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?