How to Be Remy Cameron

by Julian Winters

  “No, it’s cool,” I say, my knees pressed to the dashboard. “Like you. And it’s…” My voice evens out, happier. “…cool that you’ve sent in for your gay card. The official laminated version is usually a little late.”

  “Fashionably late?”

  “Look at you! Did you join the Facebook group already?”

  Ian chuckles, and it’s carried by whatever chilled-electronica anthem is on the radio.

  We’re stopped at a red light when he asks, nervously, “Do you think they’ll turn me down?”

  “Nah, the club isn’t that exclusive.” Laughter crawls into my mouth, vibrates in my nostrils. “Unlike everyone else, we’re all about letting people be themselves. Retro losers like you included.”

  We crack up together. I crank the music as we finally reach Somewhere.

  11

  Somewhere is a shopping plaza dominated by a Chipotle Mexican Grill, a rank Payless ShoeSource, and a Kroger grocery store. Small shops are stuffed between a travel agency, a sketchy dentist’s office, an inauthentic New York-style pizza place. Aged gray exteriors with pops of color meant to attract wandering shoppers bleat: nothing exceptional.

  “So, this is where the cool people hang?”

  Ian’s cheeks are lit like a rose-colored neon sign. “All the cool people come here.”

  Every parking space except for the ones outside Kroger is empty. “Obviously.”

  In the middle of Post-Apocalyptic Plaza is a small shop owned by a short, old Taiwanese-American man with a thin mustache and crinkles around his smile. He greets Ian with a hug and focused attention. Ian introduces him as Mr. Tsai. We shake hands.

  I wander around while they catch up. Sweet and floral scents mix with a hint of cleaning product. Behind the counter, a girl with pink-streaked hair that matches her bubblegum reads a graphic novel. Her seafoam fingernails tap along to the music playing overhead. The menu lists drink after drink in hypnotic colors and cool fonts.

  “Bubble tea?”

  Ian sidles up on my left side. “Boba,” he says. “Ever heard of it?”

  I shake my head.

  He orders for us: matcha milk tea for himself, banana for me. Bubblegum Girl seems uninterested, but she gives Ian a shy wave as we leave. I raise an eyebrow—not one of those “He’s Mine” ones—and her eyes quickly drop back to her graphic novel.

  “My imo…” Ian pauses. We’re walking aimlessly around the plaza. “…my Aunt Jilynn is bomb at making boba. She’s got serious skills.”

  His eyes track passing cars, all fleeing the cracked pavement for the main road. He stirs his tea with the thick straw that’s meant to capture all the tapioca balls at the bottom of the sea of green. The balls are this chewy-soft burst of tea when you mash them on your tongue. It’s strange, at first, but a nice contrast to the sweetness of the milk.

  Ian says, “She’s hella cool. She’s fluent in Korean and speaks some Chinese too.”

  The wind whispers a hello around us. I listen to Ian’s voice. I love this part—unlocking little mysteries in someone new: their likes and dislikes, their secrets and joys.

  “My Korean is out of practice.” He says it with regret, as if that’s something bad.

  I nudge his elbow. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Aunt Jilynn notices everything,” he tells me.

  “Are you out to your family?” I ask, because I’m curious, because I want him to know I’m trustworthy.

  Our lazy stroll stops in the middle of the parking lot. The sky is ripe peach, minutes from turning dark. Halogen lights click on, framing miles and miles of dark asphalt in waves of pale silver. The air has a perfect October bite to it—chilly but not uncomfortable. It’s hoodie weather. A coat of Chipotle’s spicy scents wraps around us.

  “My parents know.” Ian, all denim and soft hair peeking from under his beanie, stares at the gray outline of the moon. “That was interesting.”

  Simultaneously, we sip more tea. I give him space to elaborate.

  “Dad doesn’t say much about it. He doesn’t seem bothered, though.” His eyebrows drop; his teeth gnaw at his straw. “My mom prefers not to talk about it. It’s how her family is. They’re the old school, hard-working family. Head down, never do anything to attract attention. But I don’t think that’s who she is on the inside.”

  “Who is she?”

  “The woman who dances to Prince by herself.”

  “I get that.”

  Ian lasers me with a doubtful stare.

  “Seriously!” I try not to choke. “It’s not easy, even with a family supportive as mine.”

  “Yeah?” Sarcasm has fled his voice, replaced by hope.

  “My Aunt Sandra is a hardcore, church-every-Sunday, thou-shall-not southerner.” I chuckle around my straw. “She’s not the biggest queer-rights cheerleader. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t love me though. I know she does.”

  Ian’s eyes are unreadable, but the slow-motion lift of his lips says enough. He understands.

  We stay still. The moon doubles in size, or maybe it’s the way my eyes try not to focus on Ian’s mouth, and his eyelashes, and the way his hair catches on a breeze to sweep across the bridge of his nose. I’m trying not to focus on the sad, pathetic jolt of my heart. But something is happening. I can see it, highlighted in Technicolor-brilliance that nearly blinds me.

  Ian’s hand twitches by his side, so close to mine. And then he says, “Can I hold your hand?”

  “What?”

  He flinches. Louder, he asks, “Can I hold your hand?”

  “You’re actually asking me?” I’m confused. “I mean, people don’t usually do that.”

  “I do.”

  Obviously. But I just blink at him a few times. I’m surprised.

  “My halmeoni…” He stops, sucking in a breath. “That’s grandmother in Korean.” He says it so proudly that I grin. “She taught me you should always ask for consent to touch someone, to hug them or hold their hand, anything. She didn’t like being touched by strangers, not even hugs.”

  “But I’m not a stranger.” Wait… am I a stranger? Does he see me that way?

  “I know.” The magic dimple reemerges. “But you’re also someone who deserves to be asked if it’s okay to hold your hand.”

  Deserve. It’s the only word in my head. It tastes fuzzy but sweet like a slice of mango against the roof of my mouth. But I don’t answer Ian’s request with my voice. I reach out. He reaches back. Ian holds my hand.

  My tea forgotten, I ask, “What’s next?”

  That wild, weaponized smile of Ian’s emerges—locked, loaded, and I’m its target.

  “I’m gonna die!”

  “Not today!”

  “Okay, but I’m gonna need immediate medical attention and one of those lifesaver bracelets and an unquestionably hot doctor to revive me!”

  Under the shine of artificial lighting, we race each other in rickety Kroger grocery carts. The parking lot is a proverbial snooze-fest on a Friday night. Most of suburbia has found something better to do than shop for instant ramen noodles and half-priced energy drinks. There aren’t many obstacles to dodge other than the occasional parked minivan with its armor of bumper stickers. Every cart we commandeer has at least one wheel that sticks. Their carriages aren’t meant to carry the weight of a bored high school teenager. And the pavement has far too many cracks for the velocity we’re zooming at. It’s not the safest idea, but it’s the most recklessly fun activity I’ve ever done on a Friday.

  “Car!” I screech.

  “Emergency evasive maneuvers engaged!”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Ian grins and banks left. The cart tips, but we don’t crash. We find a new path void of grandmas in big luxury sedans.

  Wind whips against my face. We take turns howling like wolves at the top of our lungs. Th
e intensity of the moment, of the night, of the freedom super-charges me in an unexpected way.

  I never want this to end. Of course, it does, when a college-aged Kroger employee stomps up, barking. His face is filled with acne scars and the shame of minimum wage. He never gets close enough. We sprint away, laughing at the indigo sky; our sneakers pound the pavement. Our hands are twisted and twined until we reach Ian’s car.

  Another song: this one about dancing in the dark. It sums up my feelings right now. It’s everything.

  Lingering between my car and Ian’s, we’re tucked away in a corner of the school’s parking lot, hovering in the night’s shadows. Ian’s car idles with the passenger window cracked enough to enjoy the heavy-synth and percussion.

  “Bruce Springsteen,” he tells me.

  I bite the smile I’m barely hiding from him.

  “It’s Bruce Springsteen,” he says, this time without the squeak but with equal jitteriness, as if the adrenaline from shopping-cart racing still bubbles in his cells. “Big tune. I really like it.”

  “Me too.”

  “Me too.”

  Seriously? Crayon-eating first-graders have better communication skills than us.

  We should probably move. The flashlight-wielding rent-a-cops the school hires to watch over the grounds on weekends might spot us. Lucy texted me twenty minutes ago—the football team picked up an anemic victory. That means the team bus could roll in any minute with loud cheerleaders and adrenaline-junkie football players. My friends are meeting at a diner to celebrate the win. But my feet have decided this is where I should be.

  “So.”

  “So,” I repeat, breaths shallow. I rock back and forth on my heels. Ian mimics me. We can’t hold each other’s gaze for long. It’s so cheesy, so like a middle school crush, back when liking someone was more fun and less traumatizing.

  “I’m just gonna…” Ian jerks his head in the direction of his car, but the rest of his body doesn’t cooperate. “If you’re good, I mean. It’s late. I don’t have a curfew, but—”

  “Word vomit,” I tease.

  Ian’s nasal laugh riffs better than Bruce Springsteen’s voice. My fingers itch to touch his hand, to test whether it’s sweaty and hot enough to burn my skin. I want to ask his permission first. I want him to say yes with his eyes, mouth, his whole damn face.

  “Yeah.” He exhales and sags. “Word vomit.”

  He finally moves, but not to his car. He steps into my space. He’s taller than I am, barely. I’ve been here before. With Dimi. With a guy at someone’s sweet sixteen birthday party when I was fourteen and newly out of the closet and clueless about kissing a boy. I can handle this kind of awkward. He’s right there. His breath is minty from his gum. His lips are wet from the quick brush of his tongue between breaths. I’m just waiting for him to ask…

  But the kiss doesn’t happen. Ian backs away, wide-eyed, shoulders tight. His shoes scuff on the pavement. A hint of lingering courage hooks the corners of his mouth up.

  I’m not disappointed. I want to kiss Ian, to make him a permanent entry in my short list of kisses. But I’m also not going to be that guy who forces Ian out of the closet to his peers in the bus I can hear rattling up the road. Coming out should be organic, not a life or death situation.

  I’m okay with an almost kiss. I’m also okay with Ian stealing my phone to program his number into my contacts. And I’m okay with the warm pressure of his fingertips against my knuckles for seven seconds too long after he hands my phone back.

  I’m okay with all the above.

  12

  Who am I? I’m Remy Cameron. I’m president of the GSA, an older brother, a best friend. I’m black, gay, and adopted. But none of these labels define me.

  I am…

  My fingers hover over the keyboard on my laptop. My headphones pump out POP ETC, dulling the noise in my brain. Beams of sunlight from the window dance across my knuckles, catch on my phone screen, reflect a rainbow across my vision. I’m close to full-blown Code Orange mode. Three crinkled Reese’s wrappers lay by my elbow, soon to be joined by a fourth, then a fifth. The cursor on the screen doesn’t move.

  “Shit.” Delete, delete, delete.

  Why am I struggling? I’ve written papers before and poems and song lyrics. Before high school, that’s all I ever did—write, write, write. It’s how I got my feelings out. On the page, I felt alive.

  Why is this so hard? Maybe it’s because I know what this essay means for my final grade? Because I don’t want Mrs. Scott to be right? Also, to get into Emory, I need recommendation letters. I’m positive Mr. Riley will write me one. Some of my other teachers too. But Ms. Amos is the goal. A respected former lecturer at Emory? There’s no way they’d reject me with a letter from her. All I have to do is write a freaking essay about who I am.

  I know who I am. I do.

  My fingers pound the keys, a loud, uneven tapping like the opening of an EDM song gone wrong. I scowl.

  Who am I?

  I’m Remy Cameron, world’s biggest underachiever, with zero clues about who he is. I’m destined to fail this class and never get into Emory. Thanks for the opportunity!

  The End.

  “And that’s how my high school career goes down in a blaze of glory,” I whisper.

  Clover’s head pops up from the pile of blankets on my bed where she’s been napping. It’s a lazy, quiet Saturday. I can’t hear Willow, though I know she’s somewhere playing with action figures or constructing a kingdom from used cereal boxes. Mom’s doing wedding things; Dad’s doing lawn things.

  My phone lights up—Rio’s on FaceTime.

  “My life is a disaster,” I say instantly.

  “That’s old news,” Rio says. “It’s a gay-saster.”

  “That was horrible.”

  “Gay-tastrophe.”

  “You’re not even trying today.” I sigh.

  “You’re right.” Damp hair that’s starting to curl hangs in front of her face like a jungle of red vines. She scoops it away, her skin pinkened as if she’s just showered. “How goes the Essay of Doom?”

  Lucy and Rio tried several titles—my favorite being Category Seven Graduation Killer Essay, but they thought it was a mouthful—before settling on the Essay of Doom. I’m still not sure why. Maybe it’s because Rio’s parents are huge Indiana Jones junkies and Lucy has a secret thing for Harrison Ford, which is kind of gross.

  “I remembered to put my name and date on it.”

  “That’s more than deserving of a passing grade!” Rio says, rolling her eyes.

  “Tell Ms. Amos that.”

  “I’d rather eat glass. Ms. Amos scares me.”

  “How is Mad Tagger hunting?”

  “Horrible.” She drops her phone to twist her hair into a knot on her head. I have a fuzzy view of the K-pop poster-collage tacked to her ceiling. Her only weakness besides bad indie rock is K-pop. “I need a break.”

  “Same.”

  “The usual spot?”

  Since we were eleven, Rio and I have made a habit of walking to the playground at Maplewood Middle. When I needed to get my mind off whatever crush I was navigating poorly or when Rio needed somewhere else to be rather than her very empty house—her parents are traveling journalists, thoroughly dedicated to their job and not their daughter. We’d skip the merry-go-round for the swings or lay out in the middle of the grass and squint at the clouds until we could turn them into cartoon characters. It’s our remedy.

  “Sure.” I peek over at Clover, her head tilted in anticipation. “Looks like Clover could use a breather.”

  “Yeah. The funk of a teenage boy’s room probably isn’t healthy,” says Rio. “The rankness of dirty socks and unwashed boxers and seme—”

  “Rio!” I squeal, hiding my face. When I peer through my fingers, she’s shrugging.

  “Good. You
can help me narrow down this list of suspects.”

  I’m not in the mood to think about the Essay of Doom, but I’m definitely not in the mood for Rio’s ranting over the Mad Tagger. When Rio’s obsessed with something, everything—and everyone—else becomes background. You can tell her a million different things, and she’ll always find a way to bring the conversation back to her current fixation. She says I do the same with boys, but that’s different—or maybe it’s not.

  “You want to help, right?” She sounds annoyed.

  “Of course.”

  “You’re not very convincing right now.”

  “Rio.” I exhale softly, then force a mostly-believable look on my face. “I’m there. Mad Tagger. Whatever you need. Let’s catch this criminal.”

  “Heck yeah!”

  “I’ll meet you there in five minutes,” I tell her.

  She grins in a way that should be banned between best friends. One of those “I’m about to snark” grins. “Maybe we’ll run into Elijah Burke like the good old days, and you two can finally—”

  I hang up on her before she can finish. Clover leaps off the bed as I grab my keys and earbuds. We’re out the door before I can decide to fully disown Rio as a friend. I’ll wait until after she buys me a Cold Body from Zombie Café.

  * * *

  “Max, how many times do I have to tell you that French toast is not a dinner dish?”

  “It is in this house, Sandra.”

  The kitchen is filled with the clang of pans, the sizzle of butter in a skillet, and the heady aroma of ripe peaches—one of Dad’s favorite recipes.

  Dad is at the stove with a red apron cinched around his waist. A gift from Mom, it says “Trophy Husband.”

  Aunt Sandra, wearing a tragic prairie-rose-print blouse with her burnt-umber hair teased to the heavens, is sitting on a bar stool at the kitchen island. “I hardly see how it’s considered a meal,” she says, sighing. “It’s not very southern either.”

  “Says the woman who faithfully shows up to the Waffle House every Sunday after the second morning service.”

  “Hush you. Waffle House is a staple of the south,” Aunt Sandra argues. “The Lord has blessed those cooks for their service to the community.”