Nick pauses the game when I walk in. That’s something about Nick. He won’t put down a guitar for you, but he’ll pause a video game.
“Bieber!” says Leah. Within seconds, he perches awkwardly with his butt in her lap, tongue out and leg thumping. He’s so freaking shameless around Leah.
“No, it’s cool. Just greet the dog. Pretend I’m not here.”
“Aww, do you need me to scratch your ears, too?”
I crack a smile. This is good; things are normal. “Did you find 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 speech and silences. The aimlessness of mid-October afternoons.
“Simon, Nick hasn’t heard about le wedgie.”
“Ohhhh. Le wedgie. C’est une histoire touchante.”
“English, please?” says Nick.
“Or pantomime,” Leah says.
As it turns out, I’m kind of awesome at reenacting epic wedgies.
So maybe I do like to perform. A little.
I think I’m getting that Nick-and-Leah sixth-grade field trip feeling. I don’t know how to explain it. But when it’s just the three of us, we have these perfect, stupid moments. Martin Addison doesn’t exist in this kind of moment. Secrets don’t exist.
Stupid. Perfect.
Leah rips up a paper straw wrapper, and they’re both holding giant Styrofoam cups of sweet tea from Chick-fil-A. I actually haven’t been to Chick-fil-A for a while. My sister 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 can bring that up 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 little paper wad into his mouth. But Nick clamps his mouth shut, blocking it.
She shrugs. “Just keep on yawning, sleepyhead.”
“Why are you so tired?”
“Because I party hard. All night. Every night,” Nick says.
“If by ‘party,’ you mean your calculus homework.”
“WHATEVER, LEAH.” He leans back, yawning again. This time, 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. Not that kind of dream.”
Leah’s whole face goes red.
“No, just,” Nick says, “like actual weird dreams. Like I dreamed I was in the bathroom putting on my contacts, and I couldn’t figure out which lens went in which eye.”
“Okay. So then what?” Leah’s face is buried in the fur on the back of Bieber’s neck, and her voice is muffled.
“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, “Isn’t that why they label the left and right sides of the containers?”
“Or why people should just wear 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 make you look like Harry Potter, right, Simon?”
One time. I said it once.
“Well, I think my unconscious is trying to tell me something.” Nick can be pretty single-minded when he’s feeling intellectual. “Obviously, the theme of the dream is vision. What am I not 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 form of unconscious wish fulfillment?”
Leah and I look at each other, and I can tell we’re thinking the same thing. It doesn’t matter that he’s quite possibly talking complete bullshit, because Nick is a little bit irresistible when he’s in one of his philosophical moods.
Of course, I have a strict policy of not falling for straight guys. At least, not confirmed straight guys. Anyway, I have a policy of not falling for Nick. But Leah has fallen. And it’s caused all kinds of problems, especially now that Abby’s in the picture.
At first, I didn’t understand why Leah hated Abby, and asking about it directly got me nowhere.
“Oh, she’s the best. I mean, she’s a cheerleader. And she’s so cute and skinny. Doesn’t that just make her so amazing?”
You have to understand that no one has mastered the art of deadpan delivery like Leah.
But eventually I noticed Nick switching seats with Bram Greenfeld at lunch—calculated switching, designed to maximize his odds of sitting near 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 year. Though, I have to admit there’s something fascinating about Nick’s nervous intensity when he likes someone.
When Leah sees that look pass across Nick’s face, she just shuts down.
Which means there’s actually one good reason for being Martin Addison’s wingman matchmaker bitch. If Martin and Abby hook up, maybe the Nick problem will just go away. Then Leah can chill the heck out, and equilibrium will be restored.
So it’s not just about me and my secrets. It’s hardly about me at all.
2
FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com
DATE: Oct 17 at 12:06 AM
SUBJECT: Re: when you knew
That’s a pretty sexy story, Blue. I mean, middle school is like this endless horror show. Well, maybe not endless, because it ended, but it really burns into your psyche. I don’t care who you are. Puberty is merciless.
I’m curious—have you seen him since your dad’s wedding?
I don’t even know when I figured it out. It was a bunch of little things. Like this weird dream I had once about Daniel Radcliffe. Or how I was obsessed with Passion Pit in middle school, and then I realized it wasn’t really about the music.
And then in eighth grade, I had this girlfriend. It was one of those things where you’re “dating” but you don’t ever go anywhere outside of school. And you don’t really do anything in school either. I think we held hands. So, we went to the eighth-grade dance as a couple, but my friends and I spent the whole night eating Fritos and spying on people from under the bleachers. And at one point, this random girl comes up to me and tells me my girlfriend is waiting in front of the gym. I was supposed to go out there and find her, and I guess we were supposed to make out. In that closed-mouth 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 up 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, it was Valentine’s Day. Because I’m that classy. So, yeah, if I’m being completely honest with myself, I definitely knew at that point. Except I’ve had two other girlfriends since then.
Did you know that this is officially the longest email I’ve ever written? I’m not even kidding. You may actually be the only person who gets more than 140 characters from me. That’s kind of awesome, right?