Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda by Becky Albertalli Page B

[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.
    â€”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?
    â€”Jacques

15
    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.
    â€œAnd I forgot my script. Crap.”
    He’s on a freaking roll tonight.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œOh 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 juststare 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