How to Be Remy Cameron

by Julian Winters

  Someone like you is always somewhere.

  Someone like me. What does that mean? Someone gay? Someone whose sexuality will always be the punchline of stupid jokes from assholes like Ford? I can take the heat. Coming out at fourteen was scary and heavy and exhausting, but that was three years ago. I’ve adjusted. Plus, being queer is freaking boss.

  “Kiddo?”

  I blink at my dad. My jaw moves with nothing coming out.

  Willow comes running in, yelping and sparing me additional fatherly questioning. Bert swings from one small hand as Willow leaps into Dad’s open arms. They twirl and giggle.

  “Well, hello there! How was your day?” Dad asks.

  Willow rambles excitedly.

  Chin propped on my knuckles, I watch. Dad’s energy carries a different kind of charge when it comes to Willow: a Ferris wheel’s lights against a blue-black blanket of night’s sky, neon signs hung in dimly lit restaurants.

  The differences between Willow and I are slight. We both laugh as though helium fills our lungs. We love cartoons when we’re sick. Mom swears the only time we didn’t cry as infants is when she’d sing to us. And photo evidence proves Dad had no clue how to put a onesie on either of us or how to brush our hair so it didn’t stick up the wrong way.

  But Willow has Mom’s strawberry blonde hair. Dad’s wide, earnest eyes. Her smile is a charming mix of theirs. I don’t have any of that. Denim-blue eyes, light-brown skin, and thick eyebrows don’t match my parents’ features.

  I stand. “I’m gonna take Clover for a walk.”

  Clover’s so smart. One word and she’s scampering into the kitchen, tail wagging. She’s an adorable manipulator.

  “Kind of early, isn’t it?”

  I shrug. “Maybe she’s taking me for a walk.”

  “Maybe, kiddo.”

  “Maybe.”

  Dad returns to fawning over Willow and her wild stories about beating some snotty-nosed boy at a swinging contest during recess.

  I click on Clover’s leash. She leads me out the door.

  Lilac skies greet us, stretching toward infinity with pinkish clouds swimming lazily. Early evening heat curls around me. Pinprick beads of sweat tickle my hairline. Ballard Hills is easing into a peaceful hideaway of minivans and sedans finding their homes in driveways.

  Clover waddles like the queen of the neighborhood.

  “Have you come to greet your loyal subjects?” I say to her.

  Clover ignores me when a red car zooms by.

  Before Willow, it was just me, loud, anxious, adopted Remy Cameron. Doctors told my mom she couldn’t have children. I don’t know the medical term, maybe because I never asked, but whatever it was meant my parents found me. I didn’t need to know why my mom couldn’t have children, not after I was seven, when they explained what adoption meant. Maybe that’s because I had so many other questions: Why did that lady give us a funny look at the grocery store? Why do kids at school say I’m not yours? Why do I color pictures of us with different crayons?

  Then, unexpectedly, my sister came along. No one explained that to me. Willow was a freaking, right-from-the-Bible phenomenon. My parents had their very own miracle, and I felt like a bookmark, a placeholder. It was a sad, heavy thought for a ten-year-old. But then I’d catch Dad smiling at me over a plate of French toast. Mom would ruffle my hair with one hand while cradling Willow. I’d always get the first gift at Christmas because, according to Dad, “You’re the firstborn, so you go first.”

  Firstborn. I’m their first child. I don’t know, but my smile is always cheek-achingly big at that thought.

  Clover takes us down the usual route to Maplewood Middle, where she does her business; over the freshly clean sidewalk where the Mad Tagger imitator’s work has disappeared; around the corner, as if she’s chasing the slowly setting sun. It’s my favorite time of day—when the neighborhood is my own personal Narnia fenced by towering trees and rows of pastel homes. And my mind settles.

  I feel normal again.

  I feel like Remy Cameron.

  5

  “He struck again!”

  I’m at my locker switching books between classes when Rio walks up, all rosy cheeks and owlish eyes. I hum nonchalantly at her. I can tell she’s about to burst with whatever gossip has her bouncing from foot to foot, but I stall. My fingers hover over a pack of Reese’s peanut butter cups. Snacks are a must to survive third period.

  Finally, I turn to her. “Who?”

  “The Mad Tagger, duh!”

  Today, Rio’s theatrics are Tony-worthy.

  I nudge my locker closed, then lean against it. “What makes you think it’s a ‘he’?”

  “Poor penmanship.”

  “That’s gender-profiling and a little rank, don’t you think?” I ask, my left eyebrow arched. “You have a second-grader’s penmanship.”

  “That’s irrelevant evidence.” Her dismissive hand flaps in front of my face.

  “Evidence?” With my teeth, I tear into the orange Reese’s wrapper that’s preventing me from enjoying a mouthful of epicness. “What is this, Law and Order: Maplewood High?”

  “This is a criminal case.”

  “Your outfit is a criminal case.” Slowly, I size her up. “What’re you wearing?”

  Rio’s jacket has rose patterns spewed all over it. Underneath, she’s wearing a cream blouse with a crooked red bowtie. It fails to go well with her high-waisted jeans and a pair of red flats that look right out of a high school production of the Wizard of Oz.

  “It’s called fashion.” Rio rolls her eyes.

  “It’s called my dead grandmother’s living room couch.”

  “Let’s keep it real.” Rio pokes a thick finger into my shoulder. It hurts. Unfortunately, I’m more bone than muscle. She says, “You’re not exactly Mr. Trendsetter Maplewood High.”

  A scandalized noise escapes my throat.

  “How many times have you worn that shirt this month?”

  I wrinkle my nose at her.

  Full disclosure: This is my favorite shirt. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my baseball tee, with its red sleeves and WE ARE EVERYWHERE printed across my chest in rainbow lettering. It’s cool as eff. Yes, I might’ve worn it last Wednesday, probably the Monday before that, and enough times during the summer that my mom hid it from me so she could wash it. Now it’s soft and slightly faded and still mega-queer.

  “Shut up,” I say with no heat.

  Before Rio’s painfully obvious retort breaks her pursed lips, the bell rings.

  Jayden runs by. Even in a rush, his chestnut hair stands perfectly still in a cool pompadour. “Head ups!” he yells over his shoulder, “Sara is looking for you. Serious business.”

  I sag against my locker. If it involves Sara Awad, it’s either about a social event or Lucy.

  Rio nudges me with her hip. “Yuck. You stink of popularity.”

  “You do too.”

  “Only by association, my little social pixie.”

  We follow the flow of bodies to the east wing. It’s not overcrowded today, but the hallways reek of cheap deodorant and perfume that’s supposed to smell like jasmine but reminds me of drugstore candles.

  I’m halfway to class, to breathable air, when someone brushes my left side. My body reacts immediately: muscles charged like the aftershock of lightning, pulse fuzzy like footsteps in a heavy snowfall, skin numb like after an overdose of Novocain. I smell only the expensive body spray, like crisp leaves before they change colors, like a love sampled but never savored, that I desperately miss.

  Dimi walks with a small pack of soccer teammates marching behind. His laugh crawls under my skin, warm and strident.

  I can’t move. Wait, that’s a lie. My shoulders pull forward, my chest sinks, as if I can hide in the middle of the hall. My heart beats and thumps and cracks against my rib
s like a rioting thunderstorm.

  He doesn’t even notice me.

  “Are you okay?” Rio’s gripping my elbow with her thumb in the crook as if she’s testing my pulse.

  “Yeah,” I manage to get out despite a heavy tongue. “No biggie.”

  Rio’s a true friend. She nods and doesn’t make a single comment about how pale I am, how my breaths are irregular.

  “We’ll talk about this Mad Tagger business later.”

  “Sure,” I reply, an obvious lie.

  She doesn’t comment on that either. Only a glimmer of annoyance passes through her eyes, then disappears. “He’s a nobody,” she whispers.

  I count backwards from ten, a little trick Mom taught me when I used to get off rollercoasters with clenched fists and blurred vision. Then I say, “Relationships are for losers.”

  It’s a shame that I’m the biggest loser to ever lose.

  I’m in danger.

  It prickles hotly up the back of my neck, tingles in my fingertips. I pretend today’s lunch of questionably authentic chicken fajitas are a lot more appetizing than they taste. I watch Principal Moon scold a freshman for texting during school hours. But disaster is looming, and it comes in the form of Sara when she plops down at our table. I haven’t been avoiding her—much. It’s not as if we share any classes outside of AP Lit. Sara is a borderline super-genius and I’m an average student. Very average.

  “Nice shirt,” says Sara, civilly.

  I pause mid-sip from my peach soda, carbonation bubbling on my tongue, then look around. Jayden is curled in on himself, laughing. Chloe’s red-faced, demolishing her second Capri-Sun pouch. Zac, animated hands and all, is leading the discussion about whatever MTV teen saga was on last night. I’m not keeping score.

  Sara’s staring from across the table. Okay, so she is talking to me—perfect.

  It’s not that Sara and I aren’t friends. We are, on some level. It’s just that all our conversations depend on someone else starting them. Then we chime in, agree or disagree. Our social interaction hinges on a third party initiating what we’re too awkward—or indifferent—to do ourselves.

  After a swallow, I say, “Thanks?” Usually I’d be proud to show off my wardrobe—it’s kind of my thing—but this feels like a trap. Compliments are the bait.

  “New?”

  Rio guffaws.

  “No.” I squint at Sara. The ruthless fluorescent light gleams off her ceramic braces. Her plastic grin is the lure. Mouth twisted, I say, “What is—”

  “So,” interrupts Sara, elbows on the table, hands bridged for her chin to rest on, “when is the next GSA meeting?”

  “Monday.”

  “Monday?”

  I nod slowly, waiting for her to reel me in. Then, I add, “We welcome new members promptly at four if you’d like to…?”

  Sara answers with a middle finger. We exchange glares—fireworks and lightning and nuclear bomb explosions. It was a foul thing to say, to be honest. I’d never intentionally out anyone, not that I know anything about Sara’s sexuality. That’s not the mission of GSA. It’s not on my agenda either.

  “Perfect,” says Sara with a forced grin. “The homecoming committee and I would love to drop by.”

  “Homecoming committee?”

  This is why I suck at games like Monopoly. I lack strategic skills. I’m not cutthroat. I’m the first person to buy all four railroads and Mediterranean and Baltic Avenues. I’m bankrupt and in jail after my fourth roll of the dice.

  “What for?” I ask, biting into my fajita. My earlier assessment that lunch was anything resembling edible was incorrect. I chug half my soda just to get it down.

  “I have my reasons,” replies Sara.

  “Such as?”

  “I’d love to see more diversity in this year’s events. True representation from all aspects of our school.” Though it sounds as if it’s borrowed from an ad for “It Gets Better,” Sara’s calculated speech seems almost genuine. She leans closer. “Maybe we could get a few members to run for homecoming court?”

  Ignoring the hint in her voice, I poke at the imitation fajita. Is she referring to me as Homecoming Prince? Because, if so—no way.

  “Come by if you want.”

  A hint of sadness tugs at the corners of Sara’s mouth, tightening the creases around her eyes. Then it’s gone as swiftly as it came, and she’s steely, confident, no-bullshit Sara again. She turns away to start a new topic with Zac and Alex.

  I shrug it off. It’s one of those “no hard feelings” things Sara and I do. We orbit in the same galaxy, just around different planets.

  At the other end of our table, Brook has one arm lazily slung around Lucy’s shoulders. Limp, ketchup-covered fries are hovering near his mouth, but he’s busy chuckling at something Jayden’s said.

  Next to him is Ian.

  Facts: Maplewood is filled with cute guys. Nerdy types, jocks, the I-know-I-am-but-pretend-not-to-be cute types. They’re everywhere. And the struggle is real because they’re not guys like me. I do my damnedest not to bring any extra unwanted attention to that fact that I’m gay. That means no ogling other guys, especially if they’re potentially straight.

  But my eyes can’t help noticing Ian. He’s his own category of cute, a to-be-named category. His glasses never sit perfectly on his nose. His skin still has leftover bronze from summer and California sun. Today, he’s wearing a denim jacket, unbuttoned to reveal some unrecognizable anime character on his T-shirt.

  I only know maybe five anime characters. Lucy is the high authority on those things. But I’m so focused on his shirt, I’m startled to find him staring back at me. It’s warming like midafternoon sun across downtown Atlanta. It pushes into my skin like confident fingertips, playing my nerves like a perfectly-tuned piano.

  “Yeah. So. Nice shirt.” It comes out so bad. My tongue is stone-heavy behind my teeth. What a perfect time for our table to go dead-silent!

  Ian’s eyes lower. “Thanks.”

  “Oh, shit,” says Lucy, hand flying to her mouth. “Victor Nikiforov from Yuri!!! On Ice. Sick.”

  “Language, Ms. Reyes,” Mr. Riley says, loftily, as he passes. He’s usually cool about students swearing, but also spectacularly good at putting on a show when authorities like Principal Moon are around.

  She’s in a corner of the cafeteria, watching over us like a high-fashion jail warden.

  Cheeks pinking, Lucy turns back to Ian. “Dude, you’re into Y-O-I?”

  “Who isn’t into YOI?”

  Hello, me! YOI? I don’t know if they’re still talking about anime or a communicable disease.

  “Jesus Christ, no. No, no, no,” protests Brook. He jerks a thumb in Lucy’s direction, then says, “You better not be writing fanfiction like this one. It’s not cool.”

  “You wouldn’t know cool if it slapped you,” Lucy argues.

  “It’s not you.”

  “Shut up.” Lucy’s hardcore smiling. That girl is so far gone for Brook, it’s wild.

  Ian and Lucy start talking about anime and characters and fanfics like two long-lost friends. Lucy Reyes, president of the Anime Club, all-around legend when it comes to being smooth and confident around others. These are two things on the Things Remy Is Not list.

  I glare at my fajita. My stomach shrinks. Death by Inedible Lunch Scum is a gnarly way to end this midday misery.

  6

  Ms. Amos is leaning against her desk. Her mouth is twisted into a dramatic smile, one far too smug for any high school teacher. It’s unfair. With the swipe of her red pen, she can change our academic futures—seriously, it’s probably one of those inexpensive ones from Target. She shouldn’t be given the right to torture us with silence and deep stares and awkwardness at the beginning of class.

  “I’ve made a decision,” she finally says.

  Someone mumbles, �
�Retirement,” coughing into his hand.

  No one laughs.

  Andrew Cowen is a senior, Brook’s teammate, and hosts the ghost of a failed sitcom-dad in his scrawny, six-foot body. He and Ford share a special throne in Douchebag Hell.

  “I guess you’ll find out next year when you repeat my class, Mr. Cowen?” retorts Ms. Amos. Andrew slumping in his chair only broadens Ms. Amos’s grin. “Thanks to Mr. Turner’s colorful excitement over tapping into the works of Tennessee Williams, I’ve decided to move up an assignment I was saving for after the Thanksgiving break.”

  A symphony of sighs and groans unites everyone, including me.

  Screw you, Ford Turner.

  “Please.” Ms. Amos cocks a hip and winks. “Contain your glee.”

  I thump my forehead against my notebook. Jesus. The last thing I need is more work in a class I’m barely passing.

  “You’ll be composing an essay. A very personal essay.” Ms. Amos crosses to the other side of the room. “The subject is simple: ‘Who am I?’ Write a thought-provoking—and, yes, I realize that’ll be terribly hard for you, Mr. Turner—essay about who you are. What defines you?”

  Ford sniffs, chin cocked.

  Ms. Amos walks back to her desk. “Are you defined by your race? Religion? By your music tastes?”

  A student with a choppy haircut and a questionable face-piercing throws up devil horns and starts headbanging. Behind me, Chloe snorts.

  “Are you defined by your privilege?” Ms. Amos stops in front of Ford’s desk.

  “Since I’m privileged enough to take your class, I guess not,” replies Ford.

  Ms. Amos ignores him and steps over to Chloe’s desk. “Are you defined by your strength?” Then, to Sara, “Are you defined by your family’s history? Your clothes?”

  A painful lurch, like the aftershock of an earthquake, moves through my chest when Ms. Amos stops at my desk. “By your name?” To the room, she asks, “By your sexuality?”

  From the back of the class, a jock says, “Well, Remy might be.”