Simon glances back and forth between us like he’s waiting for the punch line.
“Well.” Deep breath. “I guess you thought I was straight.”
He tilts his head to one side, but I don’t wait for him to respond.
“So, yeah. I’m not. Like really not. I am really, really bi.”
“So am I,” Abby chimes in.
“Holy crap. I’m just.” Simon blinks. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Wow. Oh my God. I have so many questions right now.” He shakes his head slowly. “Does Nick know?”
“Nick will be fine.” Bram smiles. “I am so happy for you guys.”
“Oh, God, me too!” Simon smacks himself on the forehead. “But you knew that, right? Holy shit. Yeah. Nick is going to . . . I mean, whatever, right? I’m so fucking thrilled. Okay. Okay,” he keeps saying, like a tiny broken robot. “Okay. Wow. How long have you been . . . ?”
“Bi?”
“No. I mean.” He gestures vaguely between Abby and me. “How long has this been a thing?”
“Fifteen minutes,” I say.
Abby grins. “Give or take two weeks.”
“Or a year and a half.”
“Just. Holy shit,” says Simon.
Abby takes my hand and threads our fingers together.
“Like, you have no idea how happy this makes me. No idea. I just wanted you guys to be friends, even, but this.” Simon stares at our hands, his eyes like saucers.
“That’s right,” Abby says. “We went above and beyond for you, Simon.”
“So, you’re welcome,” I add.
“I’m shook,” Simon says, and Bram pats him on the arm.
So now I’m walking down a tree-lined path, holding hands with Abby Suso.
Holding hands with my girlfriend. My girlfriend who is Abby Suso. My brain is totally obsessed with this fact. Like, I’m pretty sure my academic career is over, and God help me on the AP exams, because how are you supposed to think about calculus WHEN ABBY SUSO IS YOUR GIRLFRIEND?
Now we’re practically at the pavilion, and my heart’s in my throat.
Because inside the pavilion is my prom date. And my possibly racist friend. And Abby’s ex-boyfriend. And the girl he’s making out with. And probably a slew of casual homophobes.
This is not my perfect prom night, and it’s not the happy ending I pictured. It’s not an ending at all.
But it’s mine.
This whole moment is mine. This electric-bright pavilion, with music so loud I can feel it. It’s mine.
And maybe everything’s a mess. Maybe everything’s changing. I’m sure my face is a swollen splotchfest, and my boots are muddy, and my hair’s completely undone. I don’t even know if my voice works. But I keep following Simon and Bram back down the trail. I keep holding Abby’s hand.
Until we’re close enough to the pavilion that I can practically smell it. Corsages and sweat. This night. My prom.
And even though I’m looking in from the outside, I get closer with every step.
35
FROM:
[email protected] TO:
[email protected] DATE: Sep 21 at 1:34 AM
SUBJECT: Re: You were born!!!
Okay, I can’t even tell you how much I love the fact that you sent me an actual birthday email. In Garamond. That’s like peak Simon. If you ever change, I swear to God I’ll kill you.
But the birthday was good! Abby’s such a fucking nerd. She made me breakfast in bed, and by breakfast, I mean cookies, and by made I mean wore a cargo jacket with cookie-sized pockets to the dining hall. And, make no mistake, we live five minutes from a cookie delivery bakery (let that sink in. Cookie. Delivery. Bakery). But of course, some sacrifices are necessary, especially when a person and her girlfriend are saving every dollar for the April New York trip that is DEFINITELY HAPPENING. So tell your boy to clear out some Leah and Abby-sized floor space in his dorm room (like Bram would ever have clutter on his floor, God, what am I even saying?).
So I’m ignoring your first question, because I know you don’t actually want to know about Intro to Sociology (it fucking rules, though, just fyi). I’m not ignoring your second question, but I’ve been sitting here staring at Abby’s laptop screen for ten minutes trying to find the exact words to explain what it’s like, and apparently those words don’t exist, so. Yeah. It’s good. Like, really, really good. She’s just Abby. You know? Like today. It was one of those perfect sunny days, so we just spread a blanket out on the North Campus quad and she was reading and I was drawing and she kept pushing her sock against mine, like our feet were kissing and NOW I’M BLUSHING, ARE YOU HAPPY?
Because I am. Happy. Honestly. It’s kind of weird.
And yes I did talk to Nick, but he did NOT mention the Taylor development! Are you serious? God, I think he’s going to wake up one day and discover he’s married to her. She’ll make it happen. But good for her, I guess? I mean, good for . . . them? Not going to lie, I’m a little freaked out that I’m dating someone who was dating someone who is dating Taylor Metternich.
Yikes.
Okay, but Garrett and Morgan—WHAT? Bram needs to get us all the details (hi, Bram!). Are you still heading up to New York this weekend? You better text me lots of pictures. I love you a lot, Simon Spier. You know that, right?
Love,
Leah (your platonic soul mate forever and ever and ever) (and I don’t care if I’m being corny right now, because corny is the new me, I’m turning into my mom, YEAH I SAID IT) (I love you)
Acknowledgments
This book wouldn’t be a book without the combined powers of so many incredible people. Infinite thanks to:
Donna Bray, aka Leah’s mom, aka rock star editor, aka I’m the luckiest author in the world.
Brooks Sherman, my fiercest advocate, and the best and most badass agent in the business.
My brilliant, passionate teams at HarperCollins, Janklow & Nesbit, the Bent Agency, Penguin UK, and my other incredible international publishers: Caroline Sun, Alessandra Balzer, Patty Rosati, Nellie Kurtzman, Viana Siniscalchi, Tiara Kittrell, Molly Motch, Stephanie Macy, Bess Braswell, Audrey Diestelkamp, Jane Lee, Tyler Breitfeller, Alison Donalty, David Curtis, Chris Bilheimer, Margot Wood, Bethany Reis, Ronnie Ambrose, Andrew Eliopulos, Kate Morgan Jackson, Suzanne Murphy, Andrea Pappenheimer, Kerry Moynagh, Kathleen Faber, Suman Seewat, Maeve O’Regan, Kaiti Vincent, Cory Beatty, Molly Ker Hawn, Anthea Townsend, Ben Horslen, Vicky Photiou, Clare Kelly, Tina Gumnior, and so many more.
My Simon film team, who brought Creekwood High School to life: Greg Berlanti, Isaac Klausner, Wyck Godfrey, Marty Bowen, Elizabeth Gabler, Erin Siminoff, Fox 2000 Studios, Mary Pender, David Mortimer, Pouya Shahbazian, Chris McEwan, Tim Bourne, Elizabeth Berger, Isaac Aptaker, Aaron Osborne, John Guleserian, Harry Jierjian, Denise Chamian, Jimmy Gibbons, Nick Robinson, and the rest of the cast—especially my Leah, Katherine Langford. I’m so grateful to the hundreds of people in front of and behind the cameras who made miracles happen.
My friend and hero, Shannon Purser, who made all my audiobook dreams come true.
My earliest readers, who made this book a million times better: David Arnold, Nic Stone, Weezie Wood, Mason Deaver, Cody Roecker, Camryn Garrett, Ava Mortier, Alex Davison, Kevin Savoie, Angie Thomas, Adam Silvera, and Matthew Eppard.
The librarians, booksellers, bloggers, publishing professionals, teachers, fanfiction writers, artists, Discord members, group chatters, and readers who make this job so off-the-charts wonderful.
To the friends who carried me through the hard stuff: Adam Silvera, David Arnold, Angie Thomas, Aisha Saeed, Jasmine Warga, Nic Stone, Laura Silverman, Julie Murphy, Kimberly Ito, Raquel Dominguez, Jaime Hensel, Diane Blumenfeld, Lauren Starks, Jaime Semensohn, Amy Austin, Emily Carpenter, Manda Turetsky (who gave Garrett the idea for his epic prom dinner), Chris Negron, George Weinstein, Jen Gaska, Emily Townsend, Nicola Yoon, Heidi Schulz, Lianne Oelke, Stefani Sloma, Mark O’Brien, Shelumiel Delos Santos,
Kevin Savoie, Matthew Eppard, Katy-Lynn Cook, Brandie Rendon, Kate Goud, Anderson Rothwell, Tom-Erik Fure, Sarah Cannon, Jenn Dugan, Arvin Ahmadi, Mackenzi Lee, and a gazillion more.
To Caroline Goldstein, Sam Goldstein, Eileen Thomas, Jim and Candy Goldstein, Cameron Klein, William Cotton, Curt and Gini Albertalli, Jim Albertalli, Cyris and Lulu Albertalli, Gail McLaurin, Adele Thomas, and the rest of the Albertalli/Goldstein/Thomas/Berman/Overholts/Wechsler/Levine/Witchel crew.
To Brian, Owen, and Henry, my forever favorites.
And for you. Keep resisting.
Excerpt from What If It’s Us
Turn the page for a sneak peek at Becky Albertalli’s next book, in collaboration with New York Times bestselling author Adam Silvera:
WHAT IF IT’S US
Chapter One
ARTHUR
Monday, July 9
I AM NOT A NEW YORKER, and I want to go home.
There are so many unspoken rules when you live here, like the way you’re never supposed to stop in the middle of the sidewalk or stare dreamily up at tall buildings or pause to read graffiti. No giant folding maps, no fanny packs, no eye contact. No humming songs from Dear Evan Hansen in public. And you’re definitely not supposed to take selfies at street corners, even if there’s a hot dog stand and a whole line of yellow taxis in the background, which is eerily how you always pictured New York. You’re allowed to silently appreciate it, but you have to be cool. From what I can tell, that’s the whole point of New York: being cool.
I’m not cool.
Take this morning. I made the mistake of glancing up at the sky, just for a moment, and now I can’t unstick my eyes. Looking up from this angle, it’s like the world’s tipping inward: dizzyingly tall buildings and a bright fireball sun.
It’s beautiful. I’ll give New York credit for that. It’s beautiful and surreal, and absolutely nothing like Georgia. I tilt my phone to snap a picture. Not an Instagram Story, no filters. Nothing drawn-out.
One tiny, quick picture.
Instantaneous pedestrian rage: Jesus. Come on. MOVE. Fucking tourists. Literally, I take a two-second photograph, and now I’m obstruction personified. I’m responsible for every subway delay, every road closure, the very phenomenon of wind resistance.
Fucking tourists.
I’m not even a tourist. I somewhat live here, at least for the summer. It’s not like I’m taking a joyful sightseeing stroll at noon on a Monday. I’m at work. I mean, I’m on a Starbucks run, but it counts.
And maybe I’m taking the long way. Maybe I need a few extra minutes away from Mom’s office. Normally, being an intern is more boring than terrible, but today’s uniquely shitty. You know that kind of day where the printer runs out of paper, and there’s none in the supply room, so you try to steal some from the copier, but you can’t get the drawer open, and then you push some wrong button and the copier starts beeping? And you’re standing there thinking that whoever invented copy machines is this close to getting their ass kicked? By you? By a five-foot-six Jewish kid with ADHD and the rage of a tornado? That kind of day? Yeah.
And all I want to do is vent to Ethan and Jessie, but I still haven’t figured out how to text while walking.
I step off the sidewalk, near the entrance to a post office—and wow. They don’t make post offices like this in Milton, Georgia. It’s got a white stone exterior with pillars and brass accents, and it’s so painfully classy, I almost feel underdressed. And I’m wearing a tie.
I text the sunny street picture to Ethan and Jessie. Rough day at the office!
Jessie writes back immediately. I hate you and I want to be you.
Here’s the thing: Jessie and Ethan have been my best friends since the dawn of time, and I’ve always been Real Arthur with them. Lonely Messy Arthur, as opposed to Upbeat Instagram Arthur. But for some reason, I need them to think my New York life is awesome. I just do. So I’ve been sending them Upbeat Instagram Arthur texts for weeks. I don’t know if I’m really selling it, though.
Also I miss you, Jessie writes, throwing down a whole line of kissy emojis. She’s like my bubbe in a sixteen-year-old body. She’d text a lipstick smudge onto my cheek if she could. The weird thing is that we’ve never had one of those ooey-gooey friendships—at least not until prom night. Which happens to be the night I told Jessie and Ethan I’m gay.
I miss you guys, too, I admit.
COME HOME, ARTHUR.
Four more weeks. Not that I’m counting.
Ethan finally chimes in with the most ambiguous of all emojis: the grimace. Like, come on. The grimace? If post-prom Jessie texts like my bubbe, post-prom Ethan texts like a mime. He’s actually not so bad in the group text most of the time, but one-on-one? I’ll just say my phone stopped blowing up with his texts approximately five seconds after I came out. I’m not going to lie: it’s the crappiest feeling ever. One of these days, I’m going to call him out, and it’s going to be soon. Maybe even today. Maybe—
But then the post office door swings open, revealing—no joke—a pair of identical twin men in matching rompers. With handlebar mustaches. Ethan would love this. Which pisses me off. This happens constantly with Ethan. A minute ago, I was ready to friend-dump his emojily ambiguous ass. Now I just want to hear him laugh. A full emotional one-eighty in a span of sixty seconds.
The twins amble past me, and I see they both have man buns. Of course they have man buns. New York must be its own planet, I swear, because no one even blinks.
Except.
There’s a boy walking toward the entrance, holding a cardboard box, and he literally stops in his tracks when the twins walk by. He looks so confused, I laugh out loud.
And then he catches my eye.
And then he smiles.
And holy shit.
I mean it. Holy mother of shit. Cutest boy ever. Maybe it’s the hair or the freckles or the pinkness of his cheeks. And I say this as someone who’s never noticed another person’s cheeks in my life. But his cheeks are worth noticing. Everything about him is worth noticing. Perfectly rumpled light brown hair. Fitted jeans, scuffed shoes, gray shirt—with the words Dream and Bean Coffee barely visible above the box he’s holding. He’s taller than me—which, okay, most guys are.
He’s still looking at me.
But twenty points to Gryffindor, because I manage to smile up at him. “Do you think they parked their tandem bicycle at the mustache-wax parlor?”
His startled laugh is so cute, it makes me light-headed. “Definitely the mustache-wax parlor slash art gallery slash microbrewery,” he says.
For a minute, we grin at each other without speaking.
“Um, are you going in?” he asks finally.
I glance up at the door. “Yeah.”
And I do it. I follow him into the post office. It’s not even a decision. Or if it is, my body’s already decided. There’s something about him. It’s this tug in my chest. It’s this feeling like I have to know him, like it’s inevitable.
Okay, I’m about to admit something, and you’re probably going to cringe. You’re probably already cringing, but whatever. Hear me out.
I believe in love at first sight. Fate, the universe, all of it. But not how you’re thinking. I don’t mean it in the our souls were split and you’re my other half forever and ever sort of way. I just think you’re meant to meet some people. I think the universe nudges them into your path.
Even on random Monday afternoons in July. Even at the post office.
But let’s be real—this is no normal post office. It’s big enough to be a ballroom, with gleaming floors and rows of numbered PO boxes and actual sculptures, like a museum. Box Boy walks over to a short counter near the entrance, props the package beside him, and starts filling out a mailing label.
So I swipe a Priority Mail envelope from a nearby rack and drift toward his counter. Super casual. This doesn’t have to be weird. I just need to find the perfect words to keep this conversation going. To be honest, I’m normally really good at talking to stran
gers. I don’t know if it’s a Georgia thing or only an Arthur thing, but if there’s an elderly man in a grocery store, I’m there price-checking prune juices for him. If there’s a pregnant lady on an airplane, she’s named her unborn kid after me by the time the plane lands. It’s the one thing I have going for me.
Or I did, until today. I don’t even think I can form sounds. It’s like my throat’s caving in on itself. But I have to channel my inner New Yorker—cool and nonchalant. I shoot him a tentative grin. Deep breath. “That’s a big package.”
And . . . shit.
The words tumble out. “I don’t mean package. Just. Your box. Is big.” I hold my hands apart to demonstrate. Because apparently that’s the way to prove it’s not an innuendo. By spreading my hands out dick-measuringly.
Box Boy furrows his brow.
“Sorry. I don’t . . . I swear I don’t usually comment on the size of other guys’ boxes.”
He meets my eyes and smiles, just a little. “Nice tie,” he says.
I look down at it, blushing. Of course I couldn’t have worn a normal tie today. Of course I’m wearing one from the Dad collection. Navy blue, printed with hundreds of tiny hot dogs.
“At least it’s not a romper?” I say.
“Good point.” He smiles again—so of course I notice his lips. Which are shaped exactly like Emma Watson’s lips. Emma Watson’s lips. Right there on his face.
“So you’re not from here,” Box Boy says.
I look up at him, startled. “How did you know?”
“Well, you keep talking to me.” Then he blushes. “That came out wrong. I just mean it’s usually only tourists who strike up conversations.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t mind, though,” he says.
“I’m not a tourist.”
“You’re not?”
“Okay, I’m not technically from here, but I live here now. For the summer. I’m from Milton, Georgia.”
“Milton, Georgia.” He smiles.
I feel inexplicably frantic. Like, my limbs are weird and loose, and my head’s full of cotton. I’m probably electric bright red now. I don’t even want to know. I just need to keep talking. “I know, right? Milton. It sounds like a Jewish great-uncle.”