IT’S THE SATURDAY AFTER CHRISTMAS, and Waffle House is packed with old people and kids and random guys sitting at the counter reading actual printed newspapers. People really like to come here for breakfast. I mean, I guess it’s technically a breakfast restaurant. Our parents are sleeping in, so it’s just my sisters and me, and we’re wedged against the wall waiting for a table.
We’ve been here waiting for twenty minutes, and we’re all really just reading our phones. But then Alice says, “Oh, hey.” She’s looking at this guy sitting in a booth across the room. He looks up and smiles and waves at her. He looks strangely familiar, lanky with curly brown hair.
“Is that . . . ?”
“Simon, no. It’s Carter Addison. He graduated a year ahead of me. He’s the nicest guy. Actually, bub, maybe you should talk to him, because—”
“Yeah. I’m leaving,” I say. Because I’ve just figured out why Carter Addison looks familiar.
“What? Why?”
“Because I am.” I put my hand out so she can give me the car keys. And then I walk out the door.
I’m sitting in the driver’s seat with my iPod plugged in and the heat blasting, trying to pick between Tegan and Sara and the Fleet Foxes. And then the passenger door opens, and Nora slides in.
“So, what’s up with you?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“Do you know that guy?”
“What guy?” I ask.
“The one Alice is talking to.”
“No.”
Nora looks at me. “Then why’d you run away as soon as you saw him?”
I lean back against the headrest and shut my eyes. “I know his brother.”
“Who’s his brother?”
“You know that creeksecrets post?” I ask.
Nora’s eyes get huge. “The one about . . .”
“Yeah.”
“Why the heck would he write that?”
I shrug. “Because he likes Abby, and he’s a fucking idiot, and he thinks she likes me. I don’t even know. It’s kind of a long story.”
“What an asshole,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, looking at her. Nora never cusses.
I’m startled by a loud tap, and I turn around to find Alice’s pissed-off face pressed against my window.
“Out,” she says. “I’m driving.”
I move to the backseat. Whatever.
“So, what the hell was that about?” she asks, eyes flashing in the rearview mirror as she backs out of the parking spot.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay, well, it was a little weird trying to explain to Carter why my brother and sister hauled ass out of the restaurant as soon as they saw him.” She pulls onto Roswell Road. “His brother was there, bub. He’s in your grade. Marty. Seems like a nice kid.”
I don’t say anything.
“And I really wanted waffles today,” she says grumpily.
“Let it go, Allie,” Nora says.
It hangs in the air. Another thing Nora never does is stand up to Alice.
We drive in silence the rest of the way home.
“Simon, the basement fridge. Not later. Not in a minute. Now,” my mom says, “or the party is off.”
“Mom. Just stop. I’m doing it.” I mean, seriously. I have no freaking idea where she got the idea that this is a party. “You do realize that Nick, Leah, and Abby have all been here roughly five zillion times.”
“That’s fine,” she says, “but this time, you’re going to make the basement presentable, or else you’ll be ringing in the New Year on the couch, smack dab in between your dad and me.”
“Or we’ll go to Nick’s,” I mutter.
My mom is halfway up the stairs, but she turns around to catch my eye. “No you won’t. And speaking of Nick. Your father and I discussed this, and we want to sit down with you and brainstorm about how we’re going to handle him spending the night. I’m not worried about tonight, since the girls will be there, but thinking ahead—”
“Oh my God, Mom, stop. I’m not talking about this right now.” Jesus Christ. As if Nick and I can’t be in a room together without it turning into frenzied wild sex.
Everyone gets here around six, and we end up packed onto the scraggly basement couch eating pizza and watching reruns of The Soup. Our basement is kind of a time capsule, with shaggy, camel-colored carpet and shelves of Barbies and Power Rangers and Pokémon. And there’s a bathroom and a little laundry room with a fridge. It’s really very cozy and awesome down here.
Leah sits on one end of the couch, and then me, and then Abby—and Nick is on the other end, plucking the strings of Nora’s old guitar. Bieber whimpers from the top of the stairs, and there are footsteps above us, and Abby’s telling a story about Taylor. Apparently Taylor said something annoying. I’m trying to laugh in the right places. I think I’m a little overstimulated. Leah is intently focused on the television.
When we finish eating, I run up to open the door for Bieber, who almost trips down the stairs and then flings himself into the room like a cannonball.
Nick mutes the TV and plays a slow, acoustic version of “Brown Eyed Girl.” The footsteps above us stop, and I can hear someone say, “Whoa. That’s beautiful.” One of Nora’s friends. Nick’s singing voice has this supernatural effect on freshman girls.
Nick sits very, very close to Abby on the couch, and I honestly think I can feel the waves of panic radiating off of Leah. She and I are on the floor now, rubbing Bieber’s belly. She hasn’t said a word.
“Look at this dog,” I say. “No shame. He’s like, ‘Grope me.’”
I’m feeling this weird pressure to be extra jolly and talkative.
Leah trails her fingers through the curls on Bieber’s belly and doesn’t respond.
“He has Coke-bottle mouth,” I point out.
She looks at me. “I don’t think that’s a thing.”
“No?” I say. Sometimes I forget what’s a Spier family invention and what’s real.
And then, out of nowhere and without any change in intonation, she says, “So, they took that post down.”
“I know,” I say, and there’s a nervous flutter in my gut. I haven’t talked about the Tumblr post yet with Nick or Leah, though I know they’ve seen it.
“We don’t have to talk about it, though,” says Leah.
“It’s fine.” I glance up at the couch. Abby is leaning back against the cushions with her eyes closed and a smile on her lips. Her head is tilted toward Nick.
“Do you know who wrote it?” Leah says.
“Yes.”
She looks at me expectantly.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say.
We’re both quiet for a moment. Nick stops playing, but he hums and taps out a rhythm on the body of the guitar. Leah twists her hair up for a minute and then lets it fall back down, where it hangs past her boobs. I look at her without meeting her eye.
“I know what you’re not asking me,” I say finally.
She shrugs, smiling slightly.
“I am gay. That part’s true.”
“Okay,” she says.
I realize that Nick has stopped humming.
“But I’m not turning this into a big thing tonight, okay? I don’t know. Do you guys want ice cream?” I pull myself up.
“Did you just tell us you’re gay?” asks Nick.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” he says. Abby swats him. “What?”
“That’s all you’re going to say? ‘Okay’?”
“He said not to make a big deal out of it,” Nick says. “What am I supposed to say?”
“Say something supportive. I don’t know. Or awkwardly hold his hand like I did. Anything.”
Nick and I look at each other.
“I’m not holding your hand,” I tell him, smiling a little.
“All right”—he nods—“but know that I would.”
“Aww, that’s better,” says Abby.
Leah has been quiet, but she turns to Abby suddenly. “Simon already told you?”
“He, um, yes,” says Abby, cutting her eyes to me quickly.
“Oh,” says Leah.
And there’s this silence.
“Well, I’m getting ice cream,” I say, moving toward the stairs, and Bieber collides with my legs in his eagerness to follow.
Hours later, the ice cream’s been eaten and the Peach has dropped and my neighbors have finally used up their fireworks. I stare at the ceiling. We have a popcorn ceiling in our basement, and in the darkness, its texture makes shadowy pictures and faces. Everyone brought sleeping bags, but instead of using them, we set up a nest of blankets and sheets and pillows on top of the carpet.
Abby, next to me, is asleep, and I can hear Nick snoring a few feet away. Leah’s eyes are closed, but she’s breathing like she’s awake. I guess it would be wrong of me to nudge her to find out. But then, all of a sudden, she rolls onto her side and sighs, and her eyes snap open.
“Hey,” I whisper, rolling my body toward her.
“Hey.”
“Are you mad?”
“About what?” she asks.
“About me telling Abby first.”
She’s quiet for several seconds, and then: “I don’t have a right to be mad.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This is your thing, Simon.”
“But you’re entitled to your emotions,” I say. I mean, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from having a psychologist for a mother . . .
“This isn’t about me, though.” She rolls onto her back, folding one arm behind her head.
I don’t know what to say to that. We’re both quiet for a minute.
“Don’t be mad,” I say finally.
“Did you think I would have some kind of shitty reaction, or that I wouldn’t be okay with it?”
“Of course not. God, Leah, no. Not at all. You’re like the most—I mean, you’re the one who introduced me to Harry and Draco. Yeah, that wasn’t even a concern.”
“Okay, well.” Her other hand rests on her stomach over the blankets, and I watch it rise and fall with each breath. “So, who else did you tell?”
“My family,” I say. “I mean, Nora saw the Tumblr, so then I had to.”
“Right, but I mean, who else other than Abby?”
“No one,” I say. But then I close my eyes and think about Blue.
“Then how did it end up on the Tumblr?” she asks.
“Oh, right.” I grimace. “Long story,” I say, opening my eyes again.
She angles her head toward me, but doesn’t reply. I can feel her watching me.
“I think I’m about to fall asleep,” I say.
But I’m not. And I don’t. Not for hours and hours.