“Lame, right?” Ian’s lowered head doesn’t hide his mortified grin.
“Are you kidding?” Lucy smacks his shoulder. “You’ve got mad skills, bro.”
A smear of pink blotches Ian’s skin from cheeks to nose. “Cool.” He sighs. “I didn’t come up with the slogan. It’s for some new nitrogen-gas-infused cold coffee.”
“Hasn’t Starbucks been doing that for, like, ever?”
Ian flaps a hand in front of Lucy’s face. “Ours is different!”
Lucy raises a doubtful eyebrow. “How?”
“They’re putting sugar crystals on top!”
“Oh, no.”
“Hell, yes,” says Ian, covering his eyes in embarrassment.
I’m kind of mad he’s hiding his eyes and part of his face behind his big hand. But not mad enough to admit that out loud. I’m too cool and uninterested. I’m also spectacular at telling myself lies.
I stare at Ian’s shoes: loafers and no socks, much more interesting than Ian’s stupid face.
“Let’s get this party started!”
Trixie arrives with a tray of drinks. She’s a savior. For Lucy, an iced latte macchiato, not because she likes them, but because they’re aesthetically perfect for her Instagram feed. Trixie hands me a cold-brew coffee with thick vanilla cream swirling through it to create a marble effect. It’s called the Cold Body.
“It’s strong enough to raise the dead,” Trixie told me the first day she slid it into my hands. I agree. It’s also perfect for all-nighters during final exams.
Trixie passes Ian a big, round ceramic mug. “And the green stuff.” She wrinkles her nose.
Ian excitedly accepts it.
I don’t know if it’s the coffee or the brief of addition of Trixie to our little circle, but courage strikes a flame in my throat and I ask, “What’s that?” before I chicken out.
“Matcha latte.” Ian takes a careful sip. “I hate the taste of coffee.”
“But you work at a coffee shop.”
“Irony and I are old friends,” says Ian. He nudges his glasses up. “It’s just a job.”
“Watch it,” Trixie says warningly but with a rare smile. She flicks his ear, returning to her post behind the bar.
I turn back to Ian. “Just a job?”
“My dad is big on the whole ‘a busy mind keeps trouble away’ motto,” says Ian. “I’m not involved in any after-school activities, something he’s not too happy about. Clubs or sports look good for college and all that.”
My friends have all had jobs, mainly during the downtime of summer or holiday breaks. Rio worked part-time at Jo-Ann Fabrics. Zac and Alex got fired from Pizza Hut after only two weeks—apparently getting high behind the dumpsters slows down production. When football season’s over, Jayden picks up shifts at one of his moms’ auto shop. Brook maintains his job at Regal Cinema year-round.
The café’s speakers are streaming soft music. I don’t know the song, but the melody sinks its teeth into my veins. My foot taps along to the hand claps.
“What’s this?”
Lucy doesn’t answer. She’s sitting sideways, legs dangling off the chair’s arm. Her head is tipped back and her eyes are closed; the day is finally catching up with her.
But Ian stares at me as if I’m an alien.
“What?”
“You don’t know this?”
I shake my head.
“It’s Kim Carnes,” Ian says, awed. “You really don’t know ‘Bette Davis Eyes’ by Kim Carnes?”
“Sorry. Should I?”
Ian’s lips part, as though he might say something. He shakes his head. “No. Sorry.” His glasses edge down his nose as he stares into his drink. “It’s just on a lot of my playlists. I have this thing for ’80s music. The songs from that era are so legendary.”
I can only count about ten ’80s songs I know, mostly thanks to Dad.
“My dad likes classical. But my mom…” Ian’s voice softly fades.
Either it’s curiosity or the ridiculous spike of caffeine from the Cold Body, but whatever it is, I stretch my foot out to nudge Ian’s.
He bites his lip. “When I was younger, I’d sneak down to the kitchen at night. She’d always be there, dancing by herself.” His fingers, long and thin, drum along to the backbeat. “Always to ’80s music. She’d dance and dance—” Ian pauses.
I tap his foot again.
“So happy and free. My mom’s never like that during the day.” Ian’s looking across the café. He’s drifting like a cloud skimming across the moon. “Sometimes she’d catch me watching and grab my hands. I’d dance with her.”
We exhale together. I’m there, in the kitchen, spinning under the light as if it’s a disco ball. Laughter squeezes my lungs. Soft hands hold mine. Tears soak my eyelashes. I can’t catch my breath and I keep hearing a raspy voice talking about a woman with Bette Davis eyes.
“The next day, my mom would pretend it never happened.”
I swallow. Ian’s still spaced out, on another planet. My heartbeat matches the fading song—rat-tat… tat. Warmth curls around my bones and latches on. I can’t stop thinking about my parents and the rains of Africa and dreamy looks I’ve never shared with anyone, not even Dimi.
“Wow. Deep,” says Lucy, startling both of us.
I take a giant gulp of cold brew, then wince at the bitterness.
Ian has a green mustache from his latte. “There are theories on word vomit. Studies that say the human brain expels so much information that the mouth cannot process and edit said info before its conveyed verbally. Real scientific stuff.”
“Fascinating,” says Lucy, deadpan, but with a lift to her lips. She motions toward the bar. “I’m gonna go chat with Trixie about hosting our next anime club meeting here. But, please, you two carry on with this—uh, word vomit stuff.”
She isn’t discreet when she winks at me. I know what she’s doing. I also know that once she’s disappeared, it’ll just be Ian and me, staring at our drinks in awkward silence. I try to convey that to Lucy with a look. It doesn’t work.
“So,” I say, exhaling.
“So.”
“Well.”
“Yeah.”
And here we are—two boys with nothing to say.
Another song comes on. I don’t recognize it, but I like it. Something about letting love open the door? Yeah, no. I’ll pass on the love part, but the melody and words are catchy. I’ll probably download it when I get home.
I try not to focus so intensely on Ian, but it’s difficult. Rainbow fingers from ink chalk pick at a rip in his jeans. The pinkish-tangerine afterglow from the sunset skims over his face and hair. Plush lips rest against the rim of his mug. The café lights glint off his earring. Ian is a visual maze and I’m lost, that is, until he looks me right in the eye.
“POP ETC!” I shout.
His eyes widen; his mouth goes slack.
After I reteach my mouth to work, I say, “Music. They’re a band and they make music. Epic music. POP ETC is my all-time favorite band.”
“Cool,” Ian says, slowly.
I drain the rest of my cold brew in one swallow. That seems like a good way to die—better than from the unbearable mortification assaulting my nerves.
“I need to get home.” I stand, shoulders tense. “I should spend some quality time with my sister.”
“Walk your dog?”
I grin. “She’s cute, right?”
Ian’s eyebrows lift, and I see a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth. “She’s cute,” he agrees.
My heart tickles the roof of my mouth, which means I’m close to messing this up. He waits. I swallow, then signal Lucy. She shoots me a look. I don’t care. Ian cannot become a priority. He can’t be an anything.
Thankfully, his eyes are lowered, and the noise from the dude-bro grou
p that just strolled in distracts from the fact that I trip over my own feet speed-walking to the door.
9
Friday morning, I wake to the intoxicating aroma of Dad’s banana and blueberry French toast and a chirping notification. Yawning, I grab my phone. I unlock the screen and blink a few times at it.
Two Facebook friend requests: Free Williams and Ian J. Park.
I don’t hesitate to approve the request from Free just to have only one profile photo on the screen. There he is—his face peeking out from a pit of rainbow plastic balls like those at indoor family theme parks—scrunched eyes and enormous smile and hair everywhere.
Fact: I’m a master of self-control. I wait an entire twenty-two seconds—enough time to stretch, rub the drowsiness from my eyes, and have a stern conversation with my lower half about the eagerness it’s experiencing at the sight of Ian’s lips—before accepting the friend request.
What happens during my extra-long shower afterward is not a lack of will power. I’m simply scratching a very needy, annoying, satisfying itch. That’s all.
* * *
Chloe and Jayden are passing as I knock my locker shut with my shoulder. They’re a DreamWorks version of high school sweethearts—hand-in-hand, big heart eyes, glitter above their heads. Chloe’s wearing her jersey. Jayden’s in full cheerleader gear. That means one thing: Game Day.
They’re following a slow-build of hallway traffic, the usual morning horde of student zombies. But Jayden’s going the wrong way; our homeroom is at the opposite end of the hall.
“Is the pep rally starting early? Or are you two skipping homeroom for a little…” I waggle my eyebrows. “…extra study time?”
Grinning, Jayden flips me a middle finger.
Over her shoulder, Chloe says, “You haven’t heard?”
That the quarterback and superstar cheerleader are getting it on? Yeah, that’s not news. I don’t say that to Chloe, though. She scares me. “Heard what?”
“The Mad Tagger has struck again, my dude.” Jayden’s eyes are bright with excitement. “Tattooed the main gym’s doors. Savage! We’re going to check it out.”
“It’s serious business,” says Chloe. “Principal Moon is yelling about canceling the pep rally.”
“Total anarchy.”
Jayden’s obvious hyperbole aside, scrapping the pep rally would suck. I wouldn’t want to miss the extremely dope performance our marching band always gives. But I could live without the counterfeit school spirit. All the “we are family” unity Maplewood suddenly puts on as if half the school wasn’t at war and having meltdowns on social media last night.
“She’s talking about scratching homecoming too.” Chloe frowns.
“If the Mad Tagger doesn’t turn themselves in, we’re screwed.” Jayden shakes his head. “It’s so rank.”
I lean against my locker. Jayden and Chloe get lost in the tidal wave of crimson and steel, also known as red and gray, our school colors. School freaking spirit—go Marauders! I go the other way.
Since Rio didn’t meet me at our usual spot, I suspect she’s at the gym too. Rio and her Mad Tagger obsession is another thing I don’t comprehend.
“Hey!” Mr. Riley catches up to me in the sophomore hallway. I swear his wardrobe choices always scream “Look at me! I’m cool! I fit in!” Today he’s in a bright orange polo, wrinkled-just-enough khakis so he doesn’t appear like one of those adults that wake up early to iron, and product-stiff hair. He wears glasses, too, but those wire-thin ones that don’t look prescribed.
“Sup, Mr. Riley?”
“How’re things going?”
I shrug. I don’t really have a good answer for that one. Fine? Perfect? My future is screwed if I don’t pass AP Lit? “Okay.”
Mr. Riley gives me that look I hate—the skeptical one that’s always accompanied by a raised brow.
“You haven’t been too involved lately. Slightly disinterested.”
“I dunno. A lot on the brain,” I say, rubbing the nape of my neck. The student traffic around us is thinning out, but I still feel as if everyone’s watching us, watching me. “I have a meeting with Mrs. Scott today.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s like a death sentence, isn’t it?” Mr. Riley’s face crinkles like used wrapping paper.
I chuckle.
“You know,” Mr. Riley’s voice dips in that “I’m the adult” tone I’ve heard in way too many family sitcoms, “GSA is always here for you. Whenever. We’re not just a poster-friendly support system for coming out and safe sex talks and navigating social situations. It’s about each of you as people. We’re a team.”
Yes, thanks Mr. Riley, that didn’t sound like an online slogan, not one bit.
I love GSA. It’s a home, a safe space. But is that all I am? And is the club making the impact it used to, before being gay became the “cool thing”? I can’t ask Mr. Riley any of these things. Not because he won’t listen, but because I’m afraid it’ll disappoint him. Disappointment is the perfect motivator for silence.
“I was thinking,” says Mr. Riley, dimples on full display. I don’t melt into a babbling mess the way I do for other nameless guys. “We should have a Halloween get-together for the members. A place for queer students and allies to be themselves.”
I bite my lip. Mr. Riley is about my height. Our eyes are level. There’s a quiet plea in his, and I don’t know how to respond.
“It’s not easy for them to feel normal when the mold of ‘normal’ presented to them isn’t like their own. It’s unfair. They should have an outlet to dress up and dance with people like them.”
I roll those words against the roof of my mouth. Like them.
Nothing against Mr. Riley—I don’t really know his orientation or background—but there’s more than a mold to break at Maplewood. While our high school is progressive in that it has a female quarterback and Lucy is a Latinx junior class president and Brook is our school’s most decorated—and loved—athlete, in other ways it is very, very conservative. The unspoken truths echo in every hallway.
The jocks dress in drag every October and it’s considered hilarious, but students like Oliver Nguyen can’t wear something nice and fitted from the women’s section of Hot Topic because he’s gay. Sophomore girls can wear lookalike outfits of their favorite boyband member, but Lara, who’s lived near Maplewood her whole life—her parents are freaking legacies—can’t come to school on a Monday in a button-up, bowtie, men’s khakis, and boots without receiving a dozen funny looks, without the word “Butch” scribbled onto her locker.
I can be GSA president. I can share the same circle of acquaintances as the frat-wannabe crowd. And I can still draw attention for wearing a rainbow Pride shirt one day out of the year. The whispering kind. The kind of attention that suddenly makes everyone forget I’m the same Remy Cameron that came out freshman year and became the punchline of their jokes:
“What’s he wearing?”
“Oh, my god, did you know he was the ‘girl’ in his relationship with Dimi?”
“Did he just say ‘fab’? What. The. Hell.”
Mr. Riley is still giving me the look. I can’t avoid it.
“Okay,” I say, shuffling my feet. “It might be cool.”
“Very cool.”
The bell rings, and I’m so thankful for an escape, a way out of this conversation and out of my thoughts.
“Think about it. Please.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Riley.”
His mouth tightens; his eyes are bright but weary. “We’ll plan later?”
“Fantastic.”
Mrs. Scott’s office should be on the cover of Counselors Monthly, if that’s a thing. It’s that kind of vibe. Framed posters with quotes about preparation and goals and dreams stare down from beige walls. Rainbows and kittens and cliffsides with picture-per
fect blue skies mock you from the wall behind her desk. Everything is tailored to inspire: green furniture, tan carpeting, and a desk covered in bobbleheads and Funko POP! action figures.
Mrs. Scott is clicking away at her computer. Her green-gold eyes are laser-focused. She’s humming something that belongs on a smooth jazz radio station.
“Well, Mr. Cameron.” She starts every conversation with eye-contact and a pageant-worthy smile, probably a tactic she learned from Counselors Monthly. “I see we’re on course to follow our plan.”
Ah, yes. The Plan. An outline created by Mrs. Scott freshman year to map out my high school career—and the rest of my life—because every student knows where their life is headed at fourteen, right?
The Plan consists of carefully chosen classes—none of which I enjoy—to bulk up my college applications. It’s simple: Graduate, go to a “respectable” college, get a six-figure salary, marry a lawyer, have three perfect children that I’ll be too busy working to raise, retire unhappily, then die. Maybe it’s not that intricate, but it feels that way.
“And how’s AP Literature with Ms. Amos going?” She cocks a sharply-penciled eyebrow at me. “You know that is the key to our success and getting into Emory College.”
I love how, when adults are discussing a teen’s future, suddenly it’s a partner project. Everything is “we” and “our,” as if Mrs. Scott will be attending community college and struggling through a food service job with her assigned students who barely survive high school. There is no “our” in high school. It’s every student for themselves. High school is The Hunger Games without all the elaborate costumes and ridiculously attractive “teens.”
“It’s okay,” I finally say.
“Okay?”
“Perfect!” I lie. My throat squeezes around every letter. “We’re on track for greatness.”
“Are you sure?”
No. I don’t have the heart to tell her. “I’m going to pass.”
Mrs. Scott nods once, preening. She turns her unnecessarily large flat-screen monitor in my direction. Multiple tabs are open across the browser, all for colleges. Sometimes, that’s how my life feels: like twenty open tabs in a web browser that I peruse, but never fully commit to. My stomach drops as I sink lower into the chair.
How to Be Remy Cameron Page 9
