Becky Albertalli

I guess it was about loneliness. And it’s funny, because I don’t really think of myself as lonely. But there was something so familiar about the way Blue described the feeling. It was like he had pulled the ideas from my head.

Like the way you can memorize someone’s gestures but never know their thoughts. And the feeling that people are like houses with vast rooms and tiny windows.

The way you can feel so exposed anyway.

He talked about the ocean between people. And how the whole point of everything is to find a shore worth swimming to.

It’s strange, because in reality, I’m not the leading guy. Maybe I’m the best friend.

Maybe it would be different if we lived in New York, but I don’t know how to be gay in Georgia.

And Leah’s also into slash fanfiction, which got me curious enough to poke around the internet and find some last summer. I couldn’t believe how much there was to choose from: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy hooking up in thousands of ways in every broom closet at Hogwarts. I found the ones with decent grammar and stayed up reading all night. It was a weird couple of weeks. That was the summer I taught myself how to do laundry. There are some socks that shouldn’t be washed by your mom.

And it’s funny. I know Nick can tell something’s up with me, but he doesn’t ask questions or try to make me talk. It’s just one of those things about us. I know his voice and expressions and his weird little habits. His random existential monologues. The way he taps his fingertips along the pad of his thumb when he’s nervous. And I guess he probably knows the same kinds of things about me. I mean, we’ve known each other since we were four. But really, I don’t have a clue what goes on inside his head most of the time.

I guess there’s this hazy middle ground between laughing at someone and laughing with someone.

“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.

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

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.