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Bram had been too late.
He had not seen Simon’s email until 8:17, and after having to give a lame excuse to his mom (thank God he had never given her any real reason to mistrust him), and having hit what seemed like every damn red light on the way, he had not been able to get to the Perimeter Mall carnival until 8:43.
And Simon hadn’t been there. Bram had looked everywhere. The place was almost deserted, and he hadn’t seen Simon’s car (he knew exactly what Simon drove, though he doubted the reverse was true). But he looked anyway. By the food, by the ticket stand. His eyes had been pealed for Simon, or for Abby or Nick or anyone else Simon was likely to be near. He had pretty much gone up to every ride, and gotten strange looks from every exhausted ride operator. He had even looked for Simon at the Tilt-a-Whirl, the freaking Tilt-a-Whirl, as he could practically hear Simon saying in his head. It had been his last-ditch option. He had hoped, hoped that he would get to ride that stupid vomit-inducing contraption, if only Simon would be there.
But he wasn’t. And logically, Bram had known that his chances weren’t great. Six-thirty, Simon’s email had said. He was almost two and a half hours late. But, still. He hadn’t been able to prevent that great, dangerous swell of hope, of fear, of expectation. But after searching for fifteen minutes, even the operators had started leaving, and he had had to let that last part of his hope-balloon pop, and just go home.
And now, as he pulled into his driveway, he just didn’t know what to do. He walked into his house, oddly numb.
It was weird. He had felt so brave an hour ago. So sure that he could do it, that he could put himself out there. That he finally had the courage to do what he wanted to do. It had been scary, scary as hell – he could not remember his heart ever beating as fast as it had in the car on the way to the carnival (not counting times of actual physical exertion). But he hadn’t even considered turning back. He had seen the email entitled “Us” and “For what it’s worth, I’ll be there at six-thirty,” and he had just known, had just been certain. Now or never, Greenfeld, go. Get him. Tell him. Now or never. And he had just done it. For once in his damn life, he had just done it, hadn’t let himself think himself out of it. Now or never.
Well, it clearly wasn’t now.
Where had that certainty gone? Where was that courage? Adrenaline, he thought dully as he turned off the living room lights his mom had left on for him. And it’s all gone.
He took a shower, and did not think. It was not until he walked back into his bedroom and saw his laptop on his desk that he felt able to consider his options.
- Do nothing, say nothing. Hope something happens. His default.
- Email Simon and say…what?
He didn’t have Simon’s phone number. Though, Simon had had his for a couple of weeks, and done nothing with it. He still could not figure out what to make of that. He could theoretically get it, but that would be a bizarre, awkward text exchange with Nick Eisner, and he was just too tired to seriously think about that.
So, email…or nothing. Or email. Or nothing. He sat at his desk and opened his laptop. He stared at a blank draft on Gmail. What would he even say? More to the point, would Simon open it? Would [email protected] still exist? Had Simon gone home, hurt and disappointed, and deleted everything? The thought of him hurting and disappointing Simon in such a direct way hurt his stomach a bit.
You can fix it, idiot, he told himself. Right now. Just write something. Anything.
How did other people do this? How did they make themselves do things, when the consequences could prove to be so awkward and personal and hard? How did they display themselves to another human being so openly, knowing how possible rejection was? It had been different, all these months writing as Blue. He told Jacques everything, everything except the details that would affect his real life. That would allow for the possibility of his closest confidant, his e-best-friend, to look at him as he truly was and say, “No thanks, I’m good.” That would be so, so permanent.
Was it this hard for everyone? Simon had signed his email “Love, Simon” when there was no other way for him to keep his identity secret, and then later asked to keep him, even though the circumstances had been unbelievably awkward. Had that been easier than this now? Or was Bram just a coward?
Somehow, someway, Simon did not know who he was, or so that email had said. Bram was not entirely certain how this was. Had he not been ridiculously obvious? He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that Simon hadn’t guessed. (Disappointed was the real answer).
But Simon had given him a time and a place to meet him today, knowing there was a chance that he would be rejected in the ultimate way. And, of course, now he thought that he had been.
And it was as that thought passed through his brain that he realized that there was a third option. Ok, realized was too strong a word; it had been in the back of his head since he left the carnival. He just hadn’t wanted to confront it.
He could walk up to him tomorrow, and ask if they could talk for a minute.
Every part of him rebelled against it. How would he do it? How would he get him alone? What if he couldn’t talk? What if he just stood there and stared at him?
But he knew that this was what he had to do. He knew that this is what he owed Simon. It was the only right way left.
(Also, it allowed him to close his laptop and not have to worry about it right now).
The funny thing was, when he woke up the next morning, he felt some hint of what he had felt at receiving Simon’s email yesterday. Hope and dread and panic and excitement. He felt downright pain in his stomach. It was as if his sleeping brain had been preparing him for it, or as if the new day provided a new outlook or new possibility or something dumb like that.
Ok, that wasn’t the funny part. The funny part was that Simon wasn’t at school.
At first, when Mr. Wise asked if anyone knew where Simon was, and Abby said, “He’s sick,” Bram thought that it was just an unbelievably cruel coincidence. He had gotten himself all worked up again, and this time Simon was the one who hadn’t shown up.
But as Mr. Wise began to read from The Awakening, it dawned on him. Simon was never sick. He was always at school, even when he was phlegmy and could hardly talk. Bram would know.
And then he knew. Simon wasn’t at school because of him. He wasn’t here because he had been hurt, and had needed the day to be away from everyone, away from “Blue,” whoever that was. His parents had probably agreed easily enough. He hadn’t missed a day of school for months, that Bram could remember. Just one day couldn’t have been too hard to get them to assent to. Or maybe they didn’t know.
He hoped all of this was wrong, but he knew it was right. This knowledge was what made him to what he did.
“I’ve got some work to do. I’m going to the computer lab,” he told Garrett later as they walked out of History.
Garrett shrugged and looked at him weirdly, but just walked in the direction of the cafeteria. He could tell something was off, Bram knew. But he didn’t say anything.
He sat at a computer in the corner of the room and took a quick look to see if anyone could see his screen. But forget it. He didn’t care anymore.
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: Jan 26 at 12:07pm
SUBJECT: My name is Bram Greenfeld
Simon,
If this email comes off as a bit hurried and incoherent, it’s because I’m writing it during lunch, so I have exactly 41 minutes and counting. I would wait until I got home, but that won’t be until at least 6pm, and if I let myself think about this too much, I’ll lose my nerve.
So, a few things first:
1. As the subject of this email may tell you, this is Bram Greenfeld (I’ve begun to get the impression that you genuinely don’t know that).
2. I went to the carnival last night, I swear. Only, I didn’t see your email until a bit after 8pm (the one time per day I was allowing myself to check this account). You were gone by the time I got there. I’m truly, unbelievably sorry that I missed you.
3. I’m even more sorry I’m sending this now, and not weeks ago.
So, here goes nothing. In the email you sent me yesterday, you said you knew who I was, even if you didn’t know my name. But I know both of those things about you. And not just because I came back from the holiday break and heard gossip about you, or even just because Jacques a dit. The truth is, I’ve been pretty sure who you were for months. Or I thought it was probably you. I wanted it to be you. You write the way you talk, do you realize that? I get the feeling you might not. And I know how you talk because I pay attention to how you talk. Does that sound weird? I don’t have time to filter myself.
You always make me laugh. You think about things differently than I do. You’re ridiculously brave sometimes. You’re really smart and really charming in a way I don’t even think you understand. You ask questions, and you care about the answers, even when it’s some anonymous guy on the internet.. You’re genuinely kind like I don’t think most people are. You project confidence (whether you know it or not), but it’s not as easy for you as it seems. You say and write things without thinking, but it’s not because you’re thoughtless. It’s because you just don’t know how to be anything but you.
So, I know you, too. And I l really like you, too, if it’s not obvious by now. For the record, I swear I do know how to talk, but around you I just never can. I want that to change.
I don’t know if you still have it, but here’s my phone number again: XXX-XXX-XXXX.
And if you don’t respond to this, I’m going to assume you didn’t see it. And then I’m going to come up to you tomorrow in school and try and talk to you. I have to now. That sentence will be in cyberspace forever.
Wow, this is long. But the bell just rang, so I’m sending now so I don’t delete this.
Love,
Bram
The rest of the day passed in a haze. He only let himself look at his phone once every half-hour. Soccer practice was a bit easier – his phone was not allowed on the field – but when he got to the locker room there was still no email or text or missed call.
He got home at 6:30. Still nothing. He tried to do homework, but was only mildly successful.
His phone buzzed at 7:10, but it was Garrett asking about tonight’s homework for English.
It was not until 9:26, after he had shoveled food into his mouth that he didn’t taste and finished writing God-knows-what about The Awakening that it buzzed again.
He picked it up off his nightstand slowly. It was a number that his phone didn’t recognize. The text read:
For the record, most people have a different definition of “hurried and incoherent.” That was some A+ email game right there, Bram.
It was followed fifteen seconds later by:
Also, I just stared at the message I just sent for five minutes to make sure there were no typos.
Bram smiled, a good deal of the tension in his chest (and stomach) evaporating instantaneously, a new, warmer kind replacing it. What was he supposed to say? How do you flirt, when the person you’re flirting with knows who you are?
Finally, he responded:
Eh, your texting game is decent too. Not quite an A+ but a solid B, I think.
Ten seconds later, his phone started to ring. He answered it.