Free Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda by Becky Albertalli

And then his hands cup my face, and all of a sudden, he’s kissing me.
    My hands cup my face. Well. My left hand cups my face. My right hand is occupied.
    I picture it. He kisses me, and it’s nothing like Rachel or Anna or Carys. I can’t even. It’s not even in the same stratosphere. There’s this electric tingly feeling radiating through my whole body and my brain has gone fuzzy and I actually think I can hear my heartbeat.
    I have to be so, so quiet. Nora’s on the other side of the wall.
    His tongue is in my mouth. His hands slide up under my shirt, and he trails his fingers across my chest. I’m so close. It’s almost unbearable. God . Blue.
    My whole body turns to jelly.
    On Monday, Leah intercepts me as I walk into school.
    â€œHey,” she says. “Nora, I’m stealing him.”
    â€œWhat’s up?” I ask. The ground slopes, and there’s this concrete ledge that curves around the courtyard. Parts of it are just low enough to the ground that it makes a kind of shelf for your butt.
    Leah avoids my eyes. “I made you a mix,” she says, handing me a CD in a clear plastic case. “You can load it onto your iPod when you get home. Whatever.”
    I turn the case over in my hands. Instead of a track list, Leah has composed what appears to be a haiku:
    Wrinkled neck, gray hair
    Sorry to say this, Simon
    But you’re fucking old .
    â€œLeah. It’s so beautiful.”
    â€œYeah, okay.” She scoots backward on the ledge and leans back on her hands, looking at me. “All right. Are we cool?”
    I nod. “You mean about . . .”
    â€œAbout you guys ditching me on homecoming.”
    â€œI’m really sorry, Leah.”
    The edges of her mouth tug up. “You’re so freaking lucky it’s your birthday.”
    And then she pulls a cone-shaped party hat out of her bag and straps it onto my head.
    â€œSorry if I overreacted,” she adds.
    There’s a massive sheet cake at lunch, and when I get to the table, everyone is wearing party hats. That’s the tradition. No one gets cake without the hat. Garrett seems to be gunning for two pieces, actually. He’s got a pair of cones strapped onto his head like horns.
    â€œSiiimon,” Abby says, except she actually sings it in this low, husky opera voice. “Hands out, eyes closed.” I feel somethingnearly weightless drop onto my palm. I open my eyes, and it’s a piece of paper folded into a bow tie and colored in with a gold crayon.
    A couple of people from other tables look at us, and I feel myself grinning and blushing. “Should I wear it?”
    â€œUh, yeah,” she says. “You have to. Golden bow tie for your golden birthday.”
    â€œMy what?”
    â€œYour golden birthday. Seventeen on the seventeenth,” Abby says. Then she tilts her chin up dramatically and extends her hand. “Nicholas, the tape.”
    Nick has been holding three pieces of Scotch tape on the ends of his fingertips for who knows how long. Honest to God. He’s like her little pet monkey.
    Abby tapes on my bow tie and pokes my cheeks, which is something she does weirdly often because apparently my cheeks are adorable. Whatever the heck that means.
    â€œSo, whenever you’re ready,” Leah says. She’s holding a plastic knife and a stack of plates, and she seems to be making a point of not looking at Nick or Abby.
    â€œSo ready.”
    Leah slices it into perfect little squares, and seriously, it’s like waves of magical deliciousness have shot into the atmosphere. Guess which table of A.P. nerds have somehow become the most popular kids in school.
    â€œNo hat, no cake.” Morgan and Anna lay down the lawfrom the other end of the table. A couple of kids tape pieces of loose-leaf paper into cone hats, and one dude manages to wedge a brown paper lunch bag on his head like a chef’s hat. People are shameless when it comes to cake.