BUT LATER, IN THE DRESSING room, it hits me.
Martin Van Buren. Our eighth fucking president.
But there’s no way. It’s not possible.
My washcloth falls to the floor. All around me, girls tug hats off and let their hair down and scrub foamy soap onto their faces and zip up garment bags. A door bursts open somewhere, and there’s a sudden shriek of laughter.
My mind is racing. What do I know about Martin? What do I know about Blue?
Martin is smart, obviously. Is he smart enough to be Blue? I have no idea if Martin is half-Jewish. I mean, he could be. He’s not an only child, but I guess he could be lying about that. I don’t know. I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense at all. Because Martin’s not gay.
But then again, someone thinks he is. Though I probably shouldn’t take anything on the authority of some anonymous asshole who called me a fag.
“Simon, no!” says Abby, appearing in the doorway.
“What?”
“You washed it off!” She stares at my face for a minute. “I guess you can still kind of see it.”
“You mean the ridiculous hotness?” I say, and she laughs.
“Listen. I just got a text from Nick, and he’s waiting for us in the parking lot. We’re taking you out tonight.”
“What?” I say. “Where?”
“I don’t know yet. But my mom’s up in DC this weekend, meaning the house and car are mine. So you’re spending the night in Suso territory.”
“We’re sleeping at your house?”
“Yup,” she says, and I notice that she’s out of makeup and back in her skinny jeans. “So go drop off your sister. Whatever you have to do.”
I look in the mirror and attempt to push down my hair. “Nora already took the bus,” I say slowly. It’s strange. The Simon in the mirror is still wearing contacts. Still almost unrecognizable. “Why are we doing this again?”
“Because we don’t have rehearsal for once,” she says, poking my cheek, “and because you’ve had a weird-ass day.”
I almost laugh. She has no fucking idea.
All the way out to the parking lot, she talks and schemes, and I let her words kind of wash over me. I’m a little stuck on this Martin situation. It’s almost unfathomable.
It would mean that Martin wrote that post on the Tumblr back in August—the one about being gay. And that Martin’s the one I’ve been emailing every day for five months. I can almost believe it, but I can’t explain the blackmail. If Martin’s actually gay, why bring Abby into it at all?
“I think we should spend the afternoon in Little Five Points,” Abby says, “and then we’re definitely going into Midtown.”
“Sounds good,” I say.
It just doesn’t make sense.
But then I think about the afternoons at Waffle House and the late evening rehearsals, and the way I was actually starting to like him before things fell apart. Blackmail with a side of friendship. Maybe that was the whole point.
Except I never got the vibe that he liked me. Not even once. So it can’t be that. Martin can’t be Blue.
Unless. But no.
Because it can’t be a joke. Blue can’t be a joke. That’s not even a possibility. No one could be that mean. Not even Martin.
I’m having trouble catching my breath.
It can’t be a joke, because I don’t know what I would do if it were a joke.
I can’t think about it. God. I’m sorry, but I can’t.
I won’t.
Nick’s waiting in front of the school, and he and Abby bump fists when they see each other. “Got him,” she says.
“So now what?” asks Nick. “We drive home and get our stuff, and then you pick us up?”
“That’s the plan,” says Abby. She swings her backpack around and unzips the smallest pouch, pulling out her car keys. Then she tilts her head to the side. “Did you guys talk to Leah?”
Nick and I look at each other.
“Not yet,” Nick says. He kind of deflates. It’s tricky, because as much as I love Leah, her presence changes everything. She’ll be moody and snarly about Nick and Abby. She’ll be weird about Midtown. And I don’t know how to describe it, really, but her self-consciousness is contagious sometimes.
But Leah hates being excluded.
“Maybe just us three,” Nick says, carefully, eyes shifting downward. I can tell he feels kind of shitty about this.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay,” Abby says. “Let’s go.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m in the backseat of Abby’s mom’s car with a stack of paperbacks under my feet.
“Put them anywhere,” Abby says, eyes flicking to meet mine in the rearview mirror. “She reads them when she’s waiting to pick me up. Or if I’m driving.”
“Wow, I get nauseous just from reading my phone in the car,” says Nick.
“Nauseated,” I say, and my heart twists.
“Well, listen to you, Mr. Linguist.” Nick turns around in his seat to grin at me.
Abby eases onto 285 and merges with no difficulty whatsoever. She doesn’t even appear tense. It occurs to me that she’s easily the best driver out of all of us.
“Do you know where we’re going?” I ask.
“I do,” says Abby. And twenty minutes later, we pull into the lot for Zesto. I never go to Zesto. I mean, I almost never come into Atlanta proper. It’s warm and noisy inside, full of people eating chili dogs and burgers and things like that. But I quite honestly don’t give a shit that it’s January. I get chocolate ice cream swirled with Oreos, and for the ten minutes it takes to eat it, I almost feel normal again. By the time we step back out to the car, the sun is beginning to set.
So then we go to Junkman’s Daughter. Which is right next to Aurora Coffee.
But I’m not thinking about Blue.
We spend a few minutes poking around inside. I sort of love Junkman’s Daughter. Nick gets caught up in a display of books about Eastern philosophy, and Abby buys a pair of tights. I end up wandering through the aisles, trying not to make eye contact with scary-looking pink mohawk girls.
I’m not thinking about Aurora Coffee, and I’m not thinking about Blue.
I can’t think about Blue.
I really can’t think about Blue being Martin.
It’s dark but not late, and Abby and Nick want to take me to this feminist bookstore that evidently has a lot of gay stuff. So we look through the shelves, and Abby pulls out LGBT picture books to show me, and Nick shuffles around looking awkward. Abby buys me a book about gay penguins, and then we walk down the street for a little while longer. But it’s getting chilly and we’re getting hungry again, so we pile back into the car and drive to Midtown.
Abby seems to know exactly where we’re going. She pulls into a side street and parallel parks like it’s nothing. Then we walk briskly up to the corner and onto the main road. Nick shivers in only a light jacket, and Abby rolls her eyes and says, “Georgia boy.” And then she puts her arm around him, rubbing her hand up and down his arm as they walk.
“Here we are,” she says finally when we arrive at a place on Juniper called Webster’s. There’s a big patio strung with Christmas lights and rainbow banners, and even though the patio’s empty, the parking lot is overflowing.
“Is this like a gay bar?” I ask.
Abby and Nick both grin.
“Okay,” I say, “but how are we getting in?” I’m five seven, Nick can’t grow facial hair, and Abby’s wearing a wristful of friendship bracelets. There’s no freaking way we pass for twenty-one.
“It’s a restaurant,” says Abby. “We’re getting dinner.”
Inside, Webster’s is packed with guys wearing scarves and jackets and skinny jeans. And they’re all cute and they’re all overwhelming. Most of them have piercings. There’s a bar in the back, and some kind of hip-hop music playing, and waiters turning sideways to squeeze through the crowd with pints of beer and baskets of chicken wings.
“Just the three of y’all?” asks the host, resting his hand on my shoulder for barely a second, but it’s enough to make my stomach flutter. “Should be just a minute, hon.”
We step off to the side, and Nick gets a menu to look through, and everything they serve here is an innuendo. Sausages. Buns. Abby can’t stop giggling. I have to keep reminding myself this is just a restaurant. I accidentally make eye contact with a hot guy wearing a tight V-neck shirt, and I look away quickly, but my heart pounds.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I say, because I’m pretty sure I’m going to combust if I keep standing here. The bathrooms are down a little hallway past the bar, and I have to push through this crowd of people to get there. When I step out again, the crowd is even thicker. There are two girls holding beers and sort of dancing, and a group of guys laughing, and lots of people holding drinks or holding hands.
Someone taps my shoulder. “Alex?”
I turn around. “I’m not—”
“You’re not Alex,” says the guy, “but you have Alex hair.” And then he reaches up to ruffle his fingers through it.
He’s sitting on a barstool, and he looks like he’s not much older than I am. He’s got blond hair, much lighter than mine. Draco-blond. He’s wearing a polo shirt and normal jeans, and he’s very cute, and I think he might be drunk.
“What’s your name, Alex?” he says to me, sliding off the barstool. When he stands, he’s almost a head taller than me, and he smells like deodorant. He has extremely white teeth.
“Simon,” I say.
“Simple Simon met a pie-man.” He giggles.
He’s definitely drunk.
“I’m Peter,” he says, and I think: Peter Peter pumpkin eater.
“Don’t move,” he says. “I’m buying you a drink.” He puts a hand on my elbow, and then turns to the bar, and all of a sudden I’m holding an honest-to-God martini glass full of something green. “Like apples,” says Peter.
I take a sip, and it’s not awful. “Thanks,” I say, and the fluttery feeling takes over completely. I don’t even know. This is so totally different from my normal.
“You have amazing eyes,” Peter says, smiling down at me. Then the song changes to something with a heavy thumping bass. He opens his mouth to say something else, but the words get swallowed.
“What?”
He takes a step closer. “Are you a student?”
“Oh,” I say. “Yes.” My heart pounds. He stands close enough that our drinks are touching.
“Me too. I’m at Emory. I’m a junior. Hold on.” He empties the rest of his glass in one big swallow, and then turns back to the bar. I crane my neck over the crowd and look for Nick and Abby. They’ve been seated at a table across the room, and they’re watching me, looking uneasy. Abby sees me looking and waves frantically. I grin and wave back.
But then Peter’s hand is on my arm again, and he hands me a shot glass filled with something bright orange, like that cold medicine. Like liquid Triaminic. But I’m only half done with my apple drink, so I sort of chug it, and hand the empty glass back to him. And then he clinks his shot of Triaminic against mine and makes it disappear.
I sip mine, and it tastes like orange soda, and Peter laughs and tugs at my fingertips. “Simon,” he says. “Have you ever taken a shot before?”
I shake my head.
“Aww, okay. Tilt your head back, and just . . .” He demonstrates on his empty shot glass. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, and that warm, happy feeling starts to creep in. I take the shot in two gulps, and I manage not to spit anything. And I grin at Peter, and he takes my glass away, and then he takes my other hand and laces his fingers through mine.
“Cute Simon,” he says. “Where are you from?”
“Shady Creek,” I say.
“Okay,” he says, and I can tell he hasn’t heard of it, but he smiles and sits back down on his barstool and pulls me closer. And his eyes are sort of hazel, and I sort of like this. And talking is just easier now, and it’s easier than not talking, and everything I say is the right thing, and he nods and laughs and presses my palms. I tell him about Abby and Nick, who I’m trying not to look at, because every time I look at them, their eyes start yelling at me. And then Peter tells me about his friends, and he says, “Oh my gosh, you have to meet my friends. You have to meet Alex.”
So he buys us each another Triaminic shot, and then he takes me by the hand and leads me to a big round table in the corner of the room. Peter’s friends are a big group of mostly guys, and they’re all cute, and everything is spinning. “This is Simon,” Peter says, flinging his arm around me and hugging me sideways. He introduces everyone, and I forget their names instantly, except for Alex. Whom Peter presents by saying, “Meet your doppelgänger.” But it’s really a little baffling, because Alex doesn’t look like me at all. I mean, we’re both white. But even our famously similar hair is totally different. His is purposely messy. Mine is just messy. But Peter keeps looking back and forth between us and giggling, and someone sits on someone else’s lap to clear a chair for me, and someone passes me a beer. I mean, drinks are just everywhere.
Peter’s friends are loud and funny, and I laugh so hard I’m hiccupping, but I can’t even remember what I’m laughing about. And Peter’s arm is tight around my shoulders, and at one point out of nowhere, he leans over to kiss me on the cheek. It’s this strange other universe. It’s like having a boyfriend. And somehow I start telling them about Martin and the emails and how he actually freaking blackmailed me, and it’s actually kind of a hilarious story, now that I think about it. And everyone is full-on belly laughing, and the one girl at the table says, “Oh my God, Peter, oh my God. He’s adorable.” And it feels amazing.
But then Peter leans toward me and his lips are close to my ear and he says, “Are you in high school?”
“I’m a junior,” I say.
“In high school,” he repeats. His arm is still around me. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” I whisper, feeling sheepish.
He looks at me and shakes his head. “Oh, honey,” he says, smiling sadly. “No. No.”
“No?” I ask.
“Who did you come here with? Where are your friends, cute Simon?”
I point out Nick and Abby.
“Ah,” he says.
He helps me up and holds my hand, and the room keeps lurching, but I end up in a chair somehow. Next to Abby and across from Nick, in front of an untouched cheeseburger. Cold, but totally plain and perfect with nothing green and lots of fries. “Good-bye, cute Simon,” says Peter, hugging me, and then kissing me on the forehead. “Go be seventeen.”
And then he stumbles away, and Abby and Nick look like they don’t know whether to laugh or panic. Oh my God. I love them. I mean, I seriously love them. But I feel sort of wavy inside.
“How much did you have?” asks Nick.
I try to count it on my fingers.
“Forget it. I don’t want to know. Just eat something.”
“I love it here,” I say.
“I can see that,” says Abby, shoving a French fry into my mouth.
“But did you see his teeth?” I ask. “He had like the whitest freaking teeth I’ve ever seen. I bet he uses those things. The Crest things.”
“Whitestrips,” says Abby. She’s got her arm around my waist and Nick’s got his arm around my other waist. I mean my same waist. And my arms are around their shoulders, because I love them SO FREAKING MUCH.
“Definitely Whitestrips.” I sigh. “He’s in college.”
“So we’ve heard,” Abby says.
It’s a perfect night. Everything is perfect. It’s not even cold out anymore. It’s a Friday night, and we’re not at the Waffle House, and we’re not playing Assassin’s Creed in Nick’s basement, and we’re not pining for Blue. We are out and we are alive, and everyone in the universe is out here right now.
“Hi,” I say, to somebody. I smile at everyone we pass.
“Simon. Good lord,” says Abby.
“All right,” says Nick. “You’re taking shotgun, Spier.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I don’t think Abby needs your vomit in her mom’s upholstery.”
“I’m not gonna vom,” I say, but as soon as the words come out, there’s this ominous twist in my gut.
So, I take the front and crack the window, and the cold air feels sharp and refreshing on my face. I shut my eyes and lean my head back. And then my eyes snap open. “Wait, where are we going?” I ask.
Abby pauses to let some car pull ahead of her. “To my house,” she says. “College Park.”
“But I forgot my shirt,” I say. “Can we stop at my house?”
“Total opposite direction,” says Abby.
“Fuck,” I say. Fuck fuck fuck.
“I can lend you an extra shirt,” says Abby. “I’m sure we have some of my brother’s stuff down here.”
“Also, you’re wearing a shirt,” says Nick.
“Noooo. No. It’s not to wear,” I say.
“Then what’s it for?” asks Abby.
“I can’t wear it,” I explain. “That would be weird. I have to have it under my pillow.”
“Because that’s not weird,” says Nick.
“It’s an Elliott Smith shirt. Did you know he stabbed himself when we were five? That’s why I never made it to his shows.” I close my eyes. “Do you believe in an afterlife? Nick, do Jewish people believe in heaven?”
“All right,” says Nick. He and Abby exchange some kind of look in the rearview mirror, and then Abby moves over to the right lane. She takes the turn for the highway, and when she merges on, I realize we’re going north. Back to Shady Creek. Back to get my shirt.
“Abby, did I mention you are the absolute best person in the entire universe? Oh my God. I love you so much. I love you more than Nick loves you.” Abby laughs, and Nick starts coughing, and I feel a little nervous because now I can’t remember if it’s a secret that Nick loves Abby. I should probably keep talking. “Abby, what if you became my sister? I need new sisters.”
“What’s wrong with your old sisters?” she says.
“They’re terrible,” I say. “Nora’s never home anymore, and now Alice has a boyfriend.”
“How is that terrible?” asks Abby.
“Alice has a boyfriend?” asks Nick.
“But they’re supposed to be Alice and Nora. They’re not supposed to be different,” I explain.
“They’re not allowed to change?” Abby laughs. “But you’re changing. You’re different than you were five months ago.”
“I’m not different!”
“Simon. I just watched you pick up a random guy in a gay bar. You’re wearing eyeliner. And you’re completely wasted.”
“I’m not wasted.”
Abby and Nick look at each other again in the mirror and bust up laughing.
“And he wasn’t a random guy.”
“He wasn’t?” says Abby.
“He was a random college guy,” I remind her.
“Ah,” she says.
Abby pulls into my driveway and puts the car in park, and I hug her and say, “Thank you thank you thank you.” She ruffles my hair.
“Okay. One second,” I say. “Don’t go anywhere.”
The driveway is a little lurchy, but not so bad. It takes me a minute to figure out my key. The lights in the entryway are off, but the TV is on, and I guess I thought my parents would be asleep by now, but they’re tucked onto the couch wearing pajama pants with Bieber wedged between them.
“What are you doing home, kid?” asks my dad.
“I have to get a T-shirt,” I say, but I think that might not sound right, so I try again. “I’m wearing a shirt, but I have to get a shirt to bring to Abby’s house, because it’s a certain shirt and it’s not a big deal, but I need it.”
“Okay . . . ,” my mom says, and her eyes cut to my dad.
“Are you watching The Wire?” I ask. It’s paused now. “Oh my God. This is what you do when I’m not home. You watch scripted TV.” And now I can’t stop laughing.
“Simon,” says my dad, looking confused and stern and amused all at once. “Is there something you’d like to tell us?”
“I’m gay,” I say, and I giggle. Giggles keep escaping around the edges.
“Okay, sit down,” he says, and I’m about to make a joke, but he keeps looking at me, so I sit on the arm of the love seat. “You’re drunk.” He looks a little stunned. I shrug.
“Who drove?” he asks.
“Abby.”
“Did she drink?”
“Dad, come on. No.” He tips his palms up. “No! God.”
“Em, do you want to . . .”
“Yup,” my mom says, shifting Bieber off her legs. And then she gets off the couch and goes out through the entryway, and I hear the front door open and shut.
“She’s going out there to talk to Abby?” I say. “Seriously? You guys don’t even trust me?”
“Well, I don’t know why we should, Simon. You show up at ten thirty, obviously drunk, and you don’t seem to think that’s a problem, so—”
“So you’re saying the problem is I’m not trying to hide it. The problem is I’m not lying to you.”
My dad stands up suddenly, and I look at him, and I realize he’s really freaking pissed off. Which is so unusual that it makes me nervous, but it also makes me a little fearless, and so I say, “Do you like it better when I lie about things? It probably sucks for you now that you can’t make fun of gay people anymore. I bet Mom won’t let you, right?”
“Simon,” says my dad, like a warning.
I giggle, but it comes out too sharp. “That awkward moment when you realize you’ve been making gay jokes in front of your gay kid for the last seventeen years.”
There’s this awful, tense silence. My dad just looks at me.
Finally, my mom comes back in, and she looks back and forth between us for a minute. And then she says, “I sent Abby and Nick home.”
“What? Mom!” I stand up too fast, and my stomach flips. “No. No. I’m just here to get my shirt.”
“Oh, I think you’re staying in tonight,” says my mom. “Your dad and I need a minute to talk. Why don’t you go get yourself a glass of water, and we’ll be right in.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“It’s not a request,” says my mom.
They have to be fucking kidding me. I’m supposed to sit here and drink my water, and they just get to talk about me behind my back. I slam the kitchen door shut.
As soon as the water hits my lips, I gulp it down so fast I almost forget to breathe. My stomach is churning. I think the water makes it worse. I pretzel my arms on the table and tuck my head into my elbow. I’m so freaking tired.
My parents come in a few minutes later and sit down next to me at the table. “Did you have water?” asks my dad.
I nudge my empty glass toward him without lifting my head.
“Good,” he says. He pauses. “Kid, we’ve got to talk consequences.”
Right, because things aren’t shitty enough. People at school think I’m a joke, and there’s a boy I can’t seem to stop being in love with, and he just might be someone I can’t stand. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to puke tonight.
But yeah. They want to talk consequences.
“We’ve discussed it, and—presumably this is a first offense?” I nod into my arms. “Then your mom and I have agreed that you’ll be grounded for two weeks starting tomorrow.”
I whip my head up. “You can’t do that.”
“Oh, I can’t?”
“It’s the play next weekend.”
“Oh, we’re well aware,” says my dad. “And you can go to school and rehearsals and all of your performances, but you’ll come straight home afterward. And your laptop is moving into the living room for a week.”
“And I’ll take your phone right now,” says my mom, putting out her hand. All business.
“That’s so effed up,” I say, because that’s what you say, but I mean, honestly? I don’t even fucking care.