“Hey.” She leans her body sideways, until it’s level with mine. “Everything’s cool. It’s nothing to mope about.”
I ignore her.
“I’m not leaving, bub. Because you’re going to wallow. You’re going to put on that playlist. What’s it called?”
“The Great Depression,” I mutter. It’s like all Elliott Smith and Nick Drake and the Smiths. I already have it cued up.
“Right,” she says. “The Great Depression. That romp. No way.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because I’m your big sister and you need me.”
“I need to be left alone.”
“No way. Talk to me, bub!” she says. She slides toward me, squeezing in between my body and the wall. “This is exciting. We can talk about guys.”
“Okay,” I say, pushing up off the bed and maneuvering into a sitting position. “Then tell me about your boyfriend.”
“Whoa there,” she says. “What?”
I look at her. “The phone calls. Disappearing into your room for hours. Come on.”
“I thought we were discussing your love life.” She blushes.
“So I get to make a scene and come out and have everyone awkwardly debate the whole thing right in front of me. On freaking Christmas,” I say, “and you won’t even tell me you have a boyfriend?”
She’s silent for a moment, and I know I have her. She sighs. “How do you know I don’t have a girlfriend?”
“Is it a girlfriend?”
“No,” she says finally, leaning back against the wall. “Boyfriend.”
“What’s his name?”
“Theo.”
“Is he on Facebook?”
“Yes.”
I pull up the app on my phone and start scrolling through her friends list.
“Oh God. Just stop,” she says. “Simon, seriously. Stop.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you guys. I knew you were going to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Ask a lot of questions. Stalk him online. Call him out for not liking pie or having facial hair or something.”
“He has facial hair?”
“Simon.”
“Sorry,” I say, leaving the phone on my nightstand. I do get it. Actually, I really get it.
We’re quiet for a moment.
“I am going to tell them,” she says finally.
“Whatever you want to do.”
“No, you’re right. I’m not trying to be—I don’t know.” She sighs again. “I mean, if you have the guts to tell them you’re gay, I should . . .”
“You should have the guts to come out as straight.”
She cracks a smile. “Something like that. You’re funny, bub.”
“I try.”
20
FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com
DATE: Dec 25 at 5:12 PM
SUBJECT: Oh holy nightmare
Blue,
I officially had the most epically weird and awful Christmas ever, and most of it I can’t even tell you about. Which really sucks. So, yeah. Basically, due to certain mysterious circumstances, I’m now out to my whole family and will soon be out to the whole freaking universe. And I guess that’s all I can say about it.
So, it’s your turn to distract me, okay? Give me updates about Little Fetus or the horrifying sexcapades of your parents, or talk about how you think I’m cute. And talk about how you ate too much turkey and now you feel nauseated. Did you know you’re the only person I’ve ever met who uses the word “nauseated” instead of “nauseous”? I finally Googled it, and of course you’re right. Of course.
Anyway, I know you’re off to Savannah tomorrow, but I hope to God your dad has internet, because I don’t think my heart can handle waiting a full week for an email from you. You should give me your number so I can text you. I promise I’m still relatively grammatical over text.
Well, Merry Christmas, Blue. I mean it. And I hope everyone leaves you alone tonight, because that sounds like WAY too much family time. Maybe next year we can sneak away and spend Christmas together somewhere far away, where our families can’t find us.
Love,
Jacques
FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com
TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
DATE: Dec 25 at 8:41 PM
SUBJECT: Re: Oh holy nightmare
Oh, Jacques, I’m so sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine what mysterious circumstances led to your being outed to the universe, but it doesn’t sound pleasant, and I know it’s not what you wanted. I wish I could fix it somehow.
No updates on Little Fetus, but suffice it to say that I’m more than a little nauseated now that I’ve had the pleasure of reading the word “sexcapades” in reference to my parents. And I do think you’re cute. You’re absurdly cute. I think I spend a little too much time thinking how adorable you are in emails and trying to translate that into a viable mental image for daydreams and the like.
But the texting thing. Ooooh—I don’t know. Really, though, you don’t have to worry about me going out of town. Internet in Savannah is abundant. You won’t even know I’m gone.
Love,
Blue
FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com
DATE: Dec 26 at 1:12 PM
SUBJECT: Daydreams . . . and the like
Specifically, “and the like.” Please elaborate.
Love,
Jacques
P.S. Seriously. AND THE LIKE?
FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com
TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
DATE: Dec 26 at 10:42 PM
SUBJECT: Re: Daydreams . . . and the like
And . . . I think I’ll shut up now. ☺
Love,
Blue
21
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.”