon’t be,” Abby says, with a short laugh. “If my dad lived in Atlanta, I wouldn’t be hanging out with you guys right now.”
    â€œOh, is he really strict?” asks Martin.
    â€œYup,” she says. Her eyes cut toward me. “So, do you think we should start Act Two?”
    Martin stretches and yawns in this weird vertical maneuver, and I watch as he attempts to position his arm next to Abby’s on the table. Abby pulls her arm away immediately and scratches her shoulder.
    I mean, it’s pretty terrible to watch. Terrible and fascinating.
    We run through the scene. Speaking of disasters. I don’t have a speaking part, so I shouldn’t judge. And I know they’re trying. But we’re having to stop at every freaking line, and it’s getting a little ridiculous.
    â€œHe got took away,” Abby says, covering her script with one hand.
    I nod at her. “Got took away in a . . .”
    She squeezes her eyes shut. “In a . . . coach?”
    â€œYou got it.” She opens her eyes, and I see her lips moving silently. Coach. Coach. Coach .
    Martin stares into space, grinding his knuckle into his cheek. He has extremely prominent knuckles. Martin has prominent everything: huge eyes, long nose, full lips. Looking at him is exhausting.
    â€œMartin.”
    â€œSorry. My line?”
    â€œDodger just said he got took away in a coach.”
    â€œA coach? What coach? Where coach?”
    Almost. Never perfect. Always almost. We start the scene over again. And I think: it’s Friday night. In theory, I could beout getting drunk. I could be at a concert.
    I could be at a concert with Blue.
    But instead, it’s Oliver getting taken away in a coach. Again and again and again.
    â€œI’m never going to learn