Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

“I’ll have vodka with orange juice,” says Abby. Leah shakes her head.

“A screwdriver for Wonder Woman, coming right up. Eisner, Spier? Anything? Can I get you a beer?”

“Sure,” I say. My heart is doing some noticeable thumping.

“Spier, a beer,” Garrett says, and then he laughs. I guess because it rhymes. He disappears to get us drinks, which my mom would probably say is really excellent hosting. Not that there’s any way in holy hell I’m telling my parents about the alcohol. They would be too goddamn amused.

I pull my dementor hood over my head and lean against the wall. Nick has gone upstairs to get Garrett’s dad’s guitar, so it’s that weird quiet tension of being alone with Abby and Leah. Abby sings along under her breath to the music and kind of shimmies her shoulders.

I feel myself kind of shrinking toward Leah. Sometimes I just know she’s feeling the exact way I am.

Leah looks at the couch. “Wow, is that Katniss making out with Yoda?”

“Who making out with who?” says Abby.

There’s this pause. “Yeah . . . forget it,” says Leah.

I think Leah gets extra sarcastic when she’s nervous. But Abby never seems to notice that edge in her voice.

“Where the heck is Nick?” she asks.

Just hearing Abby say Nick’s name makes Leah suck in her lips.

“Feeling up a guitar somewhere?” I suggest.

“Yeah,” says Leah. “Most awkward way ever to get a splinter.” Which sets Abby off giggling. Leah looks kind of flushed and pleased with herself.

It’s the weirdest thing. There are these moments with Abby and Leah where it honestly just seems like they’re showing off for each other.

But then Garrett walks over with an armload of drinks, and something in Leah’s expression slams shut.

“All right—screwdrivers for the ladies . . . ,” Garrett says, handing one to each of them.

“This is . . . okay,” says Leah, rolling her eyes and leaving the drink on the table behind her.

“And a beer for—whatever the hell you’re supposed to be.”

“A dementor,” I say.

“What in God’s holy name is that?”

“A dementor? From Harry Potter?”

“Well, put your hood back, for the love of Jesus. And who are you supposed to be?”

“Kim Kardashian,” says Leah, just completely deadpan.

Garrett looks confused.

“Tohru from Fruits Basket.”

“I . . .”

“It’s a manga,” she says.

“Ah.” There’s a crash of dissonant piano notes from across the room, and Garrett’s eyes skate past us. A couple of girls are sitting on the piano bench, and I guess one of them knocked her elbow into the keys. There’s this burst of wild, drunk laughter.

And I almost wish I were home with Nora, watching Bravo and listening for the door and stuffing my face with fun-size Kit Kats. Which, for the record, are way less fun than full-size Kit Kats. I don’t know. It’s not that I’m having a bad time, exactly. But being here feels strange.

I take a sip of my beer, and it’s—I mean, it’s just astonishingly disgusting. I don’t think I was expecting it to taste like ice cream, but holy fucking hell. People lie and get fake IDs and sneak into bars, and for this? I honestly think I’d rather make out with Bieber. The dog. Or Justin.

Anyway, it really makes you worry about all the hype surrounding sex.

Garrett leaves Nick’s drink with us and joins the girls at the piano. I think they’re freshmen. Their costumes are surprisingly clever—one of them is wearing a black silk nightgown with a picture of Freud’s face taped to the front. A Freudian slip. Nick will like that. But they’re Nora’s age. I can’t believe they’re drinking. Garrett quickly pulls down the lid over the piano keys, and the fact that he’s worried about the piano makes me like him better.

“There you are,” says Abby. Nick is back, holding on to this acoustic guitar like a lifeline. He settles onto the floor to tune it, his back against the side of the couch. A couple of people glance over at him without breaking their conversations. It’s weird, because pretty much everyone looks familiar, but it’s all soccer people and other miscellaneous jocks. Which is fine, obviously. It’s just that I don’t really know them. It’s pretty clear that I won’t be seeing Cal Price in this crowd, and I don’t know where the heck Martin is.