“Me too.”
I don’t mean it. I like Brook. He’s a senior and swim team captain and cool with the entire planet. None of us were friends with him before the Lucy thing. I mean, yes, he and I had spoken, shared amicable nods in the halls, but nothing else. People automatically assumed we were friends, that we hung in the same church group or after-school programs. There was a mandatory connection in everyone’s minds. Two male black students at Maplewood? Of course, they’re best friends. Why does race automatically equate to instant bonding? Also, why does the same thing happen when it comes to sexuality, and religion, and age? Am I only meant to be friends with other black, gay, or seventeen-year-olds?
“Sup Awesome Squad,” says Brook.
Awesome Squad? Holy hell. If Lucy is the unofficial mom, Brook owns the dad role. His jokes and corniness teeter on the edge of unbearable.
I’m so blinded by Brook’s magical charm that I don’t notice the guy standing next to him until Brook says, “Everyone remembers Ian, right?”
A shaky hand waves, then out comes a voice that’s three-fourths unsure and one-fourth nasal and sweet. “Hello… Awesome Squad?”
I blink a few times, then stare. It’s hard not to.
It’s him. The boy from last night. The boy with the hazel eyes and unforgettable dimple and cute. The boy who might’ve starred last night in a brief, dizzying dream that my right hand vividly remembers.
“Ian!” squeals Chloe.
“The Parkster,” Jayden says, as if he’s one of those stoner skateboard kids. For the record, Jayden falls firmly into that Looks Sexy But Is So Lame category. He was born to be geektastic.
“Wow, welcome back.” Lucy sizes Ian up.
I do the same. Again, it’s impossible not to. Recognition finally kicks in. Ian Park. I vaguely remember him, except, the Ian Park I recall was nothing but round cheeks and long arms with a short torso and a horrible bowl-cut hairstyle that belonged on an eight-year-old, not a sixteen-year-old with a goofy smile.
Now, well… He’s different. Maybe it’s the black-rimmed glasses that slope down his narrow nose? Maybe it’s the hair, which is longer in the front, hanging down to his jawline. It’s almost the color of a moonless sky, but it has the reddish undertones of a total lunar eclipse.
My teeth hold my lower lip in a vice grip.
“How was Cali?” Jayden asks.
Ian mumbles something, bobbing his head.
“Didn’t you move to Irvine?” Chloe asks.
“Arcadia,” replies Ian.
“The asshole didn’t want to come back,” Brook says, laughing. He winds an arm around Ian’s long neck to tug him closer.
My eyes dart to the distinct shape of Ian’s Adam’s apple. The sharp curves of his collarbones peek from beneath a white T-shirt. The Dimple creases his right cheek when his mouth quirks. And then those eyes find me.
“Yeah, so, I’m Remy. I mean, sure, you remember me.” Does he though?
Heat spreads like an infection under my skin but my mouth is on autopilot. “Or maybe you don’t? Because we weren’t friends.” My ears catch fire. “I mean, we weren’t enemies. We just—you know, you’re a year older and I’m like… I wasn’t cool enough. But now I’m so effing cool. Mad cool. They redefined cool when I came around and…”
Out of nowhere, my voice fails. No, it squeaks like the hero dying in a video game. My throat tightens around every vowel and oxygen has stopped reaching my brain. “So, yeah, I’m Remy Cameron.” I try to sit taller, but embarrassment takes me down like a freaking bowling pin. “President of GSA and absolute lame.”
Painfully awkward seconds pass. Our table is silent. It’s as if the entire cafeteria is holding their breath.
Ian stares, eyes glazed.
“Uh…” My beanie is shoved in my locker. I’m not allowed to wear it during school. I feel every imperfect curl as my trembling hand runs over my hair. “Has anyone tried the fresh soft pretzels today?”
“Have you? You probably need something to replace the foot currently occupying your mouth,” whispers Rio.
I want to kick her under the table.
Pinkish flush has taken permanent residence in my cheeks. I hate that it’s so visible. My light skin makes it impossible to hide physical mortification.
“Uh, no,” Brook says, a thick eyebrow raised. “Thanks for the recommendation, though.”
“Sure.”
Choked laughter echoes. I don’t have to raise my eyes to know it’s Sara and the Liu twins—assholes, all of them. Tomorrow, I’m creating a Google sign-up sheet for new lunch companions.
Brook shoots me one more “what’s up with you” look before falling into a conversation with Lucy. A cacophony finally fills the cafeteria again—trays dropping and bantering and a table of choir geeks singing an old Whitney Houston song. A brush of warmth, like the fingertips of a sunrise, skims my back and I start.
It’s Ian.
He leans down close enough to whisper, “I remember you, Remy Cameron.” A mini-grin parts his lips. Then he’s nudging in next to Brook.
I slump in my chair. Okay, good is vibrating against my jaw but it never makes it out of my mouth. It stays there, buzzing against my teeth. And I slowly start to drown in all the discussions happening around me.
Pretending the last five minutes never happened isn’t an option. Right?
4
Ms. Amos is talking. Actual English words are coming out of her mouth, but she might as well be speaking a brand-new alien language. I can’t string together vowels and vocabulary and sentences, which is a shame because AP Lit is my favorite class of the day.
Today, AP Lit is like forty-five minutes of watching Llama Llama reruns.
I’m daydreaming. Specifically, my mind’s replaying Ian’s face on a constant loop, in perfect high-def quality. The clarity is incredible. I picture his pale-gold skin. His scrunched nose and owlish eyes when I barely took a breath while rambling at him. His thick lower lip, the little tweak of his mouth after he whispered to me.
The images fade to fuzziness after a while, like sitting in the first row at a movie theater. One neon thought lights up my mind: Ian’s hot. Every shifting cell in my body is aware of it. Blood rushes to my face—and somewhere beneath my navel too. Then the train derails. No relationships. No boyfriends.
I focus on the front of the classroom. Ms. Amos is pacing. Besides Mr. Riley, she’s my favorite. She wears colorful print blouses with slacks and always has a twitch at the corner of her mouth, as if she’s trying not to smirk at something moronic a student said.
Bonus point: Ms. Amos used to be a lecturer at Emory. On the wall by her desk is a series of framed essays she’s written, photographs of her with famous authors, articles in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
“Let’s talk about our new book.” In her hand, Ms. Amos holds a book with a red cover and weird stick figures. “It’s by Tennessee Williams.”
Ford, a senior football player, clears his throat.
“Wasn’t he gay?”
I swear, Ford is homegrown, southern realness. He’s freckled-face with buzzed blonde hair and electric blue eyes. He has a hard-on for plaid shirts and boots. A future Chick-Fil-A Employee of the Month.
“He was remarkably talented. A legendary playwright. A dedicated brother who loved fiercely.” Ms. Amos’s mouth begins to curl, and she has a glint in her eyes. “And if you’d like to discuss his sex life, then, yes, Mr. Turner, he was gay. I’m sure you can find further reading about that on Wikipedia, if you’re interested.”
A fuzzy melody of coos and snickers echoes in the room.
Ford’s chapped lips curl into a venomous sneer. Lucy would say Ford’s the paragon of assholes. You don’t gain extra points on the SAT for that, but I’d award ten points to the House of Reyes.
“We have a lot to learn from writers of any gender, race, sexua
lity, individuality,” Ms. Amos continues. “One of my favorites is Benjamin Alire Sáenz. A wonderful example of a diverse writer and poet creating classics.”
Our AP Lit classroom faces the main lawn, and the view is unobstructed by trees and foliage. Bright, October sunlight washes across the pride etched into Ms. Amos’s face. I love this part—when she dives headfirst into topics that excite her.
“Gay too, right?” Ford’s chuckle is like a cat choking on kibble.
Ms. Amos narrows her eyes; her mouth is pinched as she waves him off.
Ford and I both sit at the front of the class. Three desks separate us. He leans past Sara to leer at me. “Perfect authors for GSA, right, Remy?”
Another harmonic strum of laughter fills the classroom. None of this is new. Ford’s been a dick since middle school and probably before then. Destiny determined Ford’s douchebag legacy a long, long time ago. His popularity only stretches to the small universe of football jocks without a real brain. No one on the baseball or basketball or swim team respects the guy. I think Chloe only tolerates him because of some loyalty to the pigskin gods.
Ms. Amos drops the book on Ford’s desk. “And what could we learn from you, Mr. Turner?”
“How to pick up girls?”
Sara hisses something. In my blurred peripheral vision, Chloe’s raising her notebook as if she might assault him—death by a Five-Star.
“You think so?” Ms. Amos challenges.
“Haven’t had many complaints before.”
Their exchanges turn into white noise in my ears. I’ve heard this before. Ms. Amos says all the proper, teacherly things. Ford retorts with all the typical dude-bro-sarcasm. It goes nowhere.
Unfortunately, my mind does. Ian, Ian, Ian…
“Hey,” Chloe whispers, and I do my worst attempt at not startling. She says, “You’re daydreaming. Where is your mind hiding?”
“Nowhere. Its favorite place.”
She ruffles my hair. “I doubt that, Remy. Someone like you is always somewhere. Always.”
The bell rings. Sara’s out of her chair first and turns to Chloe. “Let’s go. We can catch Lucy if we hurry.”
Groaning, Chloe grabs her notebook and stands.
Ford hovers over my desk like a thundercloud waiting to unleash a hailstorm. “It was a joke, Remy.” Funny, nothing in his artificial smile says that was humorous.
Chloe punches his shoulder. “You’re gonna be the joke by the end of practice today.”
“Wait, come on—”
“You’re screwed, Turner.”
Like a whipped puppy, Ford follows Chloe and Sara out the door, begging for mercy.
All the rush of escaping class has dissipated. I gather my things slowly—pens, a highlighter, notebook. At the front of the room, Ms. Amos stares at me. She doesn’t say anything.
I pause. “Sorry if I wasn’t like…” I wave a hand around; my mind can’t produce real words. “…here today.”
A hint of forgiveness flashes in her eyes. That doesn’t calm the wave of nausea in my belly. I disappointed Ms. Amos by not being as vocally active in class today. I hate disappointing people I admire. I hate that I might’ve let her down.
“Have a great day, Mr. Cameron.”
“Thanks.”
Once I’m outside, I exhale so heavily, my lungs hurt.
Lucy’s right—Monday’s suck so hard.
* * *
Willow scrambles past me the second I swing open the front door. Her sneakers squeak on the hardwood floor. For the entire drive home, I’ve been trying to figure out her wardrobe choices. I’m on the fence. To match her Princess Leia puffs, she’s wearing a ZAP! comic book-style shirt, a ballerina tutu, and orange and black socks to go with her purple high-tops.
“Mom let you go to school like that?”
She drops her backpack in the hallway. After a quick twirl, she throws a hand over her giggling mouth. Her two bottom front teeth fell out two weeks ago. “Yes!”
“Okaaay,” I sing as she rushes off. Willow is a hell of a lot more confident at seven than I am at seventeen.
I barely have my backpack off before Clover’s charging up to me. I drop to my knees. Clover climbs into my lap for face-licks and sniffing.
“I missed you too.”
Mondays may be awful, but Clover makes up for it. My nose is pressed behind one of her ears. She smells like Dad’s just let her in from the backyard: like grass and that butterscotch-y aroma pine sap gives off. Her fur is still sun-warmed.
And then my nose wrinkles at new scents—acrid, smoky, burnt spices.
“Dad!”
In the kitchen, my dad leans over a charred dish in a metal baking pan. He looks as if he’s mourning over poor Dobby’s dead body.
Small confession: I’ve never actually read the Harry Potter books. But I’ve seen all the movies and all the internet memes, which sort of counts, right? I mean, it’s not full Potterhead status, but I hate long books. This is something we don’t discuss with Lucy—she’s a diehard fan and mostly a Ravenclaw according to the Pottermore sorting quiz she’s taken nineteen times.
Next to Dad’s elbow, the iPad is playing the Food Network. I grab a pear from the copper-wire fruit bowl at the center of the kitchen island, where Dad continues to grieve. I hop onto a bar stool opposite of him. “What is that?”
“According to Ina Garten, it’s a French apple tart.”
I sniff—the sweetness of the apples is altered by scorched crust. Ina’s cheery voice mocks us from the iPad. Her recipes are a death wish for amateur cooks.
My mouth puckers. “Looks like something Clover upchucked after eating Mom’s roast beef.”
“Be quiet,” says Dad with a sideways grin.
I only tease him to keep that look in his blue eyes bright and effervescent. “What have we said about trying to replicate Food Network recipes, Dad?”
Chin lowered, Dad mumbles something back.
“Come again?”
“Not without notifying the local authorities first.”
It’s not that my dad is lacking in skills at the stove. What he does with bread and eggs and sugary toppings is a religious experience. But he’s also under-baked birthday cakes and burnt cobblers and made things that were supposed to resemble pies look like Willow’s soiled diapers.
Thing is, Dad’s constant kitchen experimentation is a result of pure boredom. He’s a stay-at-home tech advisor for a software company. It was easier when Willow was a baby, when Mom had this itch to get back into the wedding business. The decision to relocate his office from a swank downtown Atlanta office building to a back corner of the house was all his. Managing drool and pacifiers and constructing impenetrable baby gates kept him occupied while he waited for the next techno-challenged college brat to accidentally crash their laptop with a virus from watching free porn.
“So,” I say as I wave my pear at the crispy would-be tart, “what’s this about?”
“Uncle Dawson and Aunt Sandra are coming to visit.” He nudges the blackened tart with an oven mitt. “You know your aunt insists on something home-cooked.”
The pear’s skin breaks easily under my teeth. I chuckle and chew at once. Thanksgivings are always a hot mess of bad dishes starring Aunt Sandra’s under-seasoned green beans. The entire Cameron clan is talentless in a kitchen.
“Is Gabriel coming with Uncle Dawson?”
A loose curl rests against Dad’s wrinkled forehead. Our hair is similar, except his curls are smooth, while mine become defiant when I let them get too long.
Maybe it’s because we’re not… Nope. Reel it back in.
“I doubt Gabe wants to suffer through another car ride with Sandra and her Christian rock playlists.”
Pear juices dribble to my chin when my mouth curves up.
Aunt Sandra is one of those church-every-Su
nday-morning southerners, one of those pray before every meal, “God bless you” when you sneeze, can quote Bible scriptures on the fly religious types. It’s not a bad thing. Religion isn’t a bad thing. Even as a kid, I knew having something to believe in was important. A deity, the universe, whatever. But it’s the people who use religion for status and power over others and not for comfort and hope that betray its purpose. Aunt Sandra isn’t holier-than-thou either. I’ve heard her swear at least three times behind the wheel.
“Maybe Gabe can endure?”
Dad laughs. “Your uncle loves Gabe too much to test those waters again.”
He’s right. Gabriel, Uncle Dawson’s partner, is a faithful Catholic who can only handle so much Christian rock. The ninety-minute drive from Athens to Dunwoody is pushing it.
“Dawson will be thrilled to spend time with you,” Dad says. “That is if you’re not too busy being a social surf king.”
I roll my eyes. What even is a social surf king? Thankfully, I didn’t inherit my dad’s sense of humor.
I love Uncle Dawson. He has a history of being amazing. He was the first person to hoist me on his narrow shoulders to celebrate my coming out. It was as if he was doing it for both of us. He was taking his first breath as an openly gay person with me, a moment he didn’t get to have when he came out in his early twenties. I was happy to share.
“I’ll try to make myself available, Dad,” I finally say.
“Good. Are you gonna post about it on your SnapBook, InstaTweet, or whatever?”
“Dad…”
“Let me guess. There’s a rule against notifying the world you’re hanging with family, right?”
“Pretty much.”
We laugh. I love laughing with my dad, love how the depth of his chuckle infects me. Its low rumble manifests way down in Dad’s chest before it springs free like a dolphin cracking the ocean’s surface.
Tossing a dishtowel over the charred dessert, Dad leans on his elbows, his chin against pinkish knuckles, before he asks, “How was school, kiddo?”
My body mirrors his slumped appearance. My muscles put a lazy effort into a shrug. “Another Monday.” It’s the easiest answer. My thoughts still drift like abandoned satellites. In the deepest, darkest parts of my brain, Chloe’s words echo.
How to Be Remy Cameron Page 4
