RAVES FOR How to Be Remy Cameron
“I always smile my way through a Julian Winters book. Remy’s story of self-discovery is empowering and lovely.”
—ADAM SILVERA, NYT best-selling author of What If It’s Us
“You’ve been warned: Remy Cameron is coming for your heart. I adored this tender, heartfelt love song of a book.”
—BECKY ALBERTALLI, author of Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda
“I don’t often swoon, but I swooned HARD for this incandescent book. Julian Winters has crafted a deeply moving story of love, family, and identity that will stay with me forever.”
—ADIB KHORRAM, award-winning author of Darius the Great Is Not Okay
“Reading Remy is like gaining a best friend. Told with empathy, humor, and sincerity, this is an astounding follow-up for Julian Winters. The world needs Remy Cameron, and I, for one, am ready for everyone else to discover just how heartwarming this book is.”
—MARK OSHIRO, author of Anger is a Gift
“I loved this book so much. What a gift to the world, and to all the people—myself included—who are still trying to figure out an answer to the question, ‘Who am I?’ Julian Winters’ answer should include, ‘A fabulous author everyone should read.’”
—Bill Konigsberg, award-winning author of The Music of What Happens
“In How to Be Remy Cameron, Julian Winters has gifted us with a bighearted, compassionate, and hilarious book about discovering who we are underneath the person everyone else expects us to be. We are more than labels, and this is more than a book. It’s a hug for everyone struggling to find their own identity, and a way to let them know they are not alone.”
—Shaun David Hutchinson, author of We Are the Ants
RAVES FOR RUNNING WITH LIONS
Gold Winner, 2018 IBPA Benjamin Franklin Awards | Teen Fiction
Finalist, 55th Georgia Author of the Year Award (GAYA)
#1 Amazon Bestseller | Teen & Young Adult LGBT Fiction
“Funny, wise, and ridiculously romantic. It hit me right in the heart.”
—BECKY ALBERTALLI, author of Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda
“A heartwarming freshman novel from an author poised to be a modern Matt Christopher for an older audience.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A warm, funny, smart and poignant debut, full of heart and full of hope. I loved the adorably cute relationship that emerges between Sebastian and Emir, I loved the humour, and I loved being reminded what it’s like to be a teenager during a long, hot, messy summer, when everything is new and exciting, anything seems possible, and the world is opening out in front of you. I throughly enjoyed it and hope it gets all the accolades and praise it deserves.”
—SIMON JAMES GREEN, author of Noah Can’t Even
“Inspiring and uplifting, RUNNING WITH LIONS is an absolute gem of a novel. It’s an utterly charming crowd-pleaser with nimble writing, exceptionally well-drawn characters and a swoonworthy romance. I freaking love this book.”
—CALE DIETRICH, author of The Love Interest
Copyright © 2019 Julian Winters
All Rights Reserved
ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-80-1 (trade)
ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-81-8 (ebook)
Published by Duet, an imprint of Interlude Press
www.duetbooks.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All trademarks and registered trademarks are the property of their respective owners.
Cover Illustration and Book Design by CB Messer
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Interlude Press, New York
For the ones still trying to define themselves: You’re more than the labels they give you. You’re greater than the definitions used to limit you. You’re one of a kind. Be yourself, always.
“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Contents
Who Is Remy Cameron?
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
Epilogue
Essay
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Some readers may find some of the scenes in this book difficult to read. We have compiled a list of content warnings, which can be found at the end of this book or at www.interludepress.com/content-warnings
Who Is Remy Cameron?
When I Google my name, there are over four million search results. None of them are relevant. Unfortunately, being club president of the Gay-Straight Alliance at Maplewood High School and having a major addiction to cold-brewed coffee hasn’t earned me a Wikipedia page.
What makes Remy Cameron, well, Remy Cameron?
Is it because I’m one of the few openly gay students at Maplewood? One of five black students? Maybe it’s my superior taste in music? Or that I’m still recovering from a bad break-up with a guy, even though it’s been way too long to be pining over him? My kick-ass family? I shouldn’t use that type of language in an essay, but I just turned seventeen a month ago and adulthood is knocking on my door.
This isn’t how I was taught to start an essay.
Maybe my essay should open in the time before I began to question my entire identity because of an assignment for AP Literature…
1
“Earth to Remy Cameron.”
Let the record show that I’m not completely ignoring my best friend Rio. Yes, I spaced out for a bit. It was a defense mechanism to avoid suffering through her latest music obsession: punk-riot grrrl bands. They’re not bad, just not my favorite.
Also, she was droning on and on about one of my least favorite subjects: homecoming. Football games, tiaras and crowns, and school-mandated dances aren’t my jam. The pep rallies are usually kick-ass, though.
I’m busy staring at myself in the full-length mirror next to my desk. I turn left, then right. Okay, I’m not as hot as Chadwick Boseman, but that’s cool.
I have these large, blue-gray eyes. My dark, thick eyebrows contrast with my tawny-beige complexion. My best feature is probably my hair. It’s brownish, like earthy soil after a spring rain, simultaneously wavy and curly. For an entire summer, I had it cut in one of those close-to-the-scalp shadow fades, but that didn’t work well with my ears. They stick out like Dopey’s in Snow White, but I like them.
On my phone, Rio’s pixelated face has warped into something resembling annoyance. Or speculation.
“You’re not paying attention,” she says.
“Do you even care about this kind of stuff?”
Rio puts on her best affronted face. Seriously, there are no Outstanding Performance by a Best Friend awards in her future. But the slight sarcastic twist to her lips and how her spring-green eyes glint with mischief are the best. I laugh. This has alway
s been us, since we were third-graders jumping off the swings at recess. We have an unmistakable bond that’s two-thirds humor and one-third arguing over meaningless things.
“I don’t care about homecoming,” Rio says. “But I care about laughing at the people who do care.”
“Like Lucy?”
“Like Lucy.”
“It’s gonna be a big deal for her.”
“Blah, blah, blah, ‘as junior class president,’ and all that jazz.” Rio blows out a breath to sweep the longer bits of her amber hair off her face. “We should’ve never helped her with that damn campaign.”
“We’re her best friends.”
Rio puckers her lips. “Freaking promises made in third grade. What did we know back then?”
“A hell of a lot about friendships and Adventure Time, clearly.”
The screen goes fuzzy, freezing on Rio’s eye-roll. She snorts, then says, “But we’re older now. This is what adults do.”
“Worry about homecoming dances?”
“Bingo, Romeo!”
I force myself not to make a face at that awful nickname. Rio gave it to me in seventh grade when I had a crush on Elijah Burke. It’s not quite my most embarrassing moment. Elijah was definitely cute and, by ninth grade, definitely straight too. Picking crushes isn’t my strong point.
“You’re seventeen now,” she reminds me. The background music has softened but it’s still raucous and percussion-heavy, all the signs of indie-rock-gone-bad. “Time to make adult choices.”
“I am, by choosing to avoid social activities that require me to wear anything other than a comfortable sweater and skinny jeans.”
“Are you sure you’re gay?”
“Is that a real question? Do you remember freshman year?”
Yeah, no one will forget my freshman year: one of those priceless moments, a true MTV teen melodrama starring me, the guy who comes out in the middle of his student council election speech.
Go, Team Remy Cameron.
Rio’s on another rant about her crusade against all things homecoming. She’s anti-school-activities, which is so hilarious because she’s a “journalist” for the school’s trashy newspaper/blog hybrid, The Leaf. Truly unoriginal title aside, Rio’s content is at least decent.
Not that I make it a habit of reading The Leaf. I’d rather listen to music. I don’t know, music takes me to a place books never did. I’m only slightly religious, but something about blasting indie-pop moves me spiritually. At least Rio and I both avoid mainstream music: true best-friend solidarity.
“And the freaking spirit week bullshit!”
I watch Rio stomp around her bedroom with one hand waving around dramatically. It’s kind of funny. I can’t disagree though. Maplewood’s homecoming scene is pretty lame. It’s all flash with no sass. Every year, I wish things would change. Just once, let the homecoming queen be anyone other than the girl with the most social media followers. And the king could be anyone other than Insert All-Star Jock Here guy. Why does there have to be a king and queen? And why does it almost always have to be a “popular” guy and girl?
“It’s ridiculous!” shouts Rio.
I nod robotically. My eyes shift over my bedroom.
On my bed, a pile of clean clothes wait to be put away. On my desk, an Algebra II book is open to whatever chapter I don’t care about. Linear equations are another thing not very high on my list of fun Sunday activities. Across the carpet is a colorful sea of sneakers.
My bed is tucked against a wall layered in neon-bright Post-Its. Each hanging leaf has a quote or silly doodle or lyric from a favorite song. In the middle of the Post-Its collage is a banner and brochure for my dream school: Emory College of Arts and Sciences. I plan on applying to the Creative Writing Program—if I survive junior year of high school, that is.
My heartbeat accelerates at the thought of not getting in. I force my eyes to look elsewhere.
I have this cool, geometric bedside table from IKEA. It was a pain in the ass to put together, but it’s worth it now. I nearly choke when I spot an uncapped bottle of baby lotion on it. Yeah, I better hide that before Mom comes by for her weekly cleaning session.
“And those lame chants from the cheerleaders, holy hell.”
“Tell me about it,” I say with just enough enthusiasm to keep Rio going. She won’t be happy until she gets it all out.
Rio rips into the football team’s list of accomplishments. Spoiler alert: there aren’t many checks in the W column. “Our school is like a bad version of a Disney-channel movie.”
“A very, very bad version. Edited and shortened for content.”
“Why do we even go there?”
I shrug one shoulder, but I know why. As candy-coated, made-for-TV as Maplewood is, there’s a pulse of something untouchable. Under the layers of suburbia exists a change waiting to happen, a bubble ready to burst.
I hope I’m there when it happens.
“So, it’s decided.” Rio squints, lips carefully curved. She’s thinking. “No homecoming participation for us this year.”
“Again.”
“Again. Lucy is gonna kill us.”
“Kill you,” I clarify. “I’m anticipating serious bodily harm for myself. A few broken bones.”
“Why are you the sole survivor of The Hunger Games?”
“Because Lucy likes me best.”
“She doesn’t,” Rio says with a sweet, humorous lift to her lips.
“Okay, okay.” I concede. “We’re both dead.”
“It’ll be worth it.”
Suddenly it’s eerily quiet on her end. Rio Maguire and silence don’t go together. They’re foreign enemies. It’s an omen. My stomach plunges to my knees just before Rio says, “And if we skip the festivities, maybe you won’t have to see Dimi.”
There it is.
I bite my thumbnail. Mom says it’s a terrible habit. I think it’s a healthy coping mechanism. I hate this topic. Honestly, who enjoys discussing breakups? Exes? The aftermath of your first real relationship? For months, I’ve done a spectacular job of avoiding any talk that involves Dimi. Rio hasn’t thrown her “I told you so” in my face—yet.
I swallow. “Sure.”
Rio’s nose scrunches. She’s holding something back. “It’d be good to, you know, not see him.”
“Definitely.”
I see his face every freaking day at school. It’s the perfect situation: having to walk past your ex and his friends on your way to homeroom each morning, a sweetly-wrapped “fuck my life” moment I seriously dread.
Luckily, I’m saved from poking at old wounds with Rio. My bedroom door creaks when it’s nudged open by a small head. I’ll never tire of seeing those big, round, hazel eyes, that gumdrop nose, and large ears. Warmth like the inside of a hoodie spreads through my veins when Clover’s tail wags and she pants happily at me. I check the time: 7:15 p.m. Clover is never late.
I turn back to my phone, to Rio’s serious face. “Sorry, my favorite girl needs me.”
Rio rolls her eyes. “If you say so.”
I scratch behind Clover’s ear. “No, I gay so.”
My weak attempt at humor gets a snort out of Rio. Thing is, this is what Rio and I do: Try to one-up each other with sarcasm. Of course, Rio always wins that war. But it makes taking on all the intense stuff, the topics that we hate discussing, ten million times easier.
“Avoiding things is not very seventeen-year-old-like,” she tells me.
“Wrong.” I grin at the screen. “It’s very seventeen-year-old-like.”
The call ends on a freeze frame of Rio’s middle-finger in a goodbye salute. I scramble to grab my shoes, a hoodie, and Clover’s leash. We’re out the door before I have a chance to think about all the things Rio could’ve said.
I’ve lived in Ballard Hills all my life. Our neighborhood is in a li
ttle corner of Dunwoody, a fast-growing suburb just north of Atlanta.
Two-story houses with attics and finished basements and brick walkways, painted in a kaleidoscope of pastel colors—tear drop blue, seafoam green, daffodil yellow or cotton candy pink, all identical in sizes and structure with neatly planted trees that reach toward the sky like emerald hands. Even at the start of October, the lawns are immaculate and evergreen.
It’s a white-picket-fence wet dream.
I glance past the gloss and finish of my neighborhood to watch the last rays of dipping sun from in front of the house belonging to Ballard Hills’ notorious rule-breaker; Mr. Ivanov.
Every holiday, Mr. Ivanov goes to extremes to decorate his front yard. My favorite is his Christmas theme: plastic reindeer and a galaxy of twinkling lights and a giant Santa Claus inside of one of those inflatable snow globes. Robotic elves guard the walkway while a massive sleigh butts up against the edge of his lawn. It’s over the top. It’s also six levels of dope.
Currently, the yard is a sanctuary of Halloween decorations. Cartoonish ghosts swing from a white oak’s limbs. Amid the bushes near the entrance, a strobe light pulses, flickering over a dancing skeleton on the blood-red door. Cotton cobwebs stretch over foliage. It’s off-the-wall and has I-shop-at-Party-City-too-much written all over it. The best part is the collection of hand-carved pumpkins staged along the front steps. Their faces vary from witches to vampires, ghosts, and cats. I can’t get enough of the Frankenstein one.
“Well played, Ivanov.” I grin and hug myself against a rare cool breeze. Georgia’s never cold this time of year.
I’ve never really spoken to Mr. Ivanov. He’s a quiet widower who spends most of his time peeking out from his living room curtains at passersby. He has sleek gray hair, the kind of face that naturally scowls, and owns one too many flannel shirts.
Clover barks at my feet. Right. She has a schedule to keep. All my stalling in awe has delayed things.
“No need to get sassy.”
Clover cocks her head and blinks a few times, another reminder that my humor fails to impress anyone.
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