Simon Vs The Homo Sapiens Agenda Full Book Pdf Download
Dedication
To Brian, Owen, and Henry,
who are the reason I write love stories
Contents
Dedication
Chapter ane
Chapter 2
Affiliate three
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter six
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Affiliate nine
Chapter 10
Affiliate 11
Chapter 12
Chapter xiii
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Affiliate 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter xx
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Affiliate 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Affiliate 28
Chapter 29
Affiliate xxx
Affiliate 31
Chapter 32
Affiliate 33
Chapter 34
Affiliate 35
Acknowledgments
Back Ad
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
Virtually the Publisher
ane
IT'S A WEIRDLY SUBTLE CONVERSATION. I almost don't notice I'm being blackmailed.
We're sitting in metal folding chairs backstage, and Martin Addison says, "I read your email."
"What?" I look upward.
"Earlier. In the library. Not on purpose, obviously."
"You read my email?"
"Well, I used the reckoner right after you lot," he says, "and when I typed in Gmail, information technology pulled up your account. Y'all probably should accept logged out."
I stare at him, dumbfounded. He taps his foot confronting the leg of his chair.
"And so, what's the signal of the simulated name?" he asks.
Well. I'd say the point of the faux name was to keep people like Martin Addison from knowing my secret identity. Then I guess that worked out brilliantly.
I guess he must have seen me sitting at the computer.
And I guess I'k a awe-inspiring idiot.
He actually smiles. "Anyway, I idea it might interest you that my brother is gay."
"Um. Non really."
He looks at me.
"What are you trying to say?" I inquire.
"Nothing. Wait, Spier, I don't accept a problem with information technology. It'southward just non that big of a deal."
Except it'southward a little fleck of a disaster, actually. Or mayhap an epic fuckstorm of a disaster, depending on whether Martin tin keep his mouth shut.
"This is really awkward," Martin says.
I don't fifty-fifty know how to respond.
"Anyhow," he says, "it'due south pretty obvious that you don't want people to know."
I hateful. I estimate I don't. Except the whole coming out affair doesn't really scare me.
I don't think it scares me.
It's a giant holy box of awkwardness, and I won't pretend I'm looking frontward to it. But it probably wouldn't be the finish of the world. Not for me.
The trouble is, I don't know what it would hateful for Blue. If Martin were to tell anyone. The thing nearly Bluish is that he's kind of a private person. The kind of person who wouldn't forget to log out of his email. The kind of person who might never forgive me for being so totally careless.
And then I guess what I'm trying to say is that I don't know what it would hateful for us. For Bluish and me.
But I seriously can't believe I'thousand having this chat with Martin Addison. Of all the people who could have logged into Gmail after me. You have to understand that I never would take used the library computers in the first place, except they block the wireless here. And it was one of those days where I couldn't expect until I was home on my laptop. I hateful, I couldn't even wait to check it on my phone in the parking lot.
Because I had written Blueish from my secret business relationship this morn. And information technology was sort of an of import email.
I just wanted to come across if he had written dorsum.
"I really retrieve people would be cool well-nigh it," Martin says. "You should be who you are."
I don't even know where to begin with that. Some straight kid who barely knows me, advising me on coming out. I kind of have to curl my eyes.
"Okay, well, any. I'm non going to evidence anyone," he says.
For a minute, I'm stupidly relieved. But and so it hits me.
"Evidence anyone?" I ask.
He blushes and fidgets with the hem of his sleeve. Something almost his expression makes my stomach clench.
"Did you—did you accept a screenshot or something?"
"Well," he says, "I wanted to talk to you about that."
"Sorry—you lot took a fucking screenshot?"
He purses his lips together and stares over my shoulder. "Anyway," he says, "I know yous're friends with Abby Suso, and then I wanted to inquire—"
"Seriously? Or mayhap we could go back to you lot telling me why you took a screenshot of my emails."
He pauses. "I mean, I guess I'm wondering if yous want to help me talk to Abby."
I almost laugh. "Then what—you want me to put in a good give-and-take for you?"
"Well, aye," he says.
"And why the hell should I do that?"
He looks at me, and information technology suddenly clicks. This Abby thing. This is what he wants from me. This, in exchange for not broadcasting my private fucking emails.
And Blue's emails.
Jesus Christ. I mean, I guess I figured Martin was harmless. A little fleck of a goobery nerd, to be honest, but it's non like that'south a bad thing. And I've always idea he was kind of hilarious.
Except I'm not laughing now.
"You're actually going to make me do this," I say.
"Make yous? Come on. It'south not like that."
"Well, what's it similar?"
"Information technology's not similar anything. I mean, I like this daughter. I was only thinking you would want to help me here. Invite me to stuff when she'll be in that location. I don't know."
"And what if I don't? Y'all'll put the emails on Facebook? On the fucking Tumblr?"
Jesus. The creeksecrets Tumblr: ground zero for Creekwood High Schoolhouse gossip. The entire school would know inside a day.
We're both tranquility.
"I simply think we're in a position to assistance each other out," Martin finally says.
I swallow, thickly.
"Paging Marty," Ms. Albright calls from the phase. "Act Ii, Scene Three."
"So, merely think about it." He dismounts his chair.
"Oh yes. I mean, this is so goddamn awesome," I say.
He looks at me. And there'south this silence.
"I don't know what the hell you desire me to say," I add finally.
"Well, whatever." He shrugs. And I don't retrieve I've e'er been so ready for someone to leave. Merely as his fingers graze the curtains, he turns to me.
"Merely curious," he says. "Who's Blue?"
"No i. He lives in California."
If Martin thinks I'm selling out Blue, he's fucking crazy.
Blue doesn't live in California. He lives in Shady Creek, and he goes to our school. Blue isn't his real proper name.
He'due south someone. He may fifty-fifty exist someone I know. But I don't know who. And I'm not certain I desire to know.
And I'chiliad seriously not in the mood to deal with my family. I probably have about an hour until dinner, which means an hour of trying to spin my school day into a string of hilarious anecdotes. My parents are similar that. It'due south lik
due east you lot can't just tell them about your French teacher'due south obvious wedgie, or Garrett dropping his tray in the cafeteria. You accept to perform it. Talking to them is more exhausting than keeping a blog.
It'due south funny, though. I used to love the churr and chaos before dinner. Now it seems like I tin can't get out the door fast enough. Today especially. I end but long enough to click the leash onto Bieber's neckband and become him out the door.
I'm trying to lose myself in Tegan and Sara on my iPod. Only I can't cease thinking virtually Blue and Martin Addison and the holy awfulness of today's rehearsal.
So Martin is into Abby, only like every other geeky directly boy in Avant-garde Placement. And really, all he wants is for me to let him tag forth when I hang out with her. Information technology doesn't seem like a huge bargain when I remember most information technology that way.
Except for the fact that he's blackmailing me. And past extension, he'south blackmailing Blue. That's the part that makes me want to kick something.
Only Tegan and Sara help. Walking to Nick's helps. The air has that crisp, early fall feeling, and people are already lining their steps with pumpkins. I love that. I've loved it since I was a kid.
Bieber and I cut around to Nick's backyard and through the basement. There's a massive TV facing the door, on which Templars are being brutalized. Nick and Leah have taken over a pair of rocking video game chairs. They look like they haven't moved all afternoon.
Nick pauses the game when I walk in. That's something nigh Nick. He won't put down a guitar for y'all, but he'll suspension a video game.
"Bieber!" says Leah. Within seconds, he perches awkwardly with his barrel in her lap, tongue out and leg thumping. He'south so freaking shameless effectually Leah.
"No, it's cool. Simply greet the dog. Pretend I'm not hither."
"Aww, do y'all need me to scratch your ears, as well?"
I fissure a smile. This is expert; things are normal. "Did you discover the traitor?" I ask.
"Killed him." He pats the controller.
"Nice."
Seriously, there is no part of me that cares about the welfare of assassins or Templars or any game character ever. But I think I need this. I need the violence of video games and the smell of this basement and the familiarity of Nick and Leah. The rhythm of our spoken communication and silences. The aimlessness of mid-October afternoons.
"Simon, Nick hasn't heard well-nigh le wedgie."
"Ohhhh. Le wedgie. C'est une histoire touchante."
"English, delight?" says Nick.
"Or pantomime," Leah says.
As information technology turns out, I'm kind of awesome at reenacting ballsy wedgies.
And then maybe I do like to perform. A petty.
I think I'g getting that Nick-and-Leah sixth-grade field trip feeling. I don't know how to explain it. But when information technology's simply the 3 of the states, nosotros have these perfect, stupid moments. Martin Addison doesn't be in this kind of moment. Secrets don't exist.
Stupid. Perfect.
Leah rips upwards a paper straw wrapper, and they're both belongings giant Styrofoam cups of sugariness tea from Chick-fil-A. I actually haven't been to Chick-fil-A for a while. My sis heard they donate money to screw over gay people, and I guess it started to feel weird eating there. Even if their Oreo milk shakes are giant vessels of frothy deliciousness. Not that I tin can bring that upwardly with Nick and Leah. I don't exactly talk about gay stuff with anyone. Except Blue.
Nick takes a swig of his tea and yawns, and Leah immediately tries to launch a petty paper wad into his mouth. Merely Nick clamps his oral fissure shut, blocking information technology.
She shrugs. "Merely go on on yawning, sleepyhead."
"Why are you and then tired?"
"Considering I political party difficult. All night. Every nighttime," Nick says.
"If past 'party,' you mean your calculus homework."
"Any, LEAH." He leans back, yawning again. This fourth dimension, Leah's paper wad grazes the corner of his mouth.
He flicks it back toward her.
"So, I keep having these weird dreams," he adds.
I raise my eyebrows. "Yikes. TMI?"
"Um. Non that kind of dream."
Leah's whole confront goes ruby.
"No, just," Nick says, "like bodily weird dreams. Like I dreamed I was in the bath putting on my contacts, and I couldn't figure out which lens went in which eye."
"Okay. So then what?" Leah'south face is buried in the fur on the back of Bieber'south neck, and her voice is deadened.
"Nothing. I woke up, I put my contacts in like normal, and everything was fine."
"That's the most boring dream ever," she says. And then, a moment later on, "Isn't that why they label the left and right sides of the containers?"
"Or why people should simply habiliment glasses and stop touching their eyeballs." I sink cross-legged onto the carpet. Bieber slides out of Leah's lap to wander toward me.
"And because your glasses brand you look like Harry Potter, right, Simon?"
1 time. I said it once.
"Well, I think my unconscious is trying to tell me something." Nick can exist pretty single-minded when he's feeling intellectual. "Apparently, the theme of the dream is vision. What am I non seeing? What are my blind spots?"
"Your music collection," I suggest.
Nick rocks backward in the video game chair and takes another swig of tea. "Did you know Freud interpreted his own dreams when he was developing his theory? And he believed that all dreams are a course of unconscious wish fulfillment?"
Leah and I wait at each other, and I can tell we're thinking the same matter. It doesn't matter that he's quite perhaps talking complete bullshit, considering Nick is a picayune bit irresistible when he'due south in one of his philosophical moods.
Of form, I have a strict policy of non falling for straight guys. At least, not confirmed straight guys. Anyway, I accept a policy of not falling for Nick. Only Leah has fallen. And it'southward caused all kinds of problems, especially now that Abby's in the picture.
At commencement, I didn't understand why Leah hated Abby, and asking near it directly got me nowhere.
"Oh, she's the best. I hateful, she's a cheerleader. And she'southward and then cute and skinny. Doesn't that just make her so amazing?"
You take to understand that no 1 has mastered the art of deadpan delivery like Leah.
Merely eventually I noticed Nick switching seats with Bram Greenfeld at luncheon—calculated switching, designed to maximize his odds of sitting nigh Abby. And then the eyes. The famous Nick Eisner lingering, lovesick eyes. We'd been down that vomit-inducing road before with Amy Everett at the end of freshman yr. Though, I have to admit there's something fascinating nearly Nick'southward nervous intensity when he likes someone.
When Leah sees that look pass beyond Nick's face, she merely shuts down.
Which means there's really one good reason for being Martin Addison's wingman matchmaker bitch. If Martin and Abby hook upward, maybe the Nick problem will just go away. Then Leah can chill the heck out, and equilibrium will be restored.
And so information technology's non just almost me and my secrets. Information technology's hardly about me at all.
2
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
DATE: Oct 17 at 12:06 AM
Subject area: Re: when you knew
That'south a pretty sexy story, Blue. I hateful, middle school is like this endless horror show. Well, maybe not endless, because it ended, but information technology really burns into your psyche. I don't care who you are. Puberty is merciless.
I'm curious—have yous seen him since your dad's wedding?
I don't fifty-fifty know when I figured it out. It was a agglomeration of little things. Similar this weird dream I had in one case nigh Daniel Radcliffe. Or how I was obsessed with Passion Pit in center schoolhouse, and then I realized it wasn't really about the music.
And and then in eighth grade, I had this girlfriend. It was one of those things where you're "dating" but y'all don't always get anywhere outside of school. And you don't really
practice anything in school either. I think nosotros held easily. And then, we went to the 8th-grade dance as a couple, merely my friends and I spent the whole nighttime eating Fritos and spying on people from nether the bleachers. And at one point, this random girl comes up to me and tells me my girlfriend is waiting in forepart of the gym. I was supposed to leave there and notice her, and I guess we were supposed to make out. In that closed-rima oris middle school way.
So, here's my proudest moment: I ran and hid like a freaking preschooler in the bathroom. Like, in the stall with the door closed, crouched upwards on the toilet so my legs wouldn't show. As if the girls were going to break in and bust me. Honest to God, I stayed there for the entire evening. And then I never spoke to my girlfriend again.
Also, information technology was Valentine's Mean solar day. Because I'1000 that swish. So, yes, if I'thou being completely honest with myself, I definitely knew at that signal. Except I've had two other girlfriends since and so.
Did y'all know that this is officially the longest email I've ever written? I'thousand not fifty-fifty kidding. You may actually exist the just person who gets more 140 characters from me. That's kind of awesome, right?
Anyway, I think I'll sign off here. Not going to prevarication. Information technology's been kind of a weird day.
—Jacques
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
DATE: Oct 17 at viii:46 PM
Bailiwick: Re: when yous knew
I'm the only ane? That'due south definitely kind of crawly. I'm really honored, Jacques. It's funny, because I don't really email, either. And I never talk about this stuff with anyone. But you.
For what it's worth, I think it would be incredibly depressing if your actual proudest moment happened in middle school. You can't imagine how much I hated middle school. Recall the way people would wait at you blankly and say, "Um, okaaay," after you finished talking? Everyone just had to make it so articulate that, whatever you were thinking or feeling, y'all were totally alone. The worst part, of course, was that I did the same thing to other people. Information technology makes me a footling nauseated just remembering that.
So, basically, what I'm trying to say is that you should really give yourself a break. Nosotros were all atrocious then.
To answer your question, I've seen him a couple of times since the hymeneals—probably twice a year or so. My stepmother seems to have a lot of family reunions and things. He's married, and I remember his wife is pregnant now. It's not bad-mannered, exactly, because the whole thing was in my head. Information technology's really amazing, isn't information technology? Someone can trigger your sexual identity crunch and not have a clue they're doing it. Honestly, he probably notwithstanding thinks of me as his cousin's weird twelve-year-old stepson.
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