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.

Bram and I exchange glances, while Nick, Abby, and Garrett look on with interest.
“Okay,” he says. “She wanted me to tell you that your parents are about to invite you to some place called The Varsity, and you’re supposed to say you can’t go. And the magic words are that you need to catch up on homework.”
“What? Why?”
“Because,” Theo says, nodding, “apparently, it takes half an hour to get down there, and half an hour to get back, plus all the time spent ordering and eating.”
“Which is completely freaking worth it,” I inform him. “Have you had their Frosted Orange?”
“I have not,” Theo says. “Though, in fairness, I’ve spent a lifetime sum total of five hours in Atlanta. So far.”
“But why doesn’t she want me there?”
“Because she’s giving you two hours at home unsupervised.”
“Oh.” My cheeks are burning. Nick snorts.
“Yup,” Theo says, grinning briefly at Bram. “So, I guess I’ll see you guys out there.” He heads toward the atrium.
I look at Bram, and his eyes are lit with mischief. It’s very un-Bram-like.
“Oh, were you in on this?”
“No,” he says, “but I stand in support.”
“I mean, it’s a little creepy having my sister orchestrate the whole thing.”
He smiles, biting his lip.
“But kind of awesome,” I admit.
So, we head out to the atrium, and I make a beeline for Alice. Bram hangs back, standing with Nick, Abby, and Garrett.
“I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Well,” she says, “little Nick Eisner clued me in that something big was happening. But I’m sorry I missed the play last week, bub.”
“It’s fine. I met Theo,” I say, lowering my voice. “He’s cool.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She smiles self-consciously. “Which one’s yours?”
“Gray zippy sweater, next to Nick.”
“I’m lying. I’ve been stalking him on Facebook,” she says, hugging me. “He’s adorable.”
“I know.”
And then the side door swings open, and the girls of Emoji step into the atrium. Nora actually yelps when she sees us.
“Allie!” she says. She launches toward her. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in Connecticut?”
“Because you’re a rock star,” Alice says.
“I’m not a rock star,” Nora says, beaming.
My parents have a majorly Seussish bouquet for her, and they spend about five minutes gushing about her guitar skills. And then they want to gush about the rest of the band and Abby, so we sort of converge into one big group. And Nora is talking to Theo, and my parents are shaking hands with Bram, and Taylor and Abby are randomly hugging. It’s a surreal, wonderful scene.
I walk over to Leah, and she grins and shrugs. So I give her this crushing hug. “You are a freaking boss,” I tell her. “I had no idea.”
“They let me borrow some of the school drums. I’ve been teaching myself.”
“For how long?”
“About two years.”
I just look at her. She bites her lip.
“I guess I’m awesome?” she says.
“YES,” I say. And I’m sorry, but I just have to hug her again.
“All right,” she says, squirming a little. But I can tell she’s smiling.
So I kiss her on the forehead, and she turns unbelievably red. When Leah blushes, it’s so hardcore.
And then my parents walk over to propose a celebratory trip to The Varsity.
“I should probably catch up on homework,” I tell them.
“You sure, kid?” asks my dad. “Want me to bring you back a Frosted Orange?”
“Or two,” says Alice. And then she grins.
Alice tells me to keep my phone on, so she can text me when they’re on the way home.
“And you won’t forget the Frosties.”
“Simon. I believe this is known as having your cake and eating it, too.”
“Large ones,” I say. “Souvenir cups.”
There are probably a hundred people still walking toward the parking lot. I’m riding back with Bram. It’s too public to hold hands. This being Georgia. So, I walk next to him, leaving a space between us. Just a couple of guys hanging out on a Friday night. Except the air around us seems to crackle with electricity.
Bram is parked in the raised area of the parking lot, on the top level. He unlocks his car from the top of the stairs, and I walk around to the passenger side. Then the car next to me comes noisily to life, startling me. I wait for it to pull out before opening my door, but the driver doesn’t move. And then I look into the window and see that it’s Martin.
We lock eyes. I’m surprised he’s here, because he wasn’t in school today. Which means I haven’t seen him since he emailed me.
He rakes his hand through his hair, and his mouth sort of twists.
And I just sort of look at him.
I haven’t written back to his email. Not yet.
I don’t know.
But it’s chilly outside, so I slide into the car, and then watch through the window as Martin backs out.
“Are you warm enough?” Bram asks. I nod. “So, I guess we’re going to your place.”
He sounds nervous, and it makes me nervous. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, eyes flicking to me. “I mean, yeah.”
“Okay. Yeah,” I say. And my heart pounds.
Stepping into the entryway with Bram is like seeing it for the first time. The random painted wood dresser against the wall, overflowing with catalogs and junk mail. A creepy, framed drawing of Alvin and the Chipmunks that Nora made in kindergarten. There’s the muffled thud of Bieber jumping off the couch, followed by jangling and clicking as he skitters toward us.
“Well, hi,” Bram says, practically crouching. “I know who you are.”
Bieber greets him passionately, all tongue, and Bram laughs in surprise.
“You have that effect on us,” I explain.
He kisses Bieber on the nose and follows me into the living room. “Are you hungry?” I ask. “Or thirsty?”
“I’m fine,” he says.
“We probably have Coke.” I very badly want to kiss him, and I don’t know why I’m stalling. “Do you want to watch something?”
“Sure.”
I look at him. “I don’t.”
He laughs. “So, let’s not.”
“Do you want to see my room?”
He smiles his mischievous smile again. So maybe it is Bram-like. Maybe I’m still figuring him out.
Framed photographs line the wall by the staircase, and Bram pauses to look at each one. “The famous trash can costume,” he says.
“Nora’s finest hour,” I say. “I forgot you knew about that.”
“And this is you with the fish, right? So obviously thrilled.”
In the picture, I’m six or seven, sun-flushed, my arm extended as far away from my body as possible, dangling a caught fish from a piece of twine. I look like I’m about to burst into horrified tears.
“I’ve always loved fishing,” I say.
“I can’t believe how blond you were.”
When we reach the top of the stairs, he takes my hand and squeezes it. “You’re really here,” I say, shaking my head. “So, this is it.”
I open the door, and try to kick some of the clothes aside as we walk in. “Sorry about . . . all of this.” There’s a dirty-clothes pile next to the empty hamper, and a clean-clothes pile next to the empty dresser. Books and papers everywhere. An empty bag of Goldfish crackers on the desk, next to a nonfunctioning Curious George alarm clock, my laptop, and a plastic robotic arm. Backpack on the desk chair. Framed vinyl album covers hanging askew on the walls.
But my bed is made. So that’s where we sit, leaning against the wall with our legs stretched forward.
“When you email me,” he says, “where are you?”
“Usually here. Sometimes at the desk.”
“Huh,” he says, nodding. And then I lean over and kiss him softly on the neck, just below his jaw. He turns to me and swallows.
“Hi,” I say.
He smiles. “Hi.”
And then I kiss him for real, and he kisses me back, and his hands fist my hair. And we’re kissing like it’s breathing. My stomach flutters wildly. And somehow we end up horizontal, his hands curved up around my back.
“I like this,” I say, and my voice comes out breathless. “We should do this. Every day.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s never do anything else. No school. No meals. No homework.”
“I was going to ask you to see a movie,” he says, smiling. When he smiles, I smile.
“No movies. I hate movies.”
“Oh, really?”
“Really, really. Why would I want to watch other people kissing,” I say, “when I could be kissing you?”
Which I guess he can’t argue with, because he pulls me in closer and kisses me urgently. And suddenly, I’m hard, and I know he is, too. It’s thrilling and strange and completely terrifying.
“What are you thinking about?” Bram says.
“Your mom.”
“Noooo,” he says, laughing.
But I actually am. Specifically, her Every Time Including Oral rule. Because it only now occurs to me that the rule might apply to me. At some point. Eventually.
I kiss him briefly on the lips.
“I really do want to take you out,” he says. “If you didn’t hate all movies, what would you want to see?”
“Anything,” I say.
“But probably a love story, right? Something Simonish, with a happy ending.”
“Why does no one ever believe I’m a cynic?”
“Hmm.” He laughs.
I let my body relax on top of his, my head tucked into the crook of his neck. “I like no endings,” I say. “I like things that don’t end.”
He squeezes me tighter and kisses my head, and we lie there.
Until my phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans. Alice. Exiting the highway. Be ready.
Roger that. Thanks, Paul Revere. I rest my phone on Bram’s chest while I type.
Then I kiss him again quickly, and we both stand up and stretch. And then we each spend some time in the bathroom. But by the time my family gets home, we’re sitting on the love seat in the living room with a pile of textbooks between us.
“Oh, hi,” I say, looking up from a work sheet. “How was it? Bram came over to study, by the way.”
“And I’m sure you were very productive,” my mom says. I press my lips together. And Bram quietly coughs.
I can tell from her expression that a conversation is coming. Some kind of awkward discussion about ground rules. Some kind of big deal.
But maybe this is a big deal. Maybe it’s a holy freaking huge awesome deal.
Maybe I want it to be.
Acknowledgments
There are so many people who left beautiful fingerprints all over this book, and who deserve more thanks and recognition than I can possibly express. I am forever grateful to . . .
. . . Donna Bray, my genius editor, who completely gets Simon’s sense of humor, and who knows this story inside and out. Thank you for adoring and embracing Simon from day one. I was so blown away by the depth, texture, and wisdom of your feedback. It strengthened this book to a degree I didn’t imagine was possible.
. . . Brooks Sherman, the extraordinary agent who was the first to believe in this book, and who sold it in four days like a ninja. You are part oracle, part editor, part psychologist, and part living proof that Slytherins are wonderful people. Thanks for being such a tremendous champion for my work, such an all-around badass, and such an amazing friend.
. . . Viana Siniscalchi, Emilie Polster, Stef Hoffman, Caroline Sun, Bethany Reis, Veronica Ambrose, Patty Rosati, Nellie Kurtzman, Margot Wood, Alessandra Balzer, Kate Morgan Jackson, Molly Motch, Eric Svenson, and the rest of the team at B+B and Harper, for your endless enthusiasm and incredibly hard work (and for Suman Seewat, for championing me so hard at Harper Canada!). Many thanks, too, to Alison Klapthor and Chris Bilheimer, for the cover of my dreams.
. . . the awesome and amazingly collaborative team at the Bent Agency, especially Molly Ker Hawn and Jenny Bent. Thanks, too, to Janet Reid and the gang at FinePrint—plus Alexa Valle, who got the ball rolling. Also so grateful for my wonderful publicist, Deb Shapiro.
. . . my brilliant and incredibly supportive team at Penguin/Puffin UK, including Jessica Farrugia Sharples, Vicky Photiou, Ben Horslen, and especially Anthea Townsend (with extra whoops). Wildly thankful, too, to all of my foreign publishing teams for believing in this book and working so hard to bring it to life overseas.
. . . Kimberly Ito, my very first reader and my platonic Blue. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for your wisdom, support, and sense of humor.
. . . Beckminavidera (which includes the following geniuses: Adam Silvera, David Arnold, and Jasmine Warga). Worming my way into your cult was the smartest thing I ever did. How would I have survived without our epic email threads, Oreo debates, and collective Elliott Smith worship?
. . . Heidi Schultz, for supplying endless sisterly wisdom and making me crave all the desserts.
. . . the Atlanta Writers Club for the opportunity to attend your extraordinary conference and critique groups—especially George Weinstein and the hilarious, brilliant minds of Team Erratica: Chris Negron, Emily Carpenter, and Manda Pullen.
. . . the Fearless Fifteeners and my many other friends in the writing community who laughed with me, supported me, advised me, and kept me sane. Many thanks, too, for the incredible librarians, bloggers, publishing professionals, and booksellers who have blown me away with their support—with extra Oreos for Diane Capriola! Thanks for making me feel so welcome in this community from day one.
. . . my heroes, Andrew Smith, Nina LaCour, Tim Federle, and Alex Sanchez, who slayed me with their books, and then slayed me again by blurbing mine.
. . . the brilliant teenagers, kids, adults, and families I’ve worked with during my years as a practicing psychologist. Thanks in particular to the students at Kingsbury, who never let me get away with being old and out of touch.
. . . the extraordinary teachers I’ve had over the years, especially Molly Mercer, for being more than moderately badass, and for being the best, most important teacher of my life.
. . . my Riverwood High School theater friends, whose influence on my life and on this book cannot be overstated (especially Sarah Beth Brown, Ricky Manne, and Annie Lipsitz). Thanks, too, to the many other friends who inspired and supported me more than they even know: Diane and the entire Blumenfeld family, Lauren Starks, Jaime Hensel and the entire Hensel family, Jaime Semensohn, Betsy Ballard, Nina Morton, the Binswangers, the Shumans, and so many others—and to the Takoma Mamas, who saved my life in five million tiny ways.
. . . My family: Molly Goldstein, Adele Thomas, Curt and Gini Albertalli—plus so many more Goldsteins, Albertallis, Thomases, Bells, Bermans, Wechslers, Levines, and Witchels. Thanks, too, to Gail McLaurin and Kevin Saylor for ongoing support. Finally, huge thanks to my stepmother, Candy Goldstein, and my stepbrothers, William Cotton and Cameron Klein.
. . . Eileen Thomas, my mom, who has always treated my life like a holy awesome big deal; to Jim Goldstein, the original badass, hardcore, hipster dad; to my sister, Caroline Goldstein, who rocked the trash can costume for Purim and knows about Coke bottle mouth; and to my brother, Sam Goldstein, whose preschool-era Pokémon stories are better (and more vulgar) than anything I could ever write.
. . . my sons, Owen and Henry Albertalli, whom I love wholly and ridiculously. Learning who you are and watching you grow are the greatest privileges of my life.
. . . my husband, Brian Albertalli, who is my absolute best friend and partner in crime, and who owns the other half of my brain. There wouldn’t be a
book without you. You are my shore worth swimming to. You are my big deal.
. . . Edgardo Menvielle, Cathy Tuerk, Shannon Wyss, and the many other clinicians and volunteers who change lives daily through the CNMC Gender and Sexuality program. Thanks for all that you do, and thanks for welcoming me with open arms.
. . . and to the extraordinary LGBT and gender-nonconforming children and teens in my life (and your extraordinary families): you blow me away with your wisdom, humor, creativity, and courage. You probably already guessed this, but I wrote this book for you.
Back Ad
DISCOVER
your next favorite read
MEET
new authors to love
WIN
free books
WATCH
the latest videos
SHARE
infographics, lists, quizzes
SIGN UP
for bookish fun & news
* * *
epicreads.com
About the Author
Photo by Decisive Moment Events
BECKY ALBERTALLI is a clinical psychologist who has had the privilege of conducting therapy with dozens of smart, weird, irresistible teenagers. She also served for seven years as co-leader of a support group for gender nonconforming children in Washington, DC. She now lives with her family in Atlanta. Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda is her first novel. You can visit Becky online at www.beckyalbertalli.com.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Credits
Cover art © 2015 by Chris Bilheimer
Cover design by Alison Klapthor
Copyright
Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
SIMON VS. THE HOMO SAPIENS AGENDA. Copyright © 2015 by Becky Albertalli. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.