How to Be Remy Cameron

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How to Be Remy Cameron Page 3

by Julian Winters


  We eat quickly around small conversations. My parents talk about TV shows and pop culture. I swear, they’re determined to be those “cool parents” who can quote movie scenes and recite the lyrics to every bass-heavy, radio-friendly song. It’s funny, but also annoying.

  “So,” I say, chewing casually until my parents look at me. “I’m thinking of getting my lip pierced for my next birthday.”

  I’m not serious. Needles and I are not compatible. When I was ten, I begged my dad for two weeks to get my ears pierced, mainly because two boys in my class had their ears pierced and, hello, everyone thought they were so effing cool. Then, in the chair with that vicious, skin-puncturing, metal piercing gun six inches from my left ear, I started wailing like a kicked cat and sobbed my way through two scoops of strawberry cheesecake ice cream on the way home with my ears fully intact.

  Mom levels me with one of those “not this morning” looks. “And on October second of next year, I’m thinking of taking away your car, grounding you until after college, and making you wear overalls everywhere.”

  My birthday is October first. Rio always makes a big deal about that. “First of the month, first born, first place loser since the first day you met me.”

  “Mom! Where’s the democracy?”

  “Oh, honey, there’s no such thing. Ask all the rich, corrupt politicians.”

  I pucker my lips, but I don’t have a solid response. I might have to revoke her badass status, though.

  After breakfast, Mom pours her second cup of coffee into a stainless-steel travel mug. “Willow, let’s suit up. I have to get you to school and meet up with the future Mr. and Mrs. Gleeson about a venue.”

  “Almost done, Mommy!”

  There’s an unwritten rule about Willow. She’s incapable of doing anything productive in the morning until she finishes pretending to read the comics. Even Mr. Whitaker, her first-grade teacher, knows it.

  I sneak Clover a slice of burnt bacon, but her crunching almost gives us away.

  Thank god, Dad clears his throat. “Are they still looking for one of those historically romantic themes?”

  “An evening under a blanket of stars and the words of Emily Bronte.” Mom’s fake, dreamy sigh signifies her disinterest. This is the same woman who dances to lame ’80s music with her husband.

  “My kind of party.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be attending, Max?”

  “Not on your life, Abby.”

  My parents laugh together. It’s synchronized and corny and so them. I scoop up my plate, deposit it in the sink, then dodge my jumpy little sister to get to my backpack and beanie. I pocket my phone and keys.

  “Hey,” calls Mom before I get too far, “don’t forget you’re picking Willow up from school today. No chillaxing with Lucy and Rio.”

  The squeak of my shoes echoes on the hardwood floor as I spin around. “Mom,” I say, sighing, “I take back that badass title. You’ve been demoted.”

  “To what?”

  “A basic, wannabe hipster.”

  “Score!” Dad curls an arm around her noticeably tight shoulders. “At the bottom of the uncool chain with me, where you belong.”

  Mom’s lips are pursed. I don’t have time to humor her. I’m already late. I drop a quick kiss on the top of Willow’s head before jogging for the door. If I’m lucky, I’ll make it to school before the first bell.

  3

  “You are the paragon of lame, Remy Cameron.”

  I’m still not fully functioning. It’s not ten a.m., I haven’t had any caffeine, and it’s a Monday. Everything in my brain is haze and mist while I yank my unnecessarily thick anatomy textbook from my locker, shove my bookbag in its place, and eagerly turn around. It’s hard to be anything but giddy when Lucy Reyes is in front of you.

  Dramatically academic insults aside, Lucy is one of my favorite sights in the morning, especially Monday mornings. She’s always busy on weekends and I miss her large, rich-brown eyes. I miss the way her inky black hair falls around her face in this ethereal-but-badass-villain kind of way, and the way she always smirks as though she’s got your number and is ready to call you on it.

  Lucy’s the living, breathing definition of cool as she manages to angle her skateboard into the locker four doors down from mine. It’s not even supposed to be her locker. Our assigned lockers had us on different ends of the hall, but at the beginning of the semester, Lucy used her ultimate killer instinct to gamble Luke Henderson out of this one in a game of cutthroat Spades. Card games and Lucy are a hazardous combination.

  I sigh at her. “SAT Prep words before nine a.m.? Uncalled for.”

  Lucy flashes that trademark quirk of her lips. “I spent my weekend preparing.”

  Yeah, I’m aware. Lucy has nothing against social politics and Saturdays chugging iced macchiatos, but weekends are for the books. Studying is her priority. Lucy’s one goal is getting into a highly-respected university—Ivy League if she can. It’s not that I don’t value her choices. I just miss my best friend on weekends, when we’re not weighed down with homework or trying to stand out in the traffic jam of students clogging up Maplewood’s hallways.

  “That’s beside the point,” says Lucy, waving a dismissive hand. “Rio says you’re not going to the homecoming dance.”

  I mumble, “Traitor,” while tugging down my beanie.

  It’s my own fault. Secrets never last long between us. Not that time Rio stole my Scooby-Doo fruit snacks in fifth grade. When I split my pants in sixth grade. Rio’s brief crush on our freshman math teacher, Mr. Nichols. Lucy’s dad picking up in the middle of the night and leaving.

  Sometimes, sharing is important. However, this isn’t one of those rare moments.

  I shrug lazily. “I’m not going.”

  “Yes, you are.” Lucy’s mouth pinches; her eyebrows lower. It’s scary. She could easily star in a horror franchise with those eyes.

  “Not happening, Lucy.”

  “It wasn’t optional. Or shall I remind you…” A grin splits my face when Lucy launches into her Class President speech. I have to be real—it’s all kinds of phenomenal. Maybe because Rio and I helped her perfect it.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Lucy huffs, arms folded. I’m not bothered by her dramatics. I shoulder my locker closed. A fleet of freshmen scampers past us when the bell rings. Bunch of rookies. They’re all probably still trying to figure out the lay of the land: which hallways to cut down to get to class on time, how to avoid the mob of foot traffic on the east wing stairs.

  “Is this about—”

  “No,” I hiss, cutting Lucy off. I look around; this stinging heat spreading through my ears. “It’s not.” I can’t say anything else. I hate how Lucy and Rio talk around the one subject I never want to discuss.

  My eyes prickle with hot dampness, blurring my vision.

  Lucy pins me with a stare. “You’re deflecting.”

  “Is that your professional opinion?”

  Lucy can roll her eyes all she wants, but we know she’s the “mom” of our trio. It’d be hard for her not to be. She’s the oldest of four children of a single mother who works all the time.

  “You’re the embodiment of lameness, Remy Cameron,” she says, tossing an arm around my shoulder.

  We walk to class like that, not saying what’s really on our minds.

  The only reason I survive the first half of the day is that Jayden graciously slips me a can of Red Bull in homeroom. Oh, and the spike of adrenaline I experience in world history after Mrs. Thompson threatens us with a pop quiz three minutes into class. It never happens. Mrs. Thompson makes Bellatrix Lestrange from Harry Potter seem tame. A lot of Maplewood students—and faculty—will be thrilled when she finally retires, by choice or by force.

  Mercifully, lunch is right after world history. Our table of friends is the holiest random
group of students ever. It’s as if someone took a handful of Skittles, M&M’s, and SweeTarts, shook them up in a bag, and then tossed them on a table. We’re a motley collection like that movie Dad loves, The Breakfast Club, except there are nine of us at a long table close to one of the main doors but farthest from the lunch line. We’re cool, I guess. Maybe subjectively?

  I don’t care. I honestly love this bunch of weirdos.

  I love being squished between Rio and Lucy and tossing super-greasy tater tots into Jayden’s waiting mouth. I love how his girlfriend, Chloe Parker, has one arm tucked around his shoulders while she talks about last Friday night’s game. I could care less about football, but she’s the school’s quarterback—Maplewood’s first-ever female quarterback, actually—so I listen anyway.

  “Oh, tell us more,” deadpans Jayden.

  “Shut up, dork.”

  Jayden’s head tips back, and he laughs. “I hear about this stuff all the time.”

  “Um, hello.” Chloe arches an eyebrow. “You’re a cheerleader. And my boyfriend. Be supportive, okay?”

  Jayden smacks a loud kiss on the cluster of freckles along Chloe’s cheek. She’s not easily embarrassed, not like me, but, when Jayden pulls back, pink blossoms across the bridge of her nose. She turns to tell Lucy something.

  Yeah, they’re that couple, like my parents. It’s the quarterback and the cheerleader. If I hadn’t known them both since middle school, I’d probably find their relationship ridiculously gross. It is, some days, but I’m willing to tolerate it for the sake of friendship.

  Also, I was probably just as bad with… Not going there, a tiny voice in my mind says.

  “Oh my god, don’t record me eating,” groans Rio, holding a hand over her mouth.

  “This is for official business.”

  “Instagram is officially bullshit.” Rio crumbles a napkin and tosses it at Alex.

  Alex and Zac Liu document everything on their phones. They’re hardcore social media junkies. Technically, they’re not supposed to have their phones out but have been granted special permission from Principal Moon as co-managers of The Leaf. I swear that blog is just a circle of hell where students rant about sports, the weather, their least favorite teachers, and whatever other useless crap they can get away with.

  All the serious posts come from Rio. She’s the only one with the guts to dig into Maplewood’s dark side. Not that a place like Maplewood has some seedy underbelly of shame and crime and sex scandals. I mean, she’s not blogging about what—or who—went down at Andrew Cowen’s last party. The most illegal thing going on around the halls is students buying weed from Alex and Zac.

  “Newsflash,” says Lucy, slouching low enough to rest her head on my shoulder, “Mondays suck the hardest. I’m already tired.”

  I prop my chin on her head.

  “Too much overachieving is detrimental to a teen,” says Jayden.

  Lucy flips him off.

  “Oh my god, stop with all the advanced-placement terms,” I groan.

  “Says the nerd in AP Lit.” Rio snorts.

  “Hey,” I retort, waving a ketchup packet in her face, “We both know I’m taking this course to get into Emory. Any other AP class would’ve been a total failure of our educational system. There’s no way I should be in advanced anything.”

  “I concur,” Sara says.

  Sara Awad is exceptionally gifted with her sarcasm. I’m jealous of that talent. I’m also jealous of how she’s always so well put together. Perfect eyeliner frames wide, sparkling brown eyes. A long nose and sharp cheekbones contrast with crescent-moon dimples and rare sightings of acne. Today, her pale-rose hijab juxtaposes perfectly with her light-blue top, like the beginning of a sunset against a late-summer sky.

  “Thanks, Sara,” I say.

  “I’m always here to validate your basicness.”

  Damn, she’s good.

  I haven’t known Sara as long as Rio, Lucy, Jayden or Chloe. She came as a package-deal with the Liu twins. She’s not an asshole, just guarded. I guess we all are. We’re not consciously trying to be this table of Diversity Rocks in Maplewood’s ocean of suburban realness. Maybe a hint of solidarity brought us together? Maybe it’s because we mesh well.

  I mean, it’s not as if a giant sign over us says, “Sit here if you’re anything other than Insert Stereotypical Teen!” There are plenty of other kids—from all kinds of backgrounds and races—that sit elsewhere. We fit together because we like each other, not because we fill the Check Other category.

  Sara cocks her head at Lucy. “You look pretty good for a zombie.”

  “Thanks.” Lucy winks, popping a tater tot in her mouth.

  Sara drops her chin; her cheeks are slightly red. I think I’m the only one who notices. I’m also confident that I’m the only one who knows Sara’s secret.

  She has a crush on Lucy.

  That’s the other reason Sara sits with us at lunch, why she’s the first one to our table every day, always positioning herself right across from Lucy. She claims it’s because she brings her lunch from home since everything served in the cafeteria is harmful and processed and against her family’s beliefs. Some of that is true. Most of it is bullshit.

  It’s Lucy, plain and simple. Almost every student at Maplewood with good eyes and hyperactive hormones has a crush on Lucy. But Sara’s crush is different. I can’t figure out how. I just know, just as I know Zac is possibly gay or bi or curious. That was a little easier to detect. Zac had this familiar look in his eyes any time he watched Dimi and me holding hands or kissing or teasing each other. It’s the same look I have whenever I watch a Zayn Malik video on YouTube. That longing, I-have-a-boner-for-this look.

  “I miss Mr. Riley’s bio class,” says Alex. It’s easier to tell them apart, now that Zac has these adorable, rectangular-frame eyeglasses and Alex, for whatever reason, has dyed the tips of his spiky hair electric blue. “Best naps ever.”

  “You slept through biology?” Chloe asks.

  “Who didn’t?”

  “Um, hello.” I raise a hand, waving it in front of Alex’s pinched face. “Mr. Riley is the coolest!”

  “You’re required to say that.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are,” Alex and Zac say together. Freaky twin assholes.

  Sara reaches across the table and pats my hand. “As GSA president, you’re contractually-bound to speak positively about Mr. Riley.”

  Frowning, I pull my hand back. Yes, Mr. Riley is the faculty advisor to GSA, but that has zero weight on my opinion. He’s one of those teachers you can’t help but like. He tells the worst jokes, dresses like a recent college graduate applying for his first real job and talks to students like people instead of this colony of ants marching toward their demise.

  But, for whatever reason, these conversations always lead back to me being the loud-and-proud leader of the New Gay Millennium. It’s as if coming out at fourteen defined my destiny from then on. Hey, there’s Remy Cameron, the Chosen Gay One, as if I’m Harry Potter, except, instead of the cool scar and endless sexual tension with Draco, I was given a rainbow patch and all these expectations. I’m pretty sure other students came out before me. Maybe they weren’t as vocal, but they existed.

  Glaring at my tater tots, I mumble, “He’s still cool.”

  “So,” Rio starts, her voice has that tone she gets when she’s peeved but slightly protective. “Are we done talking about the living legend that is Mr. Riley? Because I, for one, want to talk about the Mad Tagger.”

  I sag next to her. Rio is top-notch at subject changes.

  “I’m working on this story—”

  “Pending approval,” Zac points out.

  Rio cuts her eyes just enough to shut Zac up. “I’m working on this story,” she repeats, firmer, “for The Leaf. Whoever the Tagger is, a lot of drama is gonna go down when he’s caugh
t.”

  A few nods and mumbles break out around the table. We’re all in our own thoughts about it.

  To me, it’s not that serious. The Mad Tagger is simply someone having fun with art and graffiti across Maplewood’s campus. It started at the beginning of the school year: nothing big, spray paint on sidewalks, chalk on brick walls, loopy writing in silver Sharpie over old posters. It’s usually Alice in Wonderland-related content—hence the Mad Tagger name. It’s harmless but kind of wicked stuff.

  No one knows who the Mad Tagger is. A student? A teacher? An angry alum? It’s this mystery that keeps building and building. I stopped chasing clues a month ago, but Rio’s obsessed.

  “I love his art,” says Jayden. Amused crinkles form around his eyes. They’re as clear blue as an afternoon sky.

  “It’s a complete waste of time.” Chloe sighs. “Whoever it is could be doing something positive for the school. Start a club. Join a sport. Something legal.”

  “Spoken like a true jock and a detective’s daughter,” teases Jayden.

  Scowling, Chloe punches his shoulder.

  “I dunno,” Lucy says, sitting up again. Her hair falls over one side of her face, but she pushes it back. “Brook likes it.”

  Of course, he does. I barely hold down a laugh. Lucy and Brook are another of Maplewood’s premiere couples.

  And, on cue, in walks the tallest, coolest, happiest dude ever. The electric-shock of fluorescent lighting in the cafeteria refuses to do this guy justice. Brooklyn Henry should be on the cover of Italian Vogue with his classic swimmer’s build, all broad shoulders and seriously narrow waistline. Defined muscles show under his clothes. He has large hands and toned legs and smooth, umber-brown skin.

  Brook waves, then stares at Lucy. His smile is always half-cocked when he looks at her. It’s as if she’s the moon—no, as if Lucy’s a freaking gathering of stars at the edge of the universe.

  Rio nudges me. “I think I’m gonna barf.”

 

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