How to Be Remy Cameron

by Julian Winters

  Jules is a freshman at Georgia Tech and has Lacoste model status. It kills me to think that way. But Jules is five steps ahead of me at adulting. He’s not “clingy” or “desperate.”

  Dimi’s words, not mine. It’s how he defined our break-up. “You spend more time with me than your friends. You’re always… there. Always need to hang out. Or text. It’s like—you and me and nothing else.”

  The way he said it, with a choked voice and halfhearted tears, crawled into my chest, coiled around my heart, burnt the oxygen from my lungs. I was the reason we didn’t work. I wrapped myself so tightly around Dimi that neither one of us could breathe.

  But I still miss Dimi: the forehead kisses and the smell of his pillow, his stupid pillow, his loud snoring after sex—

  Unpopular opinion: I don’t miss the sex that much. Maybe I wasn’t any good at it? Who is at sixteen? I was always awkward and uncomfortable. I never knew where my hands should go. Was it normal to nearly give your boyfriend a concussion when he went to kiss your neck, but you were aiming for his mouth? We laughed more about how quick and clumsy it was than we worried about how supercharged it should’ve been.

  On reflection, I probably did it more for him than for us—for me. But still, why we do miss the people who hurt us?

  “How does one bake a spinach quiche? Are they baked?”

  I can barely follow Mom’s voice. It’s cottony fuzz in my ears. Thumbnail under my teeth, I watch Dimi and Jules. Dimi’s soccer-calloused hand palms Jules’ nape. Dimi’s lips peck Jules’ temple while they stroll through the produce section.

  “Earth to Remy.” Mom again.

  Dimi is taller than Jules. He beams down at him, at his new boyfriend.

  And there it is—my heart and emotions doing a flash mob routine in my chest cavity. Thinking of Dimi is like holding an open palm to a dancing flame. You know it’ll burn, then scar, and then become this throbbing ache beneath your skin every time you see something luminous and warm. But the curiosity remains, the constant what if any time you’re near the flame, the fast-beating heart under layers of warning. But what if Dimi and I had…? What if?

  “Honey?”

  I snap around to my mom. I’m blinking too fast. Pressure builds behind my eyelids, a dam threatening to break. Am I that person? The one that’s going to cry in the middle of Whole Foods over a guy? A stupid, insensitive, ordinary guy?

  “Hey,” Mom says, too carefully. “Are you okay?”

  Guilt hooks my chest. I avoid gazing at Dimi. My brain refocuses: deep, easy breaths. But it’s too late. Realization spirals across Mom’s pinched brow and crinkled nose and tight mouth. She’s spotted Dimi.

  Tears nearly prick past my eyelids. Pathetic. I’m the opposite of Georgia-Tech-genius Jules Littleton.

  “Well.” Mom has replaced worry with a flashy smile. “I have an idea.”

  I blink at her, then Willow. It’s the first time I’ve noticed Willow squeezing my fingers tighter.

  “How about some Cold Stone ice cream before we go harass your dad into watching a movie?” Mom suggests. She’s on my other side. Our shoulders touch; her warmth calms. “It’s never too early to watch It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.”

  She and I share twin smiles. Summer storms. Cold Stone Creamery is unquestionably the best. And Charlie Brown holiday movies could cure bird flu, I swear. It’s just—it’s perfect. My mom is the closest thing to a divine being on Earth.

  7

  Rio is standing at the top of the concrete steps that lead to the main pathway to school on Monday. I march up to her and cut off my awesome morning playlist. Her eyes are focused on the ground beneath her.

  A maze of graffiti decorates the concrete. It’s a series of blues, greens, and reds. Two giant arrows squiggle in opposite directions. At the end of one, where the arrow’s tip points toward Maplewood’s main building, is a blue pill and words outlined in thick, black Sharpie: “This way to Wonderland, Alice.” The other arrow, running down the steps toward the student parking lot’s exit, is a red pill: “This way to Adulthood.”

  “She’s done it again.”

  I grin. “It’s a ‘she’ now?”

  “Obviously.”

  Rio twists and angles her phone to snap as many high-def photos as possible while other students step over and around the graffiti. A group of freshmen art geeks gawp from a distance. Three cheerleaders, ponytails swinging in tandem, scoff at it.

  “How do you know it’s a she?”

  Rio’s sigh exits through her nose. “This stuff is too brilliant to be the work of a dumb guy.”

  “It could be a they or a them, you know,” I point out. “They could be non-binary.”

  “True,” concurs Rio.

  I love that about her—how she doesn’t make a big deal about sexuality or gender. It’s so normal for her to switch pronouns. She never blinks an eye at anyone who’s anything other than straight.

  It wasn’t difficult coming out to Rio, not entirely. Coming out to anyone is always awkward. But Rio only lifted her eyes from the book she was reading, leveled me with a long stare, then said, “I think your shirt’s inside out.” It was, but that’s beside the point. In the middle of the school library, I came out to my best friend. And she didn’t flinch. Rio didn’t have one of those accidental expressions that says, “Holy shit, I need to keep calm, my friend is super-gay.”

  Rio just… carried on. It’s as if her face said, “Remy Cameron is gay, and the sky is still blue.”

  “Either way,” says Rio, squinting at the concrete, “they’re getting sloppy.”

  I shrug my backpack higher on my shoulders, then cross my arms. I’m waiting. I know it’s coming: Detective Rio Maguire’s full synopsis.

  She never disappoints. “It’s obviously done after hours, possibly at night. After any faculty has left. Someone who knows the campus inside and out, where the cameras are.”

  “Definitely not a freshman,” I point out.

  She squints at the handwriting. “This person loves colors, so it’s not Veronica Hanson.”

  “Too goth?”

  “Too everything.” Index finger tapping against her chin, she offers, “An art student, maybe?”

  “Zac?”

  “Not that artsy.” She snaps another photo. “The newest pieces look rushed, as if they didn’t have time to fully realize their vision. Someone on a short schedule.” Her wavy amber hair is piled messily on top of her head, spiraling down onto her cheeks. “Maybe someone who has to catch Marta to and from school?”

  I stiffen my jaw. Atlanta’s public transport bites.

  “Brook?”

  Unlike most of Maplewood’s students, Brook doesn’t live nearby. He’s been using his aunt’s address for school records. Luckily, he hasn’t been caught. He doesn’t have a car either. On the weekends, he borrows his mom’s minivan to take Lucy on “dates,” also known as trips to Savage Pizza and the AMC 24.

  Rio says, “Not really his style. Ford Turner?”

  “Lacks the intelligence to pull this off,” I say through my teeth. “And the style. Plus, he has a mode of transportation: his pickup truck.”

  Of course, Ford freaking Turner owns a pickup truck. And a collection of John Deere snapbacks. I don’t know why I’m bothering to clear that jerk-face’s name, but I tack on, “He wouldn’t have to rush anything, even with long football practices,” because I want any subject involving him to die quickly.

  “What about that one guy who’s obsessed with Adult Swim?”

  I choke on laughter. Tiny tears catch on my eyelashes. “Magnus Olsen?”

  Magnus worships Rick and Morty and wears Aqua Teen Hunger Force T-shirts everywhere. He’s an art geek, especially into papier-mâché and ceramics. And his handwriting is immaculate.

  “Not a chance, Rio.”

  She continues to list susp
ects on her fingers. Juniors, seniors, Mrs. Richardson, one of Maplewood’s most loyal and loved custodians.

  “No way.”

  Rio says, “It’s possible,” with a bullshitting smile.

  I almost call her on it, but my heart crawls up the ladder of my ribs at the same pace as Ian climbs the steps, two at a time.

  He skims by us in a breathless rush. I inhale a whiff of clean sweat and bleach—chlorine.

  What’s wrong with me? I should just talk to him. We practically sit together every day at lunch. Ian’s next to Brook, who is adjacent to Lucy, which, by the laws of physics, puts me in Ian’s breathing space. I mean, it’s not as if we have assigned seats, so I could sit next to Ian. And, you know, talk to him.

  Ian’s five feet away and bravery is such an easy thing to grab before eight a.m. “Cool,” falls out of my mouth, accompanied by a choked, “hair.” It’s a perfectly acceptable, almost legendary compliment. Usually, I’d be proud of such fine vocabulary usage, except it’s a chillier-than-normal Monday morning. Most of Ian’s hair is hidden under a beanie. The longer bits catch on the soft wind, teasing his low, flat cheekbones.

  He pauses mid-step, looking around. Evidently, I didn’t make it apparent I was talking to him.

  “I mean, like, it’s long.” My mouth has lost control. “And you do that thing where you tie it up—”

  “Topknot.” Rio, the traitor, coughs in the least discreet way possible.

  “Yeah, topknot-thingy!” Mortification clearly has no side effects on my tongue. “It’s really cool—your hair. Not that your hat—um, beanie?—isn’t cool. It is! Your beanie is so awesome.”

  Ian’s beanie is plain and black. Not even one of those retro woven ones: ribbed and ordinary, very I’m-trying-not-to-look-commercialized.

  I feel detached from everything, except my heart. My wild, rampaging, rave-music-loud heart.

  Confused and eyebrows wiggling, Ian says, “Uh, thanks?” I love his voice. Chill and a little nasally.

  Ian’s fingers curl white-knuckled around the strap of his messenger bag. His hands are nice. A splash of sunburn-red spreads across his nose. He swallows; I do too. Then he says, “Sick shoes.”

  I beam without thinking. Then he’s jogging toward the mass of bodies clogging the school’s entrance. I turn to Rio. Her smirk is lethal and unwanted.

  “Keep your filthy comments to yourself, Rio Maguire.”

  Rio’s hands are up, palms out in surrender. “Nothing to see here.” Damn liar. “I won’t say a thing to Lucy.” Another disgusting, dirty lie. “This entire conversation will be filed under evidence for the prosecution’s use at a later date.”

  “No more marathons of True Detective for you.”

  In a monotone narrator’s voice, she says, “The suspect was a six-foot, curly-haired, innocent-looking, young black male with blue heart-eyes the size of Saturn, and…”

  I stomp away with a one-fingered goodbye to my former best friend.

  * * *

  The squeak of a nice pair of classic slip-on Vans against Maplewood’s terrazzo flooring isn’t the best soundtrack to a Monday afternoon, but whatever.

  I’m running late. This is all Ms. Amos’s fault. Well, sort of. This AP Lit essay has spiked my adrenaline, sent my heart into a permanent residence at the bottom of Knotted Stomach Lane. It’s thirty-effing-percent of my final grade. It’s the “hello future” or “sorry, you’re too basic for us” decision-maker in my Emory dreams.

  Welcome to junior year in high school, where college is suddenly the only topic on everyone’s brain. It’s all Lucy talks about. Rio has already started application essays. Chloe has all but guaranteed an athletic scholarship. Jayden is a shoo-in for some Ivy League institution. And I just… don’t want to be left behind.

  That’s why I stayed after class to talk with Ms. Amos. “Remy, don’t overthink things,” she told me in the world’s most calm voice. Being scarily serene while discussing every major assignment with a student must be a pre-requisite to becoming a teacher. She gave me a few tips. I jotted them down. But it was nothing mind-blowing. She didn’t unlock any major secrets to life—my life.

  Now I’m late for GSA. My body is pretty much all long legs and arms but I’m history’s worst runner. Sprinting toward Mr. Riley’s classroom, I must look like a drunk giraffe. Sweat dampens my eyebrows. Stuffed with books, my backpack weighs me down. Room 302 is so close.

  “Watch it!”

  I swerve; the rubber soles of my Vans squeal like tires losing traction on a wet highway. I barely avoid slamming into Darcy Jamison ten feet from the door. She has an armful of poster board, Sharpies, and… jars of glitter?

  Gasping, I say, “My bad, Darcy.”

  Darcy immediately rejects my breathless apology with squinted eyes, pinched mouth, and scrunched pug nose. She sizes me up like some fairy tale wicked queen in a pale pink cardigan, knee-length skirt, and perfectly-knotted blonde ponytail. Then, her eyes trace over the infamous poster tacked onto the outside of Mr. Riley’s door.

  “The FRIENDLY, SUPPORTIVE, & FUN Gay-Straight Alliance welcomes ALL!” The corniness of that slogan needs to be addressed during the meeting’s agenda, like, yesterday.

  “Yeah, so.” My throat stops working when her death-glare falls on me again. I palm the back of my neck; my eyes shy away from her gaze.

  Without another word, Darcy stalks off. No shocker. She probably has important GTFO stuff to do.

  Mr. Riley’s classroom is all set up for the meeting. The beakers and Bunsen burners and periodic tables are stashed away. Members fill a semi-circle of chairs. The meeting hasn’t started yet. Were they waiting for me?

  I drop my backpack next to Mr. Riley’s desk, then eye the tower of Krispy Kreme donuts parked on the edge: three dozen glazed. The singular reason people can’t deny Mr. Riley’s epic status—the guy is incredible at providing snacks.

  “You’re sweating.” I turn to Mr. Riley. He’s leaning against the white board where smudged blue dry-erase marker lists all kinds of biology terms I certainly don’t miss from last year. He has these animated brown eyes. They make you grin and blush and want to throw up. Mr. Riley is crush-worthy. Students from every grade whisper about him in the halls. He’s young, and quite possibly single. I can sum up the dreaminess in one feature: the dimples.

  Dragging the sleeve of my hoodie across my brow, I say, “AP Lit,” as though it’s an explanation.

  Mr. Riley nods, eyebrows considerably raised. He gets it. Ms. Amos may be a great teacher, but she’s notorious too.

  “Did I miss anything?”

  Mr. Riley shrugs. “Social awkwardness and my killer stand-up routine.”

  “So, nothing.” I say, deadpan.

  “Funny,” says Mr. Riley. “We could take our show on the road.”

  “Are you the warm-up act?”

  “Does your mom write your material, Mr. Cameron?”

  “Ouch. Savage, Mr. Riley.” I chuckle. Suddenly, everything that was weighing me down from AP Lit fades. My shoulders are lighter, and my breaths deep and steady.

  Mr. Riley always lets me lead our meetings. He takes the role as faculty advisor seriously, but he understands no real conversations will happen if he’s the one doing all the talking. I go through the usual introductions, agenda, the club’s purpose—all the presidential stuff. I’m not on auto-pilot, but most of this is formality.

  It’s not exactly a packed room. Majority of the members have been around as long as I have. Slouching, with easy expressions, they nod along—except Rebecca. In her wrinkled “Queer Is Cool” T-Shirt, she pays more attention to the donuts than to me.

  Two new freshman faces watch everything with nervous stares and twitchy mouths. Their hearts are practically visible through their shirts. I offer a relaxed smile and make perfect, genuine eye contact until their shoulders unwind.

 
I love that one of the seniors brings up ideas for Atlanta Pride, which is later this month. One of the sophomores rehashes a conversation about her favorite lesbian character being killed off in the latest CW teen drama. We always get a little loud over that.

  Here’s the thing, TV producers: Stop killing off the LGBTQ characters. That handsome, perfect-haired male lead who spends half the series hooking up with whatever beautiful girl is available can die, too, or his annoying, bro-friend sidekick. The queer character doesn’t have to be the sad storyline. We don’t exist to give your bland main character purpose.

  Our small group is awesome. It crosses my mind that one day this club might not be necessary. One day, we queer teens will feel at home amongst our peers. We won’t need somewhere to unload about coming out or sexuality or negative reactions from family and friends, because being queer won’t mean being different. We’ll just be teens. Nothing else.

  “Now,” says Mr. Riley, standing next to me, one hand on my shoulder, “we have a special announcement from Sara Awad.”

  Sara and her homecoming minions appear out of nowhere. They invade the club’s circle. Sara doesn’t acknowledge me. That’s cool. I step back, trying to become invisible, and watch.

  “Thank you, Mr. Riley.” Sara is polished grins and excitement and careful wording. Her speech is practically flawless. But beneath the after-school special presentation, is a hint uneasiness in her posture. The corners of her mouth twitch a bit too much. It’s as if Sara’s trying not to expose herself to a crowd she wants to know but, for whatever reason, can’t.

  Mr. Riley once said, “It’s your job to be supportive of those who want your support. Not those who look like they need it. Assumption is dangerous. You could alienate a potential ally with it.” He’s right.