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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.
16
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
17
I HAVE TO MEET HIM.
I don’t think I can keep this up. I don’t care if it ruins everything. I’m this close to making out with my laptop screen.
Blue Blue Blue Blue Blue Blue Blue.
Seriously, I feel like I’m about to combust.
I spend the entire school day with my stomach in knots, and it’s completely pointless, because it’s not attached to anything real. Because, really, it’s just words on a screen. I don’t even know his freaking name.
I think I’m a little bit in love with him.
All through rehearsal, I stare at Cal Price, hoping he’ll fuck it up somehow and give me some sort of clue. Something. Anything. He pulls out a book, and my eyes go straight to the author’s name on the cover. Because maybe the book is by freaking Casanova, and I only know one person who owns a book by freaking Casanova.
But it’s Fahrenheit 451. Probably something for English class.
I mean, how does a person look when his walls are coming down?
Really, a lot of people are having trouble focusing today, because everyone’s obsessed with this sophomore who snuck into the chem lab and got his junk stuck in a beaker. I don’t even know. Apparently it was on the Tumblr. But I guess Ms. Albright is sick of hearing about it, so she lets us out early.
Which means it’s actually still light out when I pull into the driveway. Bieber pretty much
explodes with joy when he sees me. It looks like I’m the first one home. I sort of want to know where Nora is. The fact that she’s out is highly freaking unusual, to be honest.
I’m feeling so restless. I don’t even want a snack. Not even Oreos. I can’t just sit around. I text Nick to see what he’s up to, even though I know he’s playing video games in the basement, because that’s what he always does in the afternoons until soccer season starts. He says Leah is on her way over. So I hook Bieber onto his leash and lock the door behind us.
Leah is pulling into the driveway when we get there. She slides her window down and calls to Bieber, who naturally breaks away from me to jump up against her car. “Hello, sweet one,” she says. His paws rest on the frame of her car door, and he gives her a single polite lick.
“Are you just getting off rehearsal?” she asks as we walk around the path to Nick’s basement door.
“Yeah.” I turn the doorknob and push the door open. “Bieber. NO. Come on.”
Like he’s never seen a squirrel before. Good freaking lord.
“Geez. So, what, it’s two hours a day, three days a week?”
“Four days a week now,” I say. “Every day but Friday. And we have an all-day rehearsal this Saturday.”
“Wow,” she says.
Nick shuts off the TV when we enter.
“Assassin’s Creed?” asks Leah, nodding toward the blank screen.
“Yup,” says Nick.
“Awesome,” she says. And I just kind of shrug. I give precisely zero shits about video games.
I lie on the carpet next to Bieber, who is on his back looking absurd with his lips flapped up over his gums. Nick and Leah end up talking about Doctor Who, and Leah tucks into the video game chair, tugging the frayed hem of her jeans. Her cheeks are sort of pink behind her freckles, and she’s making some point and getting really animated about it. They’re both totally absorbed in the philosophy of time travel. So I let my eyes slide closed. And I think about Blue.
Okay. I have a crush. But it’s not like having a crush on some random musician or actor or Harry freaking Potter. This is the real deal. It has to be. It’s almost debilitating.
I mean, I’m lying here on Nick’s basement carpet, the site of so many Power Rangers transformations and lightsaber battles and spilled cups of juice—and all I want in the entire world is for Blue’s next email to arrive. And Nick and Leah are still talking about the freaking TARDIS. They don’t have a clue. They don’t even know I’m gay.
And I don’t know how to do this. Ever since I told Abby on Friday, I kind of thought it would be easy to tell Leah and Nick. Easier, anyway, now that my mouth is used to saying the words.
It’s not easier. It’s impossible. Because even though it feels like I’ve known Abby forever, I really only met her four months ago. And I guess there hasn’t been time for her to have any set ideas about me yet. But I’ve known Leah since sixth grade, and Nick since we were four. And this gay thing. It feels so big. It’s almost insurmountable. I don’t know how to tell them something like this and still come out of it feeling like Simon. Because if Leah and Nick don’t recognize me, I don’t even recognize myself anymore.
My phone buzzes. Text from Monkey’s Asshole: hey maybe another Waffle House thing soon?
I ignore it.
I hate feeling so distant from Nick and Leah. It’s not like keeping a normal crush a secret, because we never talk about our crushes anyway, and it works out fine. Even Leah’s crush on Nick. I see it, and I’m sure Nick sees it, but there’s this unspoken agreement that we never talk about it.
I don’t know why the gay thing isn’t like that. I don’t know why keeping it from them makes me feel like I’m living a secret life.
My phone starts vibrating, and it’s my dad calling. Which probably means dinner is on the table.
I hate that I feel so relieved.
I really am going to tell Nick and Leah eventually.
I spend the first Saturday of Christmas break at school. Everyone sits in a circle on the stage in pajamas, eating donut holes and drinking coffee out of Styrofoam cups. Except I’m next to Abby at the edge of the stage. My feet dangle over the orchestra pit, and her legs are in my lap.
My fingers are sticky with powdered sugar. I feel so far away. I stare at the bricks. Some of the bricks on the back wall of the auditorium are a darker shade, almost brown, and they form this double helix design. It’s just so random. But so weirdly deliberate.
Double helixes are interesting. Deoxyribonucleic acid. I’ll think about that.
Trying not to think about something is like playing freaking Whac-a-Mole. Every time you push one thought down, another one nudges its way to the surface.
I guess there are two moles. One is the fact that I’ve hung out with Nick and Leah after rehearsal three days this week, which means three chances to tell them about the gay thing, and three times wussing out. And then there’s Blue, with his perfect grammar, who has no freaking clue how many times I proofread every email I send to him. Blue, who is so guarded and yet so surprisingly flirtatious sometimes. Who thinks about sex, and thinks about it with me.
But, you know: double helixes. Twisty, loopy, double helixes.
Martin walks in through the doors in the back of the auditorium. He’s wearing a long, old-fashioned nightgown and curlers.
“Oh. Wow. He really—okay.” Abby nods, grinning up at Martin, who does a pirouette and immediately gets tangled in his nightgown. But he catches himself on the armrest of a chair, and gives this triumphant smile. That’s Martin. Everything’s part of the show with him.
Ms. Albright joins the circle onstage and calls us to order. Abby and I scoot in closer to the group. I end up next to Martin, and flash him a smile. He punches my arm lightly but keeps his eyes locked forward, like a T-ball dad. A T-ball dad who dresses like my grandma.
“So, here’s the plan, pajama gang,” says Ms. Albright. “We’re going to fine-tune the musical numbers this morning. Big ensemble numbers first, and then we’ll split into smaller groups. We break for pizza at noon, and after that, we run through the whole caboodle.”
Over her shoulder, I see Cal sitting on a platform, writing something in the margin of his script.
“Any questions?” she asks.
“For those of us who are already off book, should we still carry our scripts to take notes?” asks Taylor. Just making sure we know she’s memorized her lines.
“This morning, yes. This afternoon, no. We’ll go through the notes after we’re done. I’d like to run both acts once without stopping. Obviously, it will be messy, and that’s okay.” She yawns. “All right, so. Let’s take five, and then we’ll jump into ‘Food, Glorious Food.’”
I pull myself up, and before I can talk myself out of it, I walk over and sit beside Cal on his platform. I nudge him in the knee.
“Nice polka dots,” I say.
He smiles. “Nice Labradors.”
I mean, he’s cute, so I’ll let it slide, but the dogs on my pants are clearly golden retrievers.
I sneak a look at his script. “What are you drawing?”
“Oh, this? I don’t know,” he says. He pushes his bangs back and blushes, and good God, he’s adorable.
“I didn’t know you could draw.”
“Sort of.” He shrugs and tilts the binder toward me.
He has this style of drawing that’s all movement and sharp angles and bold pencil lines. It’s not bad. Leah’s drawings are better. But it hardly matters at all, because the important thing is that Cal’s drawing is of a superhero.
I mean, a superhero. My heart almost squeezes to a stop. Blue loves superheroes.
Blue.
I slide an inch closer, so our legs are touching, just barely.
I’m not sure if he notices.
I don’t know why I’m so brave today.
I’m 99.9 percent sure that Cal is Blue. But there’s that fraction of a percent chance that he’s not. For some reason, I can’t seem to
come out and ask him.
So, instead, I ask, “How’s the coffee?”
“Pretty good, Simon. Pretty good.”
I look up and realize that Abby is watching me with great interest. I flash her the stink-eye, and she looks away, but she has this tiny knowing smile that just kills me.
Ms. Albright sends a bunch of us to the music room and puts Cal in charge. All things considered, it’s a perfect situation.
To get there, we have to walk all the way past the math and science classrooms and down the back stairway. Everything is dark and spooky and awesome on a Saturday. The school is totally empty. The music room is tucked into its own alcove at the end of the hall downstairs. I used to do choir, so I’ve spent some time here. It hasn’t changed. I get the impression that it hasn’t changed in about twenty years.
There are three rows of chairs on built-in platforms that edge around the sides of the classroom in a split hexagon shape. In the center of the room is a big wooden upright piano. There’s a laminated sign taped to the front reminding us to have outstanding posture. Cal sits on the edge of the piano bench, stretching his arm back behind his head.
“So. Um, maybe we could start with ‘Consider Yourself’ or ‘Pick a Pocket or Two,’” he says, shuffling his foot against the leg of the piano bench. He looks so lost. Martin attempts to transfer one of his curlers onto Abby’s ponytail, and Abby stabs him in the gut with a wooden drumstick, and a couple of people have taken out the guitars and started plucking out random pop songs.
No one is really listening to Cal except me. Well, and Taylor.
“Do you want us to clear away these music stands?” I ask.
“Uh, yeah. That would be awesome,” he says. “Thanks, y’all.”
There’s a piece of paper on one of the stands that catches my eye—neon orange, with the words “SET LIST” written in black Sharpie. Underneath that is a list of songs—classic, awesome songs, like “Somebody to Love” and “Billie Jean.”
“What’s that?” asks Taylor. I shrug, handing it to her.
“I don’t think this is supposed to be here,” she says, throwing it away. Of course she doesn’t. Taylor is the enemy of everything awesome.