How to Be Remy Cameron

by Julian Winters

  How very unoriginal. It’s as if I can see these things coming, these ridiculous, homophobic jokes that I know will always follow me. But I can’t ever predict how my body will react. Will I tighten up in anger? Will I freeze up in fear? Will I blush with embarrassment?

  Ms. Amos, unentertained, folds her arms across her chest. “Are you defined by how many days you’ll spend reviewing your life choices after being expelled for bullying? You remember our zero tolerance policy, correct, Terrance?”

  Silence blankets the room. If only it was quieter behind my ribs.

  “Take this assignment seriously. It’s worth thirty percent of your grade,” Ms. Amos announces.

  “That’s basically pass or fail,” Ford says, choking, as his freckled face goes blotchy red.

  Ms. Amos nods; the corners of her mouth curl more deeply. “All essays must be typed, double-spaced, and submitted to me the week before Thanksgiving break.” She’s back at her desk, leaning. She’s short, five-foot-nothing; her feet swing, and the toes of her shoes skim the floor. “Also, there’ll be oral presentations of your essays.”

  In my peripheral vision, I spot Ford discreetly poking his tongue into his cheek. Of course. He’s imitating a blowjob. Talent like that will look good on his college applications.

  Behind him, Hiro Itō hisses, “Knock it off.”

  Ford sniffs.

  Hiro gives me a small shrug. He’s a senior and super popular in the gamer crowd. I suck at video games; I’ve got no true hand-eye coordination skills. But Hiro and I have a silent respect for each other. We share a singular passion: disdain for bottom-feeders like Ford.

  “You can use any art medium you want for presentations: music, photographs, visual media, PowerPoint, whatever.” Ms. Amos’s relaxed shoulders expand. Pointedly, she says, “Help us understand who you are.”

  The class is filled with mumbling. A few students are furiously taking notes. Sara’s rubbing her temples. Yeah, my brain is ready to skydive right out of my skull.

  When Ms. Amos returns to rambling about Tennessee Williams, I slump so far down in my chair, I nearly split my chin on the desk. This. Is. Perfect. An entire essay on who I am. Essays aren’t among my favorite things. I was banking on studying extremely hard for the final exam to pass.

  I need this class to boost my application for Emory. Average student and GSA President aren’t enough. AP Literature is my golden ticket. Ms. Amos’s affiliation to Emory is the key that unlocks the gates. But an essay that determines my final grade?

  I’m freaking doomed.

  * * *

  After school, Maplewood High’s student parking lot is like a scene out of an apocalyptic film, one of those gorgeously shot movies starring kids from Disney Channel spinoffs. The suburbs of Dunwoody are too pretty for George Miller-style adaptations.

  Tucked under a blanket of pale-blue sky, the gray of the parking lot is broken up by bright yellow parking lines and sparse clumps of green grass that lead to the woods nearby. The only cars left belong to sporty students or band geeks or detention-dwellers—and slackers like me.

  Curbside, Lucy’s next to me; our asses are numb from sitting so long. The late afternoon sun stretches its golden paws over the far side of the cracked pavement. The sweet afterglow of midday heat lingers. Georgia in the fall is a different kind of beast. It’s humid and thick and sweaty as if it were still June, and at the same time the air still tastes a little like September: sweet-tart McIntosh apples and spicy butternut squash.

  As if reading my mind, Lucy says, “The Gwinnett County Fair.”

  I hum contently.

  We share a look that says we already miss sharing funnel cakes with Rio, with our mouths covered in powdered sugar, on a cool September evening.

  In the distance, I can hear the marching band: snare drums and trumpets and that swell from the brass section. They’re trying something new, a cover of a Gorillaz song. It’s sick. My foot taps against the ground with the drumline.

  The first big pep rally of the year is Friday. My anticipation is high.

  Sneakers pound against the ground. The cross-country team trots by. They all wear tiny athletic shorts and loose shirts. I hide my grin in the crook of my elbow. Some of the guys are just—I don’t know—something about sweaty hair and tinted cheeks, focused eyes and syncopated breaths.

  I cross my legs, hoping no one notices the little twitch in my jeans.

  Lucy whistles. “Hot.”

  Infinitely embarrassed, I elbow her.

  “You don’t think so?”

  “What? No.”

  “Liar.”

  “Whatever,” I mumble, shaking my head.

  Lucy returns to coloring the toe of her Converse with a red Sharpie.

  My phone sits on the sliver of asphalt between us. I have one earbud in. POP ETC pumps into my veins. “Backwards World” comes on and I think, How appropriate.

  Across the lawn, to our left, I spot Silver ducking behind the main building. No doubt he’s headed to have a cigarette out of teachers’ view.

  Silver is a mystery, an undiscovered planet. He’s a quiet loner, unlike his older sister, Darcy, who is Maplewood High’s resident religious dictator. Popular and sparkly and influential, she’s president of the Godly Teens First Organization. Yep, GTFO. I don’t know why no one’s voted that name off the island yet.

  Silver’s real name isn’t Silver. It’s a nickname other kids gave him for his pale-blond hair, stormy eyes, and nimbus-cloud skin tone. I’ve never said much to him though we’re both juniors. Something about Silver seems untouchable. Students adore him for his looks but fear him for his silence.

  Watching Lucy from the corner of my vision, I bite my thumbnail. “What do you wanna be when you grow up?” I hate that phrase: “When you grow up.” I’m seventeen, a quarter-inch short of six-foot-one and have a long-standing love affair with cold-brewed coffee. I’m probably not growing anymore, not physically. I’m cool with that. But Ms. Amos’s essay has me on edge.

  “Grow up?”

  “Yeah. Grow up,” I repeat.

  Lucy’s lips twist into a smile. “You mean once you get past this immature dickhead phase.”

  “Is it really a phase, Lucia?” I tease.

  Despite the dark curtain of inky-black hair falling below her brow, I can still see Lucy roll her eyes. “I don’t know. You first.”

  “An actor.” I reply with the conviction of a true thespian—which means none at all.

  “You definitely have the dramatic part down.”

  “Hey!” I nudge her shoulder until Lucy almost tips over.

  “We both know your dream is to go to Emory and become some world-famous writer.”

  My stomach twists into eighteen knots. I’ll never make it to Emory without this essay. I did a little research after the AP Lit class: part of the admissions requirement is an essay, a personal statement. They want to know who you are.

  So freaking perfect.

  “Don’t you ever think about these things?” I ask.

  Lucy’s shoulders pull tightly when she’s lies. It’s the first sign. “Sometimes.” Lucy’s a thinker and a planner. “I wonder if my dad imagined being a father at twenty-two. Did he want it? Or was it something he involuntarily settled into?”

  I nod, but she doesn’t see. Chin tucked, she’s glaring at her shoes. “A lot of adults do that—settle for what they become.” There are sad wrinkles beside her mouth. “They lose that thing you need to fight.”

  “What’s ‘that thing’ they lose?”

  Lucy tips her head skyward. Floating islands of clouds hide the sun. “Who knows, Rembrandt.”

  We sit in silence. The late school bus chugs in, its motor rattling. Detention-dwellers hop on like convicts minus the orange jumpsuits.

  Silver emerges from behind the school and pops the collar of his dark de
nim jacket. His profile is sharp: long, thin nose and photogenic cheekbones, downward tilt to his bitten-red lips. He was born for the runway.

  The marching band has quieted to just the woodwinds playing a somber tune.

  I clear my throat. “I want to be a guy Willow looks up to. A role model. Besides my parents and Clover, my little sister is all I have.”

  Lucy’s foot nudges mine. Her half smile is a reminder that Willow’s not all I have.

  “I want her to know she can be anything.”

  “Me too.” Lucy’s index finger pokes my shoulder. “I want to make my sisters proud.”

  She’s the oldest of four girls. Her father stuck around long enough to realize he was settling, four daughters later. This bond Lucy and I have burrows deeper than liking the same movies or long hugs or laughing. We’re both children of abandonment, I guess. We don’t talk about that, but it’s there like the roots of a tree, like a sunrise. It’s there, even when people aren’t talking about it.

  Maybe all of this is too heavy for today.

  “We should hit up Chick-Fil-A,” suggests Lucy. “Brook’s almost done with swim practice. I’m dying for an Arnold Palmer.”

  “Gross!” I frown. “First of all, hell no to Chick-Fil-A and their anti-queer agenda. The GSA would disown me.”

  “True that.”

  “Also, sweet tea?” I make a gagging noise.

  “Oh, come on,” Lucy says, tugging my right ear. “How long are you going to wage this vendetta against sweet tea?”

  It’s not a vendetta; it’s a lifelong commitment. Sweet tea is the devil’s juice. I know it’s a southern tradition, but it’s sadistic. Iced tea shouldn’t be sweetened. It shouldn’t even exist. The tangy-sugary mixture of sweet tea and lemonade in an Arnold Palmer is against what I represent.

  “It’s downright disrespectful.”

  “Remy, seriously.”

  “It should be outlawed.”

  Lucy sighs. “We live in Georgia.”

  “Exactly! Everything should be made of peaches.”

  “There’s peach sweet tea.”

  I frown at the sky. “What has this world come to?”

  Lucy’s laughter is contagious, and it infects me like a wild fever, shifting from my belly to my chest in hyper speed.

  “Anyway, I can’t.” I reach for my phone. “I’m supposed to meet Mom and Willow.”

  A text notification from Mom awaits me. Under that is a Facebook reminder: Friend request from Free Williams. I forgot all about that. But I don’t have time. I swipe away the Facebook notification, already anticipating a lecture from Mom for being late.

  After dusting off my jeans, I help Lucy to her feet.

  “It’s cool. I’ll just hit Rio up,” she says. “We’ll grab milkshakes. She’s always down for those.”

  “Are you trying to make me jealous?”

  “Maybe.” Lucy grins as if the lie is puckering her lips. “Is it working?”

  “Hell yeah!”

  Lucy’s fingers wrap tightly around my elbow before we reach my car—full-on death grip. I wince, trying not to squeal like a trapped puppy. She’s pointing toward the doors outside the gym.

  I suck in a shallow breath. The universe truly loves me. Ian, shoulders pulled forward, chin lowered, eyes the ground while the swim coach talks to him. Coach Park, Ian’s dad, has been a staple at Maplewood High for a decade, continuously leading the team to championships or at least runner-up status. He’s quiet and stern and slightly intimidating.

  My eyes are drawn to Ian. He’s a spot of blue ink against a gray canvas, a prism of rainbow light in a sea of ordinary, a promise and a bad decision.

  “He’s cute,” whispers Lucy. “That likeable kind of weird.”

  I lick my suddenly dry lips. My heart twitches, then turns into an entire drumline inside my ears. But I don’t know why. It’s just Ian. Of course, that’s not how my brain works, or my body. My fingers tingle, and my lips are itching to smile. On all future job applications, I think I’ll add ‘has zero chill when looking at cute, potentially dateable people’ under the Other Skills heading.

  “No new relationships, Lucia,” I remind her—and myself.

  “Are you remixing Drake?”

  I exhale dramatically.

  “Fine.” Lucy pouts. “Let that jerk-face Dimi ruin your future love life. Kill your barely existent sex life in the process.”

  I should’ve never told Rio or Lucy about losing my virginity: massive, unforgettable mistake. Not the sex part, though, that was—actually, I don’t want to think about that part. I don’t want to waste anymore brain cells on Dimitar Antov.

  “You can date again.” Lucy’s hand slides up to my shoulder, squeezes. “It’s legal.”

  A lump the size of Mars clogs my throat. “Yeah, whatever. I’m late.” I wave and jog to my car. I’m desperate to get away from conversations that lead nowhere, nowhere except frustrated sobbing and a playlist of tearjerkers and bad acoustic cover bands. I don’t want to go there.

  * * *

  Fact: I might be the coolest high schooler in all of Georgia. Of course, cool is defined by being the only high schooler grocery shopping with his mom on a school night, but whatever.

  Willow is here too. She’s the epitome of badass with a beanie pulled to her eyebrows, rainbow tutu, mini Doc Martens, and a Jack Skellington shirt. Her outfit alone scores more cool points than I do in a month.

  She shuffles side-by-side with me through the frozen meals aisle at Whole Foods Market.

  “Hey,” I say, the word drawn out by my smile, “dope outfit, Twinkle Toes.”

  It’s an old nickname. When Willow was first learning to walk, she took every step on her tiptoes like a prima ballerina. Mom still has video of it on her Facebook page.

  Eyes scrunched like cartoonish horizontal commas, Willow cocks her head. Her laugh is buried in Bert’s cape.

  “Maybe we could do lasagna from scratch?” Mom suggests. She’s pushing an empty shopping cart down another aisle. “Uncle Dawson might like that.”

  “Uncle Dawson likes pulled pork sandwiches and coleslaw,” I say flatly. “He lives on a diet of oven-baked pizzas or whatever Gabriel makes.”

  Mom snorts. “Those Cameron men—all terrible cooks.”

  “Was Grandpa a bad cook too?”

  “Oh, the worst!” Mom’s expression is endlessly fond. “The first time I met your grandparents, Grandpa made undercooked meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Instant food poisoning. I was sick for three days. Your dad thought that was the nail in the coffin of our relationship.”

  “Not his George Michael obsession?”

  Mom’s head tips back as she cackles. Strands of rose-gold hair brush her cheeks. Her eyes shimmer with the kind of magic memories create.

  I’ve seen the photos. Dad’s wardrobe of leather jackets and skintight Wranglers and one of those cross-shaped earrings. Proof that the badass gene obviously skipped a generation when it came to Max Cameron.

  “That was slightly worse than Grandpa’s cooking,” Mom concedes.

  Grandpa died when I was two years old. I don’t remember much about him: his voice, deep and melodic, his grayish beard, his scent of spearmint gum and fresh-cut grass.

  In Dad’s office, pinned to a corkboard stuffed with Post-It reminders, is a Polaroid. It’s of Grandpa and me. My tiny hand is trying to curl around Grandpa’s thick, freckled forearm. The tip of his nose is pressed to the crown of my head.

  Dad always swears Grandpa’s life changed for the better when I was adopted. “He finally stopped missing your grandmother. He’d come to visit all the time. Walk right by your mom and me to get to you.” Dad’s eyes are sad when he adds, “And he’d hold you for hours, singing lullabies with made-up lyrics while you slept.”

  I wish I could remember. But the euphoric rush that comes
from knowing I shared something with Grandpa makes up for that. I can’t recapture all those moments but I’m thankful to have been loved so deeply by a man who wasn’t my own blood. I miss him.

  “Angel hair pasta?” Mom suggests.

  My nose wrinkles. “Why bother? Neither you nor Dad cooks.”

  “Correction: your dad makes scrumptious French toast.”

  “The best!” Willow announces to half the dried pasta section.

  In a gleeful whisper, Mom adds, “He’s talking about a pumpkin spice recipe.”

  “Oh my god, my family has become the definition of basic,” I lament, mouth curving upward. “We’re never gonna recover.”

  Mom rubs a hand through my curls. She’s almost as tall as me, but she still stands on her toes. I don’t jerk away. It’s all nice: the pressure of fingertips on my scalp, the warm smile written onto Mom’s lips, Willow’s tiny hand clutched around my middle and ring fingers, laughter pouring out of us like clouds cracked open to release a storm. That’s how laughter can feel—like rainfall after a drought.

  The only reason I’m here is to prevent Mom and Willow from overflowing our pantry with granola bars and Nutter Butters. But it feels bigger. It’s as if I’m a part of something, an irreplaceable piece to a puzzle.

  And, right on time, the universe steps in to remind me I’m not a part of something else anymore.

  First, it’s the voice—rough but somehow soothing like thick, raw honey. Then, it’s the hands—strong with long fingers, made to touch and catch and break. My favorite argyle scarf hangs loosely from square shoulders. The tight Maplewood Marauders soccer team T-shirt stretches across a chest built for my head to rest on during lazy Sundays so worn-soft cotton cuddles my cheek while we binge unsolved-murder documentaries—Dimi’s favorite.

  Life is so ironic. It’s so damn hilarious, because instead of my head pillowed against Dimi’s chest, there’s a hand with spidery fingers. Pinkish knuckles lead to a thin wrist that’s attached to a guy with blonde, perfectly-styled bed-hair.

  Sex hair.

  I swallow the acid building at the back of my throat.

  This guy has half-scrunched periwinkle eyes, freckled skin and a crooked smile that should be awkward, but isn’t. It’s freaking charming. He’s the worst kind of reminder that Dimi is a part of something else—someone else, Jules Littleton. I only know his name because I haven’t gotten around to unfriending Dimi on social media. That’s not because I have wicked cyber-stalking skills. Well, maybe that too.