Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda (SimonVerse, #1; Creekwood, #1)

It's a weirdly subtle conversation. I almost don't notice I'm being blackmailed. One minute I'm backstage at play rehearsal, and the next, Martin Addison is telling me he read my emails. My secret emails. The ones I write from a fake account to a boy I've never met, a boy from my school who calls himself Blue. Martin saw everything because I'm a monumental idiot who forgot to log out of a library computer. Now he has screenshots, and he wants something from me. He wants me to be his wingman with my friend, Abby Suso. If I don't help him, the entire school will see my private conversations, and Blue's. “Just curious,” Martin says as he leaves, “Who's Blue?” I tell him he lives in California. It's the first lie of many.

Blue doesn't live in California. He lives here, in Shady Creek, and he is the only person I can be completely myself with. I found his post months ago on the creeksecrets Tumblr, a five-line confession about being gay and lonely that felt like he'd pulled the words directly from my head. I commented with my secret email address, and a week later, he wrote. Since then, we've built a world for ourselves online, trading stories about our families, our fears, and the first moments we knew we were gay. We talk about Elliott Smith and Oreos and the way people are like houses with vast rooms and tiny windows. He's smart and funny and careful, and protecting his identity feels more important than protecting my own. Losing him would be a disaster.

So I try to play along. I try to be Martin's matchmaker, inviting him to a Halloween party at Garrett's house, where I drink my first beer and try to talk him up to Abby. It's a strange balancing act, navigating my real life with my secret one. My days are a rhythm of familiar faces: my best friend Nick, who I've known since we were four; our other friend Leah, who is sarcastic and sharp-edged and secretly in love with him; and Abby, the new girl from D.C. who fit in with us instantly. They know me, but they don't know this part of me. They don't know that every spare moment is spent checking my phone, waiting for a new message from Blue, my heart jumping every time his name appears in my inbox.

The pressure of the secret starts to feel heavier than the secret itself. One night, driving home from a Waffle House study session with Martin and Abby, the words just spill out. “The thing is,” I tell her, my hands shaking on the steering wheel, “I'm gay.” It's the first time I've ever said it out loud. She just takes my hand and tells me she's honored I told her. It feels like I've crossed a border, and for a moment, the world seems bigger. Inspired, Blue makes a plan to come out to his own parents. We email back and forth, giddy and terrified together. It feels like a wall is coming down between us, and I start to believe I know who he is: Cal Price, the cute, quiet stage manager from the play, with his ocean-colored eyes.

But I'm not the one in control of my story. Martin, feeling rejected by Abby and jealous of my friendship with her, finally makes his move. He posts a crude, anonymous confession on the Tumblr: “SIMON SPIER'S OPEN INVITATION TO ALL DUDES.” He outs me to the entire school, twisting my own words and making a sly, cruel reference to Blue. The fallout is a storm of humiliation and surprise. There are the guys who taunt me in the halls, holding signs that say “WHAT WHAT - IN THA BUTT!” during a school performance. But there's also the unexpected, fierce support from my friends, from the theater kids, and even from my teacher, Ms. Albright, who promises to make it her “hill to die on” to get the bullies suspended.

On Christmas morning, I'm forced to come out to my family. It's as awkward as I always feared. My dad makes terrible jokes to lighten the mood - “So, which one of them did it? Was it the one with the eyebrows, the eye makeup, or the overbite?” - while my mom wants to “talk me through this” like I'm one of her patients. They love me, I know they do, but it feels like I have to reintroduce myself to the universe all over again.

The worst part is what this does to Blue and me. He knows who I am now, but he pulls away, refusing to tell me who he is. His emails become short and distant. He thinks things are “working out the way I wanted them to,” and I have no idea what he means. I feel completely rejected, and the pain of his silence is worse than any of the bullying. After weeks of agonizing, I realize Martin couldn't be Blue; the email timestamps don't line up with our rehearsal schedule. The mystery is wide open, and I feel a surge of hope. He's still out there.

I decide to take one last chance. I write him an email, pouring everything out. “I can't imagine a scenario where I won't want to kiss your face off as soon as I see you,” I write. I tell him there's a carnival at the mall and that I'll be there at six thirty, wearing the Elliott Smith T-shirt he left for me at my locker. I go, my stomach in knots, and spend hours riding the Ferris wheel and walking through the crowds, my eyes scanning every face, hoping.

It's almost closing time when I finally give up and use my last ticket on the Tilt-A-Whirl, the one ride I know Blue would hate. I'm alone in the metal pod, the safety bar locked in place, when someone slides in beside me. “Can I sit here?” he asks. My eyes snap open. It's Bram Greenfeld. The quiet, cute soccer player from my lunch table. The one with the soft brown eyes and gentle smile. “It's you,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “I know I'm late,” he replies.

The ride lurches to life, a dizzying, chaotic spin, and he clenches his eyes shut, his hands covering his mouth. He hates it, but he's here. For me. When it's over, we sit on the curb as the carnival lights blink out around us. He tells me his email address was a clue all along: Bram Louis Greenfeld, born on January 18th. Bluegreen118. He thought I knew. I tell him I had no idea. “I must really like you,” he says, thinking of the ride. I lean toward him, my heart in my throat. “I want to hold your hand,” I whisper. “So hold it,” he says. And I do.