The other homecoming committee members are tense. As if the wrong breeze could blow and they’d no longer be straight. It’s so stupid. We’re the Gay-Straight Alliance. There are actual heterosexuals in this club. There’s Tony Gibb, whose younger cousin is bisexual. Lacy and Macy, inseparable best friends, are obsessed with yaoi graphic novels and shipping boyband members. Ross shows up for the free snacks. And Paige is a school-social-club junkie.
Sara continues to ramble: “And think of the doors it will open if one of you runs for…”
I can’t believe this. She’s pitching homecoming court ideas to the club with an honest-to-god PowerPoint presentation. I zone out.
The science wing is on the second floor. From the windows, I have a sweet view of the football team’s practice field. Chloe is easy to pick out. She’s the only player with a ponytail and a killer undercut. Also, she has the best arm. She tosses bullet after bullet at players: long and short distances, never missing. Upfield, Jayden practices with the cheer squad. Everything about him is perfect: his movements, smiles, and enthusiasm. His hair is sprayed, gelled, and deep brown.
Sara’s still talking. Homecoming, yay! It’s quite easily the most boring five minutes of my day, which is really saying something, since I regularly doze off during world history.
Outside, Jayden nails a double back-handspring. He’d make a great GSA co-president. Though he’s never had an official boyfriend, Jayden is openly bisexual. Before he and Chloe quit starring in their dramatic rendition of We’re Friends Who Kiss at Parties, Jayden got a lot of attention from guys at other schools. He’s never shied away from it. He’s not an attention-seeker, but I’ve seen the consuming blush that spreads across his face when the right guy sizes him up. But Jayden’s more than Chloe and ogling guys. He’s a proud cheerleader. He’s louder and prouder about his two moms. He’s never attended a GSA meeting, though.
“It’s not me,” he once said. “Also, the LGBT agenda seems to be geared more toward the L and G while erasing the B and T. Get it?”
I did. It’s easier for the world to see things in black-and-white: lesbian and gay, but not bisexual. Not transgender. Or any other parts of the spectrum. Nothing other than girls who like girls and boys who like boys. I stopped inviting him after the third try.
“Well,” Mr. Riley says, and I flinch back into reality. “That was quite the presentation, right?” He starts a slow clap. Only Rebecca joins him in a total-suck-up move to get closer to donut time.
All the other students are wide-eyed and goldfish-mouthed, including some of Sara’s underlings. A strange silence has sucked the air out of the room.
Mr. Riley tries again. “We’re all a little more excited about homecoming, thank you, Sara.”
Nothing but quiet and awkward expressions, and then, out of nowhere, Sara says, “Go Marauders!”
I blink three times. This is happening. Sara’s shoulders are straight, her chin is lifted, her practice-perfect smile shows off her braces. She’s not even fazed by the stunned stares directed at her.
“Okay.” Mr. Riley rubs his hands together and puts on his best rally-the-troops face. “Maybe we should have some snacks before we discuss ideas for our next monthly LGBTQ book. Kenny! You have a great one for us, right?”
Kenny, all blue-green hair and light-brown eyes, nods happily. Kenny, our resident bibliophile, has wildly unoriginal taste. I’m betting it’s another David Levithan book.
Students shuffle to the donuts. The homecoming committee exits. Briefly, Sara hangs in the doorway. Her perfectly composed expression has faded into something gray and blank.
Do you want to stay? hangs on my tonsils. I never ask. She looks relieved. We exchange uncertain stares before she leaves.
8
“How much do you think hired assassins cost?”
Lucy lifts a flawlessly-plucked eyebrow at me. I don’t blink.
Yes, this is the conversation two best friends have on an ordinary Thursday, after school. We’re in my car. I’m supposed to give her a ride home, but I’m stalling. She hasn’t complained.
Lucy hums. “Are we talking ex-CIA? MI6? Rogue FBI operatives?”
“All of the above.”
“Why?”
I slouch in my seat. “I’m confident Sara hates me. Just curious if she can afford to have me murdered.”
“And you think it’d take trained assassins to do that?”
“Hell yeah!” I try, and fail, to flex a bicep. I’m pathetically toneless in the muscles department. Gym class is an unacceptable block of sweating and being awkward because I can’t catch a ball. I get more exercise trying not to be tardy to homeroom every morning.
I’m still reeling from Sara’s appearance at the GSA meeting. Our friendship is such a mystery. There are days when we laugh at the same jokes, share wide-eyed looks at something epically outrageous one of the Liu twins has said, smile knowingly at Lucy’s anime rambling. I remember one lunch break that we spent dissecting Darcy’s wardrobe choices.
But there’s also a thin wall separating us, one created by some unknown force. Maybe it’s because I’ve raised my eyebrows more than once at the way she looks at Lucy. Maybe it’s because I’m out to everyone. Or maybe it’s because, no matter how close people think they are to each other, there are always things unsaid, always vulnerabilities we don’t feel safe enough to share. But I wish I knew her the way I did Lucy, or Brook, or even Alex and Zac.
“Andrew’s annual Halloween party is coming up,” says Lucy, as if the last minute never existed. I can’t blame her.
I don’t say anything about her scuffed-up crimson Converse on my dashboard. My dad gave me his old, midnight-blue Toyota Corolla for my sixteenth birthday. It doesn’t even have Bluetooth; just an auxiliary port to plug my phone into. POP ETC is softly playing, a catchy tune that’s all claps and acoustics. Lucy’s shoes wiggle back and forth to it.
“You’re going, right.” It’s not a question.
“Nope,” I tell her.
“Why not?”
“Trick-or-treating with Willow.” I pop a mini-Reese’s peanut butter cup in my mouth, savoring the slow melting of chocolate before the healing burst of peanut butter hits my taste buds. “It’s tradition.”
“I forgot.” Lucy sighs.
I reach under her legs for the glovebox to pluck another Reese’s from a wrinkled bag.
“You could always come afterward.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“It’s possible.” I pop another candy in my mouth.
“Okay, what’s the deal? Is this a Code Orange?”
I nearly choke. Code Orange is a nickname Rio and Lucy gave any situation involving me coping with feelings or anxiety by consuming mass amounts of Reese’s. It started somewhere in middle school.
“No?”
Lucy tsks. “We’re just gonna pretend you’re not devouring your emergency stash of Reese’s?” She waves a hand at the half-empty bag. When did that happen? She whispers, “This can’t be good.”
It’s not. In my lap, there’s a mound of crinkled gold wrappers. In the rearview mirror, I can see melted chocolate smeared on one corner of my mouth. I wipe it away with my sleeve.
“AP Lit is going to ruin me.”
“What?”
“We have to do an essay,” I grumble.
“But you love writing.”
“Short stories. Awful poems. Haikus about Dev Patel’s face.”
Small confession: I might’ve gone through a hardcore phase where Dev Patel was all I thought about. It was Mom’s fault, forcing me to watch Slumdog Millionaire. Twice! Of course, a few late nights scrolling through Google while my right hand did some interesting things beneath my navel was all voluntary.
“It’s so stupid.” I grip the steering wheel to prevent my hand from reaching for another Reese’s. I have restraint—ve
ry little. “How can I write an essay about… me? I mean, Jesus, what do I know about how the world sees me, Lucy? I’m…” Adopted. I don’t say it, though. “I don’t know shit.”
Liquid fire slides down my throat. All the words, they unhinge my jaw and hollow out my chest. I have no clue where this comes from. But it’s true. Fear’s a tornado, touching down in my brain, leveling all my carefully built walls. I’m not sure I can handle the pressure of defining who I’m supposed to be.
“But you’re you,” Lucy says, matter-of-factly.
“Gee, thanks.”
“It’s not that deep, Rembrandt.”
Isn’t it? In my phone, I have three different maps of possible routes to get home on Friday evenings after classes are done at Emory. I could make the drive in forty-five minutes, an hour max. In time for Dad’s French toast dinners and Clover’s evening walk. I’d be there to help Willow with her homework or watch endless reality TV with Mom.
One failing grade in AP Lit could ruin all of that.
“Do you know what you need?”
“More Reese’s?”
“No.”
“A new brain? To stop shopping in the Where’s Waldo? sweater collection at American Eagle?”
My wardrobe choice didn’t go unnoticed at lunch. Personally, I think my comfortably snug red-and-white-striped waffle sweater is the epitome of trendy. My friends—ex-friends—said I looked like a candy cane. I’m already working on a Craigslist ad for new lunch associates.
“All the above,” Lucy says. “And a trip to Zombie Café.”
I drum my fingers enthusiastically on the steering wheel. In my very unbiased opinion, Zombie Café is the coolest coffeeshop amongst the many littering Atlanta’s landscape. It’s not quite as hipster as Aurora Coffee in Little Five Points or as polished—and problematic—as the fleet of Starbucks clogging up every corner of metro Atlanta, but it carries its own brand of chic. Ever since my mom let me have my first foamy sip of a cappuccino at thirteen, I’ve been in love.
“You’re a gift, Lucia.”
“Remember that when I come to claim your firstborn.”
She clicks in her seatbelt and I pull out of Maplewood’s parking lot.
Zombie Café is pure perfection. It’s whimsy and precision, bright but controlled, euphoria melting into modern construction. It’s everything I loved before I knew the sweetness—and bitter pain—that one word could create.
“Welcome to Zombie Café, where the undead live again and the boring people join the zombie parade after one sip of our Cold Body coffee!”
Okay, it’s not perfect. The café’s slogan is a mouthful, but when it’s shouted from the one barista behind the bar, prepping and pouring drink after drink, I’m impressed.
The interior of Zombie is my second favorite part, from the big, comfy armchairs to the handwritten chalk menus behind the front register. An entire wall is a floor-to-ceiling mural of a happy zombie drinking coffee, a green sun, and cartoony skulls with heart-shaped eye sockets. Inside the zombie’s exposed chest cavity is a map of Atlanta in swirls of peach and bumblebee yellow. Novels donated by customers stuff a bookshelf next to a table stacked with classic board games.
By the door, a giant window overlooks Roswell Road. It’s the epicenter of the church of college hipsters—a mecca of laptops, iPads, and headphones on round tables. Another wall, opposite the coffee bar, is exposed brick with customers’ autographs scrawled in silver Sharpie.
I gaze over the unpolished hardwood floors and the zebra-print rug where children sit with smoothies. This place feels lived in.
“What graveyard gods do I need to thank for a visit from my two favorite delinquents?” asks Trixie, the barista behind the bar.
“We might be delinquents,” says Lucy, “but we tip well.”
“Tue story.”
Trixie is the best. I don’t know if that’s her real name, but she’s got enough sass and old-school, punk-rock greatness to pull it off.
“Cutting extracurriculars to visit me, kids?” She maintains eye contact while managing to steam, pour, and lid drinks. It’s all second nature. Trixie’s worked at Zombie since it opened ten years ago.
“Maybe,” I say.
“Maybe?” Trixie’s grin is infectious.
“Possibly.”
“Where else would we spend our afternoons?” Lucy asks, playing nonchalant in the worst way.
“Bullshit.” Trixie’s mouth cocks; her eyes narrow. “I call bullshit.”
Yep, Trixie’s a rock goddess in ripped flannel. We’re just her loyal subjects.
“This guy,” Lucy finally says, jerking her thumb at me, “needed a break from a junior-year-stress meltdown.”
Trixie starts another drink, nodding.
I’m too embarrassed to remind Lucy that snitches get stitches. I do need a breather from thinking about Ms. Amos and AP Lit and Emory. I just don’t need that broadcast to the small collection of frat bros fist-bumping and drinking iced Americanos at the bar.
“Are you going to turn into one of those seventeen-year-old emo kids?” Trixie asks. She has a half-pixie-cut, half-Mohawk going on. It’s dyed licorice red. She’s wearing an Indigo Girls T-shirt and has a severe case of mascara overload. Trixie is emo.
“What? No.”
“Oh, Remy. It’s happening. Trips to Hot Topic. Black coffee and tragic poetry.” Trixie looks horrified. “Alt-rock music!”
“Trixie, what the ever-loving fu—”
Lucy’s wheezing with laughter. “The dark side hasn’t claimed him yet!”
I give her the evil eye. I might be contemplating ways to torture her at a later date. I ignore their silly banter; my eyes scan the café. It’s not too busy today. The usual college students inhabit their digital islands while a sprinkle of parents wait for afterschool activities to end. The early-in, early-out work crowd savors their last gulp of caffeine. A little girl dances to a song I don’t know the words to. I tap my foot along because I love discovering new music, because I love this café, this hole in reality where I exist with no expectations.
Huddled in a pear-green armchair is a boy in a Zombie apron. Sunlight reflects off his full-rim eyeglasses. He’s drawing something odd and colorful on a chalkboard in his lap.
I freeze, caught in a time loop.
“New guy,” explains Trixie. “Started two weeks ago. He’s a little weird, but a cool kinda weird. Like you, Remy.”
Like me. No, not like me at all.
“Like Remy,” Lucy repeats, her tone nauseatingly snarky. “Basically, he fits right in.” Before I can speak—or breathe like a normal human—Lucy adds, “We know him.”
It’s Ian.
“I’ve noticed,” says Trixie with a very unsubtle eyebrow-lift meant for me.
Trixie is freaky perceptive. But maybe my cheeks are warm. Maybe my heart is loud enough for the entire café to hear. Maybe I’m staring.
“I…” Words die tragically on my tongue. This whole outing was a bad idea. I need to be at home, focusing on the essay that decides my future.
Ian hasn’t noticed us yet, so we could slip back out the door…
“We should get our drinks to go,” I suggest. Panic grips my larynx. It’s almost unreal how high my voice gets when I say, “I have an essay to work on! And you probably have class-president-nerds-of-anime-skater stuff to do.”
“I don’t.” Lucy’s tone is defiant and gleeful. “Also, hell no, we’re staying. I need a break. You need a break.”
“Lucia Reyes.” My voice is borderline teenage-camper-running-from-a-chainsaw-killer shriek now.
Ian lifts his head, and his eyes go immediately to me. Is it possible for a six-foot, skinny black guy to hide behind a six-year-old dancing queen? It doesn’t matter because Trixie, the menace, says, “You have some friends here, newbie!” while waving Ian over.
This is Armageddon. This is where the wannabe-hero chokes on his own heart and dies from an epic rush of blood surging to his lower half. My boner is warp-speed fast—damn you Jayden and your corny addiction to sci-fi movies—at the sight of Ian pushing his glasses up his nose. They slip back down. His mouth, a soft-looking rose, tilts up on one side. He waves as if his hand is uncertain whether to be enthusiastic or chill. It’s kind of manic.
“Take a break, newbie,” Trixie yells. “Sit with your friends. I’ll hold down the fort.” She shifts to us. “The usual?”
“Yep,” Lucy says for both of us. Obviously, I’m under some sort of Harry Potter spell. Ianistoocuteous.
“Usual for you too, newbie?”
Ian’s head bobs, a jerky motion that unsettles his glasses again. He quickly adjusts them.
I am spellbound. I’m still in that thick fog of “what the hell is happening” when Lucy hooks her arm in mine and leads us to Ian’s little corner of the café. She collapses into an armchair while I begin to map out all my potential exits—diving through Zombie’s giant front window looks like something I could survive, if I was Chadwick Boseman. Lucy raises a sharp eyebrow at me. She expects me to sit, between her and Ian.
“Remy.”
“Lucy.” My voice cracks, because clearly puberty is a lifelong process.
She clears her throat.
I sit with a heavy exhale and flopping limbs.
Ian watches me. Sunlight kisses tiny specks of dust, a steady stream of glitter around us. Gold beams sweep over loose strands of hair that fall into Ian’s glasses. I want to brush them back for a clearer view of his eyes. My fingers twitch on my knees.
“What’re you drawing?” Lucy asks Ian.
“Just some promotional art for the café.”
I angle for a better view. Ian’s art is amazing but also familiar—not in a bad way, but as if I’ve seen it before and been awed at the skill level. He’s sketched a funky manga-style owl in liquid chalk. Above its head is a speech bubble like in old-school comics: “UP OWL NIGHT!”
I can’t keep from snorting into my hand. Seriously? It’s ridiculous.
How to Be Remy Cameron Page 8
