FROM:

TO:

DATE: Oct 30 at 9:56 PM

SUBJECT: Re: hollow wieners

Blue,

I guess I never tried to pull off something truly scary. My family is really all about the funny costumes. We used to get competitive about whose costume would make my dad laugh the hardest. My sister was a trash can one year. Not Oscar the Grouch. Just a trash can full of trash. And I was pretty much a one-trick pony. The boy-in-a-dress concept never got old (until it did, I guess—I was in fourth grade and had this amazing flapper costume, but then I looked in the mirror and felt this electric shock of mortification).

Now, I'll say I aim for the sweet spot of simplicity and badassery. I can't believe you're not dressing up. Don't you realize you're throwing away the perfect opportunity to be someone else for an evening?

Disappointedly yours,

—Jacques

FROM:

TO:

DATE: Oct 31 at 8:11 AM

SUBJECT: Re: hollow wieners

Jacques,

Sorry to disappoint. I'm not opposed to dressing up, and you make a compelling case for it. I completely see the appeal of being someone else for the evening (or in general). Actually, I was a bit of a one-trick pony myself when I was little. I was always a superhero. I guess I liked to imagine myself having this complicated secret identity. Maybe I still do. Maybe that's the whole point of these emails.

Anyway, I'm not dressing up this year, because I'm not going out. My mom has some kind of work party, so I'm stuck at home on chocolate duty. I'm sure you understand that there's nothing sadder than a sixteen-year-old boy home alone on Halloween answering the door in full costume.

Your family sounds interesting. How did you talk your parents into buying you dresses? I bet you were an awesome flapper. Did your parents try to ruin all your costumes by making them weather appropriate? I remember throwing this ridiculous tantrum one year because THE GREEN LANTERN DOES NOT WEAR A TURTLENECK. Though, in retrospect, he actually kind of does. Sorry, Mom!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy your day off from being Jacques. And I hope everyone likes your ninja costume (that has to be it, right? The perfect mix of simple and badass?).

—Blue

FROM:

TO:

DATE: Oct 31 at 8:25 AM

SUBJECT: Re: hollow wieners

A ninja? Suck a good guess, but no dice.

—Jacques

FROM:

TO:

DATE: Oct 31 at 8:26 AM

SUBJECT: Re: hollow wieners Aaaah—autocorrect fail. DICK a good guess.

FROM:

TO:

DATE: Oct 31 at 8:28 AM

SUBJECT: Re: hollow wieners

GAHHHHH!!!!!

SUCH a good guess. SUCH. Jesus Christ. This is why I never write you from my phone. Anyway, I'm going to go die of embarrassment now.

—J

HONEST TO GOD, THERE IS nothing better than Halloween on a Friday. All day in school, there's a kind of charged feeling, and it seems to make the work less boring and the teachers funnier. I've got felt cat ears duct taped to my hoodie, and a tail pinned to the butt of my jeans, and kids I don't know are giving me smiles in the hallways. Laughing in a nice way. It's just an awesome day.

Abby comes home with me, and we'll walk over to Nick's later so Leah can pick us all up. Leah's already seventeen, which makes a difference in Georgia with your license. I can drive one other person at a time besides Nora right now, and that's the end of the story. My parents aren't strict about a lot of things, but they're evil mad dictators when it comes to driving.

Abby collapses to the floor to cuddle with Bieber as soon as we walk into the kitchen. She and Leah may not have much in common, but they're both obsessed with my dog. And Bieber is now lying pathetically on his back, belly exposed, staring up at Abby dreamily.

Bieber is a golden retriever, and he has these big, brown, kind of manic eyes. Alice was way too pleased with herself when she came up with his name, but I'm not going to lie. It seriously fits.

"So where is this thing?" Abby asks, looking up at me. She and Bieber are intertwined in an eternity embrace, her headband sliding down over her eyes. A lot of people did the toned-down school version of Halloween today—animal ears and masks and things like that. Abby showed up wearing a full-on, head-to-toe Cleopatra costume.

"Garrett's house? Somewhere off Roswell Road, I think? Nick knows." "So it's going to be mostly soccer people?"

"Probably. I don't know," I say.

I mean, I did get a text from Monkey's Asshole confirming he'd be there. But I don't feel like bringing him into the conversation.

"Well, whatever. It'll be fun." She tries to extract herself from the dog, and her costume rides almost all the way up her thigh. She does have tights on, but really. I guess it's funny. As far as I know, everyone thinks of me as straight, but already Abby seems to have figured out that she doesn't have to be self-conscious around me. But maybe that's just how she is.

"Hey, are you hungry?" she asks. And I realize I'm supposed to have offered her something.

We end up cooking grilled cheese in the toaster oven and bringing it into the living room to eat in front of the TV. Nora is tucked into her corner of the couch reading Macbeth. I guess that's kind of Halloween-ish. Nora never really goes out. I catch her eyeing our sandwiches, and then she slides off the couch to make one for herself. I mean, if she wanted grilled cheese, she really should have just told me. Our mom gives Nora crap about being more assertive. Though I guess I could have asked if she was hungry. I have a hard time getting into other people's heads sometimes. It's probably the worst thing about me.

We watch some random shows on Bravo with Bieber stretched between us on the couch. Nora comes in with her sandwich and goes back to reading. Alice, Nora, and I tend to do our work in front of the TV or with music playing, but we all get good grades, regardless.

"Hey, we better get dressed, right?" Abby says. Abby has an entirely different costume for the party, because by now everyone has seen Cleopatra.

"We don't have to be at Nick's until eight."

"But don't you want to dress up for the trick-or-treaters?" she says. "I always hated it when people weren't in costume."

"Um, if you say so. But I promise you, the kids here are all about the candy, and they seriously don't care where it comes from."

"That's a little concerning," says Abby. I laugh. "Yeah, it is."

"Okay, well, I'm taking over your bathroom now. Time for the transformation." "Sounds good," I say. "I'll transform in here."

Nora looks up from her book. "Simon. Eww."

"It's a dementor robe over my clothes. I think you'll survive." "What's a dementor?"

I mean, I can't even. "Nora, you are no longer my sister." "So it's some Harry Potter thing," she says.

Garrett bumps fists with Nick when we walk in. "Eisner. What. Is. Up."

And there's this throb of music and random bursts of laughter and people holding cans that aren't Coke. Already, I'm feeling a little out of my depth. So, here's the thing—I'm used to the other kind of party. The kind where you get to someone's house and their mom shows you down to the basement, and there's junk food and Apples to Apples and a bunch of people randomly singing. Maybe some people playing video games.

"So, what can I get you to drink?" Garrett asks. "We have beer and, um, vodka and rum."

"Yeah, thanks, no," says Leah. "I drove."

"Oh, well, we have Cokes and juice and stuff."

"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.

I sit, and Leah slides down the wall next to me, leaning against it with her legs tucked awkwardly to the side. She's wearing a skirt with her costume, and I can tell she's trying to keep her thighs from showing. Which is so ridiculous and so Leah. I scoot close to her, and she smiles a little bit without looking at me. Abby settles in cross-legged facing us, and it's really kind of nice. We basically have our own corner of the room.

I feel kind of happy and hazy now, and beer doesn't taste so bad after the first few sips. Garrett or someone must have turned the stereo off, and a couple of people have come over to listen to Nick. I don't know if I mentioned this, but Nick has the most raspy-perfect singing voice in the world. Of course, he has this weird, dad-like obsession with classic rock, but I guess that's not always a bad thing. Because right now he's singing Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here," and I'm thinking about Blue. And I'm thinking about Cal Price.

Here's the thing. I have this feeling in my gut that Blue is Cal Price. I just do. I think it's the eyes. He has ocean eyes: just waves and waves of blue-green. And sometimes when I look at Cal, I feel like we understand each other, and he gets it, and it's perfect and unspoken.

"Simon, how much did you drink?" asks Leah. I'm twisting the ends of her hair. Leah's hair is so pretty, and it smells exactly like French toast. Except that's Abby. Leah smells like almonds.

"One beer." One most excellent, most delicious beer.

"One beer. I can't even begin to express how ridiculous you are." But she's almost smiling. "Leah, did you know you have a really Irish face?"

She looks at me. "What?"

"You guys know what I mean. Like an Irish face. Are you Irish?" "Um, not as far as I know."

Abby laughs.

"My ancestors are Scottish," someone says. I look up, and it's Martin Addison wearing bunny ears.

"Yeah, exactly," I say as Martin sits beside Abby, close but not too close. "Okay, and it's so weird, right, because we have all these ancestors from all over the world, and here we are in Garrett's living room, and Martin's ancestors are from Scotland, and I'm sorry, but Leah's are totally from Ireland."

"If you say so."

"And Nick's are from Israel."

"Israel?" says Nick, fingers still sliding all over the frets of the guitar. "They're from Russia."

So I guess you learn something new every day, because I really thought Jewish people came from Israel.

"Okay, well, I'm English and German, and Abby's, you know . . ." Oh God, I don't know anything about Africa, and I don't know if that makes me racist.

"West African. I think."

"Exactly. I mean, it's just the randomness of it. How did we all end up here?" "Slavery, in my case," Abby says.

And fucking fuck. I need to shut up. I needed to shut up about five minutes ago. The stereo kicks back in again.

"Hey, I think I'm going to grab a drink," Martin says, jumping up again in that spastic Martin way. "Can I get you all anything?"

"Thanks, but I'm driving," says Leah. But she wouldn't be drinking even if she wasn't driving. I know that. Because there's this invisible line, and on one side are people like Garrett and Abby and Nick and every musician ever. People who go to parties and drink and don't get wasted off of one beer. People who have had sex and don't think it's a huge deal.

On the other side of the line are people like Leah and me.

But the one thing that makes it weirdly better is knowing that Blue is one of us. I'm reading a little between the lines here, but I actually don't think Blue has ever kissed anyone. It's funny—I don't even know if it counts that I have.

I've never kissed a guy. That's something I think about all the time. "Spier?" asks Martin.

"Sorry, what?" "Anything to drink?"

"Oh, thanks. I'm good." Leah makes this little noise like a snort.

"I'm done, too. Thanks, though." Abby kicks her foot against my foot. "At home, I'd just take the Metro and sneak in through our back door, so it didn't matter." When Abby says "home," she's still talking about DC. "But I figure Simon's parents don't need to see me drunk."

"I don't think they would care."

Abby pushes her bangs to the side and looks up at me. "I think you'd be surprised." "They let my sister pierce her ear a million times."

"Wow. Nora's such a badass," says Leah.

"Okay, Nora's the opposite of a badass." I shake my head. "I am such a badder ass than Nora."

"And don't let anyone tell you otherwise," says Martin, settling back in beside Abby with a beer in hand. Abby stretches and pulls herself up, resting her hand on my hood. "Come on. People are dancing." "Good for people," says Nick.

"We are dancing." Abby extends both arms toward him. "Noooooo." But he puts the guitar down, and lets her pull him up. "Um, but have you even seen my sweet moves?" asks Martin. "Let's see them."

He does this weird, rhythmic pantomime of swimming, followed by this side-to-side shoulder lurch/butt scoot combo.

"Yeah, you're awesome," Abby says. "Come on." She tugs his hands, and he springs up, beaming. Then she guides her little harem to this carpeted area near the stereo, where people are drinking and grinding to Kanye. Except Abby kind of goes into her own world when she dances, so Nick and Martin end up bobbing self-consciously and pointedly not looking at each other.

"Oh my God," says Leah. "It's happening. We're finally witnessing something more painful than Nick's bar mitzvah." "Awkwardness achievement unlocked."

"Should we be filming this?"

"Just savor it." I hook my arm around her shoulders, pulling her in closer. And Leah's weird about hugs sometimes, but today she buries her face in my shoulder and murmurs something into the fabric of my robes.

"What?" I nudge her.

But she just shakes her head and sighs.

Leah drops us all off at Nick's at midnight, and from there, it's a seven-minute walk to my house. The indoor lights are off everywhere, but the neighborhood is still lit up orange. There are a few smashed pumpkins and lots of toilet paper tangled through branches. Shady Creek may be a magical fairyland of a suburb most of the time, but when the candy runs out on Halloween, the criminal underbelly emerges. At least in my neighborhood.

It's chilly and unnaturally quiet—if Abby weren't with me, I would have to drown out the silence with music. It feels like we're the last survivors of a zombie apocalypse. Wonder Woman and a gay dementor. It doesn't bode well for the survival of the species.

We turn at the end of Nick's street. I could do this walk with my eyes closed. "All right, I have something to ask you," Abby says.

"Oh yeah?"

"So, Martin was talking to me when you were in the bathroom." I feel something freeze up inside of me.

"Okay," I say.

"Yeah, and this is—maybe I'm reading this wrong, but he was talking about homecoming, and he brought it up like three times."

"Did he ask you to the dance?"

"No. It was like—I guess it seemed like he was maybe trying to?" Martin freaking Addison. He's like the opposite of suave.

But holy fuck, I'm so relieved he didn't tell her. "I'm guessing he didn't get anywhere with that."

Abby bites her lip and smiles. "He's a really nice guy." "Yup."

"But I'm already going with Ty Allen. He asked me two weeks ago." "Really? How did I not know that?"

"Sorry—was I supposed to announce it on the Tumblr?" She grins. "Anyway, I don't know if you might be able to mention that to Martin. You're friends with him, right? I'd just rather not deal with him asking me, if I can avoid it."

"Um. I'll see what I can do."

"What about you? Are you still boycotting?" Abby asks.

"Of course." Leah, Nick, and I are of the mind that homecoming is just achingly lame, and we skip it every year. "You could ask Leah," Abby says. She looks at me sidelong, with a weird, probing expression.

I feel a storm of laughter brewing. "You think I like Leah."

"I don't know," she says, smiling and shrugging. "You looked so sweet together tonight."

"Me and Leah?" I ask. But I'm gay. GAY. Gaaaaaaaayyyyy. God, I should really just tell her. I can kind of picture her reaction.

Eyes widening. Mouth falling open.

Yeah. Maybe not tonight.

"Hey," I say, not quite looking at her. "Do you think you would ever be into Martin?" "Martin Addison? Um. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing. I don't know. He's a decent guy. I guess." My voice sounds thin and high. Like Voldemort. I can't believe I'm doing this.

"Aww. It's cute that you guys are friends." I don't even know what to say to that.

My mom is waiting for us in the kitchen when we walk in, and it's time to brace myself. The thing about my mom is she's a child psychologist. And it shows.

"So, tell me about the party, guys!"

Here we go. It was awesome, Mom. Good thing Garrett had so much booze. I mean, really.

Abby is better at this than I am—she launches into a really detailed description of everyone's costumes, while my mom brings over this epic plate of snacks from the counter. My parents are usually in bed by ten, and I can tell my mom is exhausted. But I knew she'd be awake when we got home. She seriously lives for opportunities to be a hey guys I'm cool kind of mom.

"And Nick played guitar," Abby says. "Nick's very talented," says my mom.

"Oh, I know," Abby replies. "Girls were like swooning over him." "That's why I keep telling Simon to learn guitar. His sister used to play."

"I'm going to bed," I say. "Abby, are you good?" My mom has Abby staying in Alice's room, which is hilarious, considering Nick has been spending the night on my bedroom floor for about ten years.

It isn't until I'm in my room that I can finally relax. Bieber is already passed out at the foot of my bed in a nest of jeans and hoodies. My dementor robes end up in a heap on the floor. I did aim for the hamper. I'm kind of comically unathletic.

I lie on top of my bed without getting in it. I hate messing up the sheets before I absolutely have to. I know this is weird, but I make my bed every single day, even though the rest of my room is a hellscape of paper and laundry and books and clutter. Sometimes I feel like my bed is a lifeboat.

I put in my earbuds. Nora and I share a wall, so I'm not supposed to listen to anything through the speakers after she goes to bed.

I need something familiar. Elliott Smith.

I'm wide awake and still kind of electrified from the party. I think it was good. I don't have a lot to compare it to. It's a little bit crazy to think that I had a beer. I know it's astonishingly lame to even think that about a single beer. Garrett and all the soccer guys probably think it's crazy to stop at one. But they're not me.

I don't think I'll tell my parents about it. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't get in trouble if I did. I don't know. I need to spend some time in my head with this new Simon. My parents have a way of ruining things like this. They get so curious. It's like they have this idea of me, and whenever I step outside of that, it blows their minds. There's something so embarrassing about that in a way I can't even describe.

I mean, telling my parents was easily the weirdest, most horrible thing about having a girlfriend. All three times. It was honestly worse than any of the breakups. I'll never forget the day I told them about my eighth-grade girlfriend. Rachel Thomas. Oh my God. First, they wanted to see her yearbook picture. My dad actually brought the yearbook into the kitchen where the light is better, and he was perfectly silent for a full minute. And then:

"That girl has some eyebrows."

I mean, I hadn't noticed until he said it, but after that, it was kind of all I could think about.

My mom was the one who got obsessed with the idea that I had a girlfriend even though I had never had one before. I don't

know why that came as such a freaking surprise to her, since I'm pretty sure most people start out never having had one. But yeah. And she wanted to know everything: how Rachel and I got together, and what my feelings were, and whether we needed her to drive us anywhere. She was just so bizarrely interested in all of it. It didn't help that my sisters never talk about boys or dating, so it was like a huge spotlight on me.

Honestly, the weirdest part is how they made it feel like this big coming out moment. Which can't be normal. As far as I know, coming out isn't something that straight kids generally worry about.

That's the thing people wouldn't understand. This coming out thing. It's not even about me being gay, because I know deep down that my family would be fine with it. We're not religious. My parents are Democrats. My dad likes to joke around, and it would definitely be awkward, but I guess I'm lucky. I know they're not going to disown me. And I'm sure some people in school would give me hell, but my friends would be fine. Leah loves gay guys, so she'd probably be freaking thrilled.

But I'm tired of coming out. All I ever do is come out. I try not to change, but I keep changing, in all these tiny ways. I get a girlfriend. I have a beer. And every freaking time, I have to reintroduce myself to the universe all over again.

FROM:

TO:

DATE: Nov 1 at 11:12 AM

SUBJECT: Re: hollow wieners

Jacques,

I hope your Halloween was excellent, and that your simplicity and badassery hit the mark. Things were really quiet around here. We only had about six trick-or-treaters. Of course, that means I am contractually obligated to eat the leftover Reese's cups.

I can't believe it's already almost homecoming. I'm excited about it. Make no mistake, football is still my least favorite sport, but I actually really like going to the homecoming game. I guess it's something about the lights and the drumbeats and the scent of the air. Fall air always smells like possibility. Or maybe I just like ogling the cheerleaders. You know me.

Are you doing anything interesting this weekend? We're supposed to have suck nice weather. Excuse me, dick nice weather. ☺

—Blue

FROM:

TO:

DATE: Nov 1 at 5:30 PM

SUBJECT: Reese's are better than sex

Very funny, Blue. VERY FUNNY.

Anyway, I'm sorry you got stuck at home last night for only six trick-or-treaters. What a waste. Next year, couldn't you just stick the bowl on the porch with a note telling the kids to take two? Granted, the kids in my neighborhood would have taken candy by the fistful while cackling with villainous laughter, and they probably would have peed on the note for good measure. But maybe the kids in your neighborhood are more civilized.

But seriously, leftover Reese's? Is it possible to send chocolate over email these days? PLEASE SAY IT IS.

My Halloween wasn't bad. I won't say too much about it, but I ended up going to this guy's party. I don't think it was really my scene, but it was definitely interesting. I guess it was nice to step out of my comfort zone (wait—I didn't just ruin my chance of convincing you I'm a hardcore party ninja, right?).

So, I keep thinking about the idea of secret identities. Do you ever feel locked into yourself? I'm not sure if I'm making sense here. I guess what I mean is that sometimes it seems like everyone knows who I am except me.

Okay, I'm glad you mentioned homecoming, because I totally forgot that Spirit Week is this week. Monday is Decades Day, right? I guess I should check online so I can avoid making an ass of myself. Honestly, I can't believe they schedule Spirit Week right after Halloween. Creekwood really blows its load on costume days all at once. How do you think you'll dress up for Monday? I know you're not going to answer that.

And I totally figured you'd be ogling the cheerleaders on Friday, because you're all about the ladies. Me too, Blue. Me too.

—Jacques

FROM:

TO:

DATE: Nov 2 at 1:43 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Reese's are better than sex

Reese's are better than sex? Admittedly, I wouldn't know, but I have to hope you're wrong about that one. Maybe you should stop having heterosexual sex, Jacques. I'm just saying.

The kids in your neighborhood sound really charming. Urine isn't a huge issue here, so maybe next year, I'll take your advice. It will probably be moot, anyway, because my mom almost never goes out. She just can't keep up with your party ninja ways, Jacques. ☺

I completely understand what you mean about feeling locked into yourself. For me, I don't even think it has anything to do with other people thinking they know me. It's more that I want to leap in and say certain things and do certain things, but I

always seem to hold myself back. I think a big part of me is afraid. Even thinking about it makes me nauseated. Did I mention I get nauseated easily?

Of course, that's the exact reason I don't want to say anything about Spirit Week and costumes. I don't want you to put two and two together and figure out who I am. Whatever it is we're doing here, I don't think it works if we know each other's real identities. I have to admit that it makes me nervous to think of you as someone actually connected with my life, rather than a mostly anonymous person on the internet. Obviously, some of the things I've told you about myself are things I've never talked about with anyone. I don't know, Jacques—there's something about you that makes me want to open up, and that's slightly terrifying for me.

I hope this isn't too awkward. I know you were kidding when you asked what costume I was going to wear, but I wanted to put this out there—just in case it wasn't entirely a joke? I have to admit I'm curious about you sometimes, too.

—Blue

P.S. I'm attaching a Reese's cup to this email. I hope this is what you had in mind.

FROM:

TO:

DATE: Nov 3 at 6:37 PM

SUBJECT: Re: Reese's are better than sex

Blue,

I think I made you uncomfortable, and I'm really, really sorry. I'm kind of a nosy person. It's always been a problem. I'm so sorry, Blue. I know I sound like a broken record. I don't know if I've mentioned this outright, but our emails are really important to me. I would never forgive myself if I fucked this up. Effed this up. Sorry, I don't even know if you cuss.

So, I might have given you the wrong idea with this subject line. I have to admit that I don't TECHNICALLY know whether Reese's are better than sex. Reese's are really freaking incredible, don't get me wrong. And I'm guessing they're better than hetero sex, a.k.a. "intercourse" (per my mom).

Non-hetero sex, though? I imagine it may be a little better than Reese's. Is it weird that I can't talk about this without blushing?

Anyway, speaking of Reese's, thank you so much for the photo. That was exactly what I had in mind. Instead of actually eating one, I just wanted to IMAGINE how salty and chocolaty and awesome it would be to eat one. It's great, because I really wanted to torture myself, but I didn't feel like making the effort to Google Reese's cups myself.

I would raid our own supply of leftover chocolate, but it didn't even come close to surviving the weekend.

—Jacques

Partying harder than Blue's mom since 2014.

WEDNESDAY IS GENDER BENDER DAY, which basically amounts to southern straight people cross-dressing. It's definitely not my favorite.

We're watching Twelfth Night in first period, because every English teacher is a comedian. Mr. Wise has this warped, ratty couch in his classroom that smells a little like beer, and I'm pretty sure people sneak in here to have sex and rub their fluids all over it after school. It's that kind of couch. But we all fight to the death to sit on it during class, I guess because everything's just a million times more bearable when you're not in a desk.

Today, it's been taken over by soccer boys in Creekwood cheerleading uniforms—specifically, Nick, Garrett, and Bram. That's generally what the jocks do for Gender Bender. There are only about twenty cheerleaders in all, so I have no idea how they meet the demand. Maybe they all have ten uniforms each. Who the hell knows what this school spends its money on.

But I have to admit that there's something kind of awesome about soccer calves and scuffed tennis shoes coming out of pleated cheerleading skirts. I can't believe Bram Greenfeld dressed up. Bram from my lunch table. He's this quiet black kid who's supposed to be really smart, but I've never heard him speak unless he's forced to. He leans way back into the corner of the couch, shuffling the toe of one foot against the other, and I never noticed it before, but he's actually kind of adorable.

Mr. Wise has already started the movie when Abby charges into the room. Between cheerleading, the play, and all of her committees, there's always a reason for Abby to be late to first period, but she never gets called out. It really pisses Leah off, especially because the people on the couch always seem to be willing to scoot over to make room for Abby.

She takes one look at the lineup on the couch and bursts out laughing. And Nick looks so ridiculously pleased with himself. The expression on his face is exactly the same as the day he found a dinosaur bone buried beneath the elementary school playground.

I mean, it turned out to be a chicken bone, but still.

"What the heck?" Abby says, sliding into the desk behind me. She's wearing a full suit and tie and this long, Dumbledorian fake beard. "You guys didn't dress up!"

"I'm wearing hair clips," I point out.

"Okay, well, they're invisible." She turns to Leah. "And you're in a dress?"

Leah looks at her and shrugs without explaining. Dressing extra feminine for Gender Bender is just something Leah does. It's her way of being subversive.

So, here's the thing. I would have left the godforsaken industrial-strength hair clips in Alice's drawer where I found them if I thought I could get away with it. But everyone knows I participate in this kind of crap. Ironically, of course. But still. It would be weirdly conspicuous if I didn't cross-dress at least a little bit today. It's funny how it ends up being the straightest, preppiest, most athletic guys who go all out for Gender Bender. I guess they feel secure enough in their masculinity that they don't care.

I actually hate when people say that. I mean, I feel secure in my masculinity, too. Being secure in your masculinity isn't the same as being straight.

I guess the one thing that's weird for me is dressing like a girl. What no one knows, even Blue, is that dressing up used to mean something to me. I don't know how to explain it or reconcile it, but I haven't forgotten the feeling of silk and air against my legs. I always knew I was a boy, and I've never wanted to be anything but a boy. But when I was younger, I used to wake up at night in April dreaming of Halloween. I would try my costume on a dozen times each October, and all through November, I obsessively fantasized about pulling it out of my closet one more time. But I never crossed that line.

I don't know. There's just something kind of mortifying to me about the intensity of those feelings. I remember them so clearly. I can't even stomach the idea of cross-dressing now. I don't even like to think about it too much. A lot of the time, I can't believe that was me.

The classroom door opens, and there stands Martin Addison, framed by the bright light of the hallway. He managed to find a cheerleading uniform, and he even went to the trouble of stuffing his chest with weirdly realistic boobs. Martin's really tall, so the amount of his skin on display is actually pretty obscene.

Someone in the back row whistles. "Looking hot, Adderall."

"Late pass, Mr. Addison," says Mr. Wise. And maybe it's just Leah getting into my head, but I can't help but think it's unfair that Abby didn't have to get one.

Martin stretches his arms up against the frame of the doorway like he's hanging from monkey bars, and the top of his uniform rides up even higher. Some of the girls giggle a little bit, and Martin grins and blushes. I swear to God, that kid will whore himself out completely for a cheap laugh. But I guess he's kind of a genius for that, because I've never met a nerd so beloved by the popular kids. I mean, I'm not going to lie. They kind of live to tease him. But there's no bite to it. It's like he's their mascot.

"Any day, Mr. Addison," says Mr. Wise.

He tugs his top down, pushes his boobs back into position, and walks out of the room.

On Friday, the math and science hallway is covered in hay. It's probably three inches thick under my feet, and a few strands of it jut out stiffly from the slats of my locker. Dust seems to rise off the ground, and even the light looks different.

The theme this year is music, and out of every genre in the world, the junior class picked country. Only in Georgia. Which is why I'm wearing a bandana and a cowboy hat. School freaking spirit.

Okay. So, homecoming sucks and country music is just embarrassing, but I'm in love with the hay. Even though it means Anna and Taylor Metternich and all the other asthmatics will have to skip science and math today. It just transforms everything. The hallway looks like another universe.

When I get to lunch, I seriously almost lose my shit. It's the freshmen. They're adorable and ridiculous, and oh my God. I can't stop laughing at them. Their genre is emo, and it's basically a sea of bangs and wristbands and tears. I begged Nora last night to show up in a black wig, eyeliner, and for the love of God, at least a My Chemical Romance shirt. She basically looked at me like I had suggested she show up naked.

I catch a glimpse of her now across the cafeteria, and her curly blond hair is really the opposite of emo. But it looks like she talked herself into the raccoon eyeliner, probably once she saw everyone else doing it. She's a perfect chameleon.

It's hard to believe this is the same person who once insisted on dressing up as a trash can.

Martin's at the table right next to ours, and he's wearing overalls. Seriously, he owns overalls. He tries to catch my eye, but I look away abruptly. Avoiding Martin is like a reflex for me at this point.

I take a seat between Leah and Garrett, who carry on arguing right over me. "Who the hell is that?" asks Leah.

"You seriously haven't heard of Jason Aldean?" says Garrett. "I seriously haven't."

Garrett slaps his hands down on the table. So I slap my hands down to imitate him, and he shoots me a self-conscious smile. "Hey," says Nick, settling into the seat across from me and opening his lunch bag. "So, I have a thought," he says. "I think we

should go to the game tonight." "You're kidding me," says Leah. Nick looks at her.

"What about WaHo?" she says. We always hang out at Waffle House during football games. "What about it?" asks Nick.

Leah's head is tilted down, so her eyes look kind of scary, and her lips are sucked into a straight line. Everyone is quiet for a moment.

And maybe my timing sucks here, but I guess I'm not really thinking about Leah.

"I'll go to the game," I say. Because I'm pretty sure Blue will be at the game. I like the idea of sitting in the same bleachers as Blue.

"Seriously?" Leah says. I feel her eyes on me, though I make a point to look straight ahead. "Et tu, Brute?" "Holy overreaction, Batman—" Nick starts to say.

"You shut up." Leah cuts him off. Garrett laughs nervously.

"Did I miss something?" Abby arrives to find us caught in this thick, weird silence. She sits down next to Nick. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, everything's fine." Nick glances at her, and his cheeks look sort of pink.

"Okay," she says, and grins. Abby isn't wearing a cowboy hat. She's wearing a full-on stack of cowboy hats. "So, are you guys psyched for the game tonight?"

Leah stands abruptly, pushes her chair in, and leaves without a word.

The game starts at seven, but there's a parade at six. I walk over to Nick's house after school, and we drive back to school together.

"So, we're on Leah's shit list," I say as we turn onto the road leading to Creekwood. Already, cars are parallel parked on the street, which has to mean the parking lot is full. I guess a lot of people like football.

"She'll get over it," he says. "Is that a space?" "No, it's a hydrant."

"Crap, okay. Geez, it's crowded."

I think it's the first time Nick has been here for a football game. It's definitely the first time for me. It takes us another ten minutes to find a spot that Nick can pull up into from behind, because he hates parallel parking. In the end, we have to walk about a million miles through the rain to get to the school, but I guess those cowboy hats are good for something after all.

It's really the first time I've ever noticed the stadium lights. I mean, they've always been there, and I've probably seen them turned on before. I never realized how incredibly bright they are. Blue loves them. I wonder if he's already a part of the mass of people milling around the field. We pay a couple of dollars and they give us tickets, and then we're in. The marching band plays a weirdly awesome medley of Beyoncé songs and does this stiff little dance in the stands. And really, despite the rain and the fact that it's homecoming, I think I understand why Blue loves this. It feels like anything could happen.

"There you are!" says Abby, jogging toward us. She gives us each a giant hug. "I just texted both of you. Do you guys want to walk in the parade?"

Nick and I look at each other. "Okay," I say. Nick shrugs.

We end up following Abby to the teacher parking lot, where a bunch of student council people have assembled around the junior class float. It's built onto a flatbed trailer with a frame constructed up the back, and it definitely looks like country music. There are bales of hay lining the entire surface of the trailer, stacked up higher along the back, and red bandanas knotted together like streamers all around the border of the frame. Everything is lined with Christmas lights. Twangy pop-country music blasts through someone's iPod speakers.

Abby's in the thick of it, of course. She'll be riding the float with some of the other cheerleaders, wearing short denim skirts

and flannel shirts knotted up to show their midriffs. There are a couple of guys in overalls, including one dude sitting against the hay bales pretending to play an acoustic guitar. I have to grin at Nick, because nothing pisses him off more than someone faking on the guitar. Especially someone who can't even be bothered to move his fingers along the frets.

This girl Maddie from student council lines us up behind the float in rows, and then someone passes down pieces of straw for us to hold in our teeth.

"And y'all have to chant," Maddie says, looking deadly serious. "They're judging us on spirit."

"Gah jernyrs," I mutter to Nick, who snorts. There's only so much you can do with a piece of straw clamped between your teeth.

Maddie looks panicked. "Oh my God, everyone, okay. Change of plans. No straw. Everyone take out the straw. Okay, good.

Be loud, y'all. Remember to smile."

The float starts moving around the parking lot, where it falls into place behind some kind of rock 'n' roll monstrosity the sophomores have put together. We follow behind it, taking our cue from Maddie, who calls out cheers and randomly yells, "Woo hoo," when things get too quiet. The parade actually leaves the school grounds, where it loops around for a block before coming onto the track circling the football field. The lights shine down on us, and people cheer, and I can't believe Nick and I ended up in the middle of this. It's so Johnny high school. I feel like I'm supposed to make some comment to underscore the ridiculousness of it all, but honestly? It's sort of nice not to have to be cynical for a change.

I guess it feels like I'm a part of something.

Abby and the other cheerleaders rush off to the bathroom as soon as the parade ends to get into their uniforms, and Nick and I look up at the bleachers. The faces blur together, and it's hard to find anyone we recognize. It's a little overwhelming.

"Soccer team's up there," Nick says finally, pointing up to the left and a few rows down from the top. I follow him up the concrete stairs, and then we end up having to squeeze past people to get over to them. God. Just when you think you've discovered every kind of awkwardness there is. And then comes the issue of finding a place to actually sit. Garrett pushes in closer to Bram to make room, but I'm still basically sitting on Nick's lap, and that sure as hell isn't going to work. I stand up again immediately, feeling twitchy and self-conscious.

"Okay," I say, "I'm going to go sit with drama club people." I spot Taylor's bright blond, super-brushed hair a couple rows ahead of us next to the stairs, and she's sitting with Emily Goff and a couple of the others. A couple of the others including Cal Price. My heart beats faster. I knew Cal would be here.

I squeeze through my row and back down the stairs, feeling like every eye in the stadium is on me. Then I reach under the banister to tap Cal on the shoulder.

"What's up, Simon?" he says. I like that he calls me Simon. A lot of the guys call me Spier, and I don't mind that, but I don't know. Honestly, I think I would like whatever Cal Price called me.

"Hey," I say. "Can I join you guys?"

"Definitely." He scoots over a few feet. "Plenty of room." And there is—I won't have to sit on his lap, anyway. It's actually kind of unfortunate.

I spend a full minute trying to think of something to say. My brain feels foggy.

"I don't think I've ever seen you at a game," Cal says, pushing his bangs out of his eyes.

And seriously, I can't even. Because Cal's bangs. Cal's eyes. The fact that he apparently notices me enough to know I'm not at football games.

"This is my first time," I say. Because I just have to say the most virginy thing ever.

"That's cool." And he's so calm. He's not even facing me, because he can talk and watch the game at the same time. "I like coming when I can. I try to make it to homecoming at least."

I try to think of a way to ask the thing I can't ask him. Maybe if I mentioned something about the smell of the air, just to see how he would react. But if I said that and Cal really is Blue, he'd know immediately that Jacques is me. And I don't think I'm ready for that.

I'm so freaking, ridiculously, absurdly curious, though.

"Hey." Suddenly, someone slides in next to me on the bleacher. It's Martin. I scoot down automatically to make room. "Adderall," some guy behind us grunts, messing up Martin's hair. Martin grins up at him. Then he smooths his hair back

down, or tries to, and chews his lip for a minute. "What's up, Spier?"

"Nothing," I say, and my heart sinks. He turns his body toward mine, and he's clearly in the mood for a conversation. So much for talking to Cal. So much for the air smelling like possibility.

"Hey, so, this Abby thing." "Yeah?"

"I asked her to the dance," he says, super quietly, "and she shot me down." "Okay, um. Sorry. That sucks."

"Did you know she already had a date?"

"Um, yeah, I think I did know that. Sorry," I say again. I probably should have gotten around to speaking to Martin about that. "Could you give me a heads-up next time," he asks, "so I don't embarrass myself?" He looks so miserable. I feel weirdly

guilty. Even though he's blackmailing me, I feel guilty. So that's a little fucked up. "I don't think they're like boyfriend-girlfriend," I say.

"Whatever," he says. I look at him. I don't know if he's giving up on Abby, or what. And if he does give up on her—what happens to the emails? Maybe he gets to hold them over my head forever.

I actually can't think of anything worse than that.