Cal has Ms. Albright’s laptop, which has piano recordings of the accompaniment to all the songs. Everyone’s a pretty good sport about running through everything once, and it’s not a total disaster. As much as I hate to admit it, Taylor probably has the best voice out of anyone in the school other than Nick, and Abby is such a good dancer that she can seriously carry the whole ensemble. And anything Martin touches is strange and absurd and hilarious. Especially when he’s wearing a nightie.
There’s still almost an hour before we’re supposed to reconvene in the auditorium, and we’re probably supposed to run through everything again, but I mean, really. It’s Saturday, we’re in an empty, dark school, and we’re a bunch of theater kids wearing pajamas and jacked up on donuts.
We end up singing Disney songs in the stairwell. Abby weirdly knows every word to every song in Pocahontas, and everyone knows The Lion King and Aladdin and Beauty and the Beast. Taylor can improvise harmonies, and I guess we’re all warmed up from singing the Oliver! songs, because it just sounds really amazing. And the acoustics in the stairwell are freaking awesome.
And then we go back upstairs, and Mila Odom and Eve Miller pull a bunch of rolling chairs out of the computer lab. It’s pretty convenient that Creekwood has such long, straight hallways.
Perfect happiness is: gripping the bottom of a rolling chair with both hands, while Cal Price pushes me down the hall in a full-on run. We race against two of the sophomore girls from the ensemble. Cal is kind of a slow-moving person, so they totally dominate, but I don’t even care. His hands grip my shoulders, and we’re both laughing, and the rows of lockers are a toothpaste-blue blur. I let down my legs, and we skid to a stop. And I guess I have to get up. I raise my hand to give Cal a high five, but instead, he threads his fingers through mine for just a second. Then he looks down and smiles, and his eyes are hidden by his bangs. We untangle our hands, and my heart is thudding. I have to look away from him.
Then Taylor, of all people, mounts one of the chairs. Her blond hair flies backward as Abby pushes her, and they’re the indisputable champions. Abby and her leg muscles, I guess. I had no idea she was so freaking fast.
Abby collapses into me, laughing and panting, and we slide to the floor against the lockers. She leans her head on my shoulder, and I slide my arm around her back. Leah can get weird about touching, and it’s this unspoken thing that I don’t really touch Nick. But Abby’s a huggy person, and I sort of am, too, so that’s been nice. And everything has just felt really natural and comfortable between us since that night in the car after the Waffle House. It’s pretty cozy sitting next to Abby and smelling her magical French toast scent, while we watch the freshmen take turns racing in the chairs.
Abby and I sit like that for so long my arm starts to prickle. But it isn’t until we’re finally about to head back to the auditorium that I realize two people have been watching us.
The first is Cal.
The second is Martin, and he looks pretty goddamn furious.
“Spier. We need to talk.” Martin pulls me into a stairwell.
“Um, now? Because Ms. Albright wants us to—”
“Yeah, Ms. Albright can fucking wait a second.”
“Okay. What’s up?” I lean against the railing and look up at him. The stairwell is dark, but my eyes are pretty well-adjusted, and I can see the tension in Martin’s jaw. He stops and waits until the others are too far down the hall to overhear.
“So, I guess you think this is all hilarious,” he says under his breath.
“What?”
He doesn’t elaborate.
“I have no freaking clue what you’re talking about,” I say finally.
“Right, of course not.” Martin crosses his arms in front of his chest and tugs on his elbow, and he just radiates the stink-eye.
“Marty, seriously. I don’t know why you’re upset. If you want to fill me in, great. Otherwise, I don’t know what to tell you.”
He exhales loudly and leans into the railing. “You’re trying to humiliate me. And believe me, I get it. I get that you weren’t a hundred percent on board with our arrangement—”
“Our arrangement? You mean you blackmailing me? Yeah, I’m not on board with being blackmailed, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“You think I’m fucking blackmailing you?”
“What the hell else would you call it?” I say. But it’s funny—I’m not really pissed off at him. A little bewildered at the moment, but not angry.
“Look. It’s over. The Abby thing is done, okay? So you can forget about the whole goddamn thing.”
I pause. “Did something happen with Abby?”
“Yes, something fucking happened with Abby. She fucking rejected me.”
“What? When?”
Martin stands abruptly, his face flushed. “Roughly five minutes before she draped herself all over you,” he says.
“What? Yeah, that’s not what—”
“You know what? Save it, Spier. Actually, you know what you can do? You can tell Ms. Albright I’ll see her in fucking January.”
“You’re leaving?” I ask.
I seriously don’t know what the hell is happening. He flips me the bird as he walks away. He doesn’t even turn around to look at me.
“Martin, are you—”
“Merry goddamned Christmas, Simon,” he says. “Hope you’re happy.”
18
FROM:
[email protected] TO:
[email protected] DATE: Dec 20 at 1:45 PM
SUBJECT: Oh baby
Jacques,
You’re not going to believe this.
I got home from school yesterday, and both of my parents were there. I know that doesn’t sound crazy, but you have to realize that my mom almost never leaves work early, and my dad has literally never driven up here with no advance notice before. And he was just up here two weeks ago. They were sitting on the couch in the living room, and they had been laughing about something, but they stopped abruptly when I walked in.
I felt so queasy, Jacques. I was positive my mom had told my dad I was gay, which would just be—I don’t know. Anyway, there was this excruciating half hour of small talk, and then my mom finally stood up and said she was going to leave my dad and me alone for a minute. And then she went into her bedroom. The whole thing was just so weird.
Anyway, my dad seemed really nervous, and I was really nervous. We were talking, and I forgot what he said, but I realized my mom hadn’t told him anything. And suddenly I wanted him to know. I felt like it had to be that very second. So, I was listening to him talk and waiting for an opportunity to tell him—but he just kept talking and talking, and it was strange and tangential and boring.
Then, all of a sudden, pretty much out of nowhere, he tells me that my stepmother is pregnant. She’s due in June.
I was really, really not expecting that. I’ve been an only child my whole life.
So, yeah. If anyone can find the humor in this, it’s you. Please. Or just distract me. You’re good at that, too.
Love,
Blue
FROM:
[email protected] TO:
[email protected] DATE: Dec 20 at 6:16 PM
SUBJECT: Re: Oh baby
Blue,
Wow. I’m just—wow. Congratulations? I don’t know. I can’t tell a hundred percent how you feel about it, but it seems like you’re not thrilled. I guess I wouldn’t be. Especially if I was used to being an only child. And then there’s the dad having sex factor, which is always horrifying (and he bought YOU a book by freaking Casanova?). Ugh.
Also, I’m sorry you got all prepared again to come out, and didn’t get a chance to do it. That really sucks.
I’m trying to find the humor here for you. Poop? Poop is funny, right? I guess there will be a lot of it. I don’t know why it doesn’t seem funny to me right now. POOP!!!!! I mean, I’m trying.
That’s so weird the way your parents told you, like the
y were both in on it. I guess he wanted to give your mom a heads-up first or something? And then he was nervous to tell you. It’s like he’s our age telling his parents he knocked someone up. Which is totally the straight person equivalent of coming out.
As a side note, don’t you think everyone should have to come out? Why is straight the default? Everyone should have to declare one way or another, and it should be this big awkward thing whether you’re straight, gay, bi, or whatever. I’m just saying.
Anyway, I don’t know if any of this is helping. I guess I’m a little off my game (kind of a weird day for me, too). But just know I’m sorry this is hitting you out of nowhere. And I’m thinking about you.
Love,
Jacques
FROM:
[email protected] TO:
[email protected] DATE: Dec 21 at 9:37 AM
SUBJECT: POOP
Jacques,
First of all, your email helped a lot. I don’t know—something about poop and Casanova and the phrase “knocked up” in reference to my dad. It’s all such a train wreck. I think I do see the humor. I guess it’s not necessarily a bad thing to have a little fetus sibling. I’m pretty curious to find out if it’s a boy or a girl. Anyway, I feel a lot better now that I’ve gotten some sleep. And I think just talking it over with you makes everything better.
Sorry you had a weird day, too. Want to talk about it?
It is definitely annoying that straight (and white, for that matter) is the default, and that the only people who have to think about their identity are the ones who don’t fit that mold. Straight people really should have to come out, and the more awkward it is, the better. Awkwardness should be a requirement. I guess this is sort of our version of the Homosexual Agenda?
Love,
Blue
P.S. By the way, guess what I’m eating at this very moment.
FROM:
[email protected] TO:
[email protected] DATE: Dec 21 at 10:11 AM
SUBJECT: Re: POOP
Blue,
I hope for your sake that Little Fetus is a boy, because sisters are a freaking handful. I’m glad you’re feeling a little better about things. I don’t know how I did it, but I’m glad I was able to help somehow.
Eh, don’t worry about my weird day. Someone got angry at me, and it’s kind of hard to explain, but it’s a stupid misunderstanding. Whatever.
The Homosexual Agenda? I don’t know. I think it’s more like the Homo Sapiens Agenda. That’s really the point, right?
Love,
Jacques
P.S. You have me curious. A banana? Hot dog? Cucumber? ☺
FROM:
[email protected] TO:
[email protected] DATE: Dec 21 at 10:24 AM
SUBJECT: The Homo Sapiens Agenda
Jacques,
I love it.
Love,
Blue
P.S. Mind out of the gutter, Jacques.
P.P.S. More like a giant baguette.
P.P.P.S. No, really. It’s Oreos. In your honor.
FROM:
[email protected] TO:
[email protected] DATE: Dec 21 at 10:30 AM
SUBJECT: Re: The Homo Sapiens Agenda
Blue,
I love that you’re having Oreos for breakfast. And I love your giant baguette.
So, here’s the thing. I’ve been typing this and deleting this and trying to think of a better way to phrase this. I don’t know. I’m just going to come out and say it: I want to know who you are.
I think we should meet in person.
Love,
Jacques
19
IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE DAY, AND something feels a little bit off.
Not bad. Just off. I don’t know how to explain it. We’re hitting every one of the Spier traditions. My mom made reindeer turds, a.k.a. Oreo truffles. The tree is lit up and fully decorated. We’ve done the Chipmunks song.
It’s noon, and we’re all still in our pajamas, and everyone is sitting in the living room on separate laptops. I guess it’s a little awful that we have five computers—Shady Creek is that kind of suburb, but still. We’re scavenger hunting on Facebook.
“Call it, Dad,” says Alice.
“Okay,” he says. “Someone visiting somewhere tropical.”
“Got it,” says my mom, turning her laptop around to show us someone’s pictures. “Done and done. All right. A breakup.”
We’re all quiet for several minutes, scrolling through our newsfeeds. Finally, Nora’s got one. “Amber Wasserman,” she reads. “Thought I knew u. Looks like I was wrong. One day ur gonna turn around and realize what u thru away.”
“I’d call that an implied breakup,” I say.
“It’s legit.”
“But you could interpret it literally,” I say. “Like she’s calling him out for throwing away her iPhone.”
“That’s Simon logic,” says Alice, “and I won’t allow it. Go, boop. Your turn.”
My dad invented the concept of Simon logic, and I can’t seem to outgrow it. It means wishful thinking supported by flimsy evidence.
“Okay,” says Nora. “The opposite. A mushy, disgusting couple.”
An interesting choice, coming from Nora, who basically never talks about anything related to dating.
“Okay, got one,” I say. “Carys Seward. Feeling so grateful to have Jaxon Wildstein in my life. Last nite was perfect. I love you so much baby. Winky face.”
“Gross,” says Nora.
“Is that your Carys, bub?”
“I don’t have a Carys,” I say. But I know what Alice is asking. I dated Carys for almost four months last spring. Though none of our “nites” together were that sort of perfect.
But here’s the crazy thing: for the first time ever, I almost get it. It’s weird, it’s gross, and that creepy little winky face pushes it into the realm of TMI. But yeah. Maybe I’m losing my edge, but all I can think about is how Blue has been signing emails lately using the word “love.”
I guess I can imagine us having perfect nights sometimes. And I’ll probably feel like shouting it from the rooftops, too.
I refresh my browser. “My turn. Okay. Someone Jewish,” I say, “posting about Christmas.”
My Jewish-Episcopalian email boyfriend. I wonder what he’s doing right now.
“Why doesn’t Nick ever post anything?” asks Nora.
Because he thinks Facebook is the lowest common denominator of social discourse. Though he does like to talk about social media as a vehicle for constructing and performing identity. Whatever the hell that means.
“Got one. Jana Goldstein. Movie theater listings in one hand; takeout menus in the other. Ready for tomorrow. Merry Christmas to Jew!”
“Who’s Jana Goldstein?” my mom asks.
“Someone from Wesleyan,” says Alice. “Okay. Something about lawyers.” She’s distracted, and I realize her phone is buzzing. “Sorry. Be right back.”
“Lawyers? What the heck, Alice?” says Nora. “That blatantly favors Dad.”
“I know. I feel bad for him,” Alice calls over her shoulder, before disappearing up the stairs. “Hey,” she says, answering her phone. A moment later, we hear her bedroom door shut.
“Got one!” My dad beams. He generally sucks at this game, because he has about twelve Facebook friends total. “Bob Lepinski. Happy holidays to you and yours, from Lepinski and Willis, P.C.”
“Good one, Dad,” says Nora. She looks at me. “Who’s she talking to?”
“Hell if I know,” I say.
Alice is on the phone for two hours. It’s unprecedented.
The scavenger hunt fizzles. Nora curls up with her laptop on the couch, and our parents disappear to their room. And I don’t even want to think about what they’re up to in there. Not after what Blue’s dad and stepmom went and did. Bieber whines in the entryway.
My phone buzzes with a text from Leah: We’re outside
your door. Leah’s weird about knocking. I think she gets shy around parents.
I walk over to let her in, and find Bieber on his hind legs basically trying to make out with her through the window.
“Down,” I say. “Come on, Bieb.” I grab him by the collar and swing the door open. It’s cold but sunny out, and Leah wears a black woolen hat with cat ears. Nick stands sort of awkwardly behind her.
“Hi,” I say, pulling Bieber to the side so they can step past him.
“We were actually thinking about taking a walk,” says Leah.
I look at her. Something in her tone is a little strange. “Okay,” I say. “Let me get dressed.” I’m still wearing my golden retriever pajama pants.
Five minutes later, I’m in jeans and a hoodie. I throw a leash on Bieber, and we’re out the door.
“So you guys just wanted to take a walk, or what?” I ask finally.
They look at each other. “Yeah,” says Nick.
I raise my eyebrows at him, waiting to see if he’ll say more, but he looks away.
“How are things going, Simon?” Leah asks, in this strange, gentle voice.
I stop short. We’re barely out of my driveway. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” She fiddles with the pom-poms that string down from her hat. Nick stares at the road. “Just seeing if you wanted to talk.”
“About what?” I ask. Bieber crosses over to Leah and sits on his haunches, staring up at her with pleading eyes.
“Why are you looking at me like that, sweet one?” she asks, ruffling his ears. “I don’t have any cookies.”
“What do you want to talk about?” I ask again. We’re not walking. We stand by the curb, and I shift my weight from one foot to the other.
Leah and Nick exchange another look, and it hits me.
“Oh my gosh. You guys hooked up.”
“What?” Leah says, turning bright red. “No!”
I look from Leah to Nick and back to Leah. “You didn’t . . .”
“Simon. No. Just stop.” Leah isn’t looking at Nick. In fact, she’s bent all the way over with her face pressed against Bieber’s snout.
“Okay, then what are we talking about here?” I ask. “What’s going on?”