What I am is squirmy, anxious. I’m a timebomb. I’m thoughts and a blank mind simultaneously. I haven’t checked my Facebook in the past hour—not the way I did thirty-six times on Sunday; yes, I counted—but my fingers are twitchy. My phone burns in my pocket.
Do you remember her?
Do you remember her?
Do you freaking remember her?
Those four words are all I know. They are my beginning and end. Even now, as I trace a finger across the damaged spine of my book, those four words corrupt my cells, amplify the adrenaline in my blood. I can’t stop jiggling my leg or looking around the room as though someone can see my twisted-up organs showing through my clothes.
The universe is screaming, “Remy Cameron, meet your new best friend, Hyperbole.”
Two minutes remain until the bell. I want this class to end. I want to shove my earbuds in, crank up anything fast and loud, and force the noise in my head to evaporate.
“Don’t forget,” Ms. Amos begins, met by the quiet groans of my peers, “your essay presentations must include any type of medium you choose.”
Oh, yes. Ms. Amos’s last-minute addition to my educational hell. Each essay will be shared with the class in the form of a presentation, with, like, charts or artwork or photos.
“Medium? Wasn’t that a horrible TV show cancelled before I was born?” jokes Ford. “Can we cancel this essay too?”
Ms. Amos, always prepared for douche-canoes like Ford, crosses her arms. “I’m especially excited about your essay, Mr. Turner. I imagine the number of failed comedians in your family’s lineage must be staggering.”
The bell finally rings. Ford shoots Ms. Amos a disingenuous grin before high-stepping out the door.
Chloe stops at my desk. “I’m thinking about asking Nancy to help me. She does incredible presentations for clients all the time.”
Nancy is one of Jayden’s moms. She’s a graphic designer. The story is, she got hired to help redesign Tori’s, Jayden’s other mom, auto garage space. A real romantic comedy ensued with design feuds and accidental coffee dates and a rooftop proposal. I’m a sucker for the way Jayden tells it.
Jayden’s moms love Chloe. Chloe loves Jayden’s moms. They live in a happy, rainbow-coated world. And Chloe never misses an opportunity to remind everyone of this. It’s so unrealistic. Or maybe it doesn’t fit the reality shown to any of us outside of TV and movies. I’m not jealous. I’m not. But maybe I am?
Darcy pauses by my desk, giving us a long look before pushing by Chloe with a huff.
“O-kay,” says Chloe.
“I’m gonna use music,” Zac says, shrugging on his backpack. “I’m putting together a playlist. EDM heaven.”
Dear baby Jesus, no one loves electronic dance music as aggressively as Zac Liu. People like that can’t be trusted.
“No Chainsmokers,” demands Chloe. “We deserve better. The world deserves better.”
“I’m doing artsy stuff,” Sara says. She rubs her cheek. The back of her hand is covered in fading mehndi; the intricate designs curl to the inside of her wrist. “I need to find a boss artist to collaborate with.”
“Ian’s amazing. You should see his notebook,” Chloe says.
“Is he?”
“A-ma-zing. Ask him to help.”
“Maybe I will.”
Maybe I hope this conversation dies a quick, silent death. I’m carefully avoiding eye contact with everyone. I don’t really have an opinion. I haven’t seen anything Ian’s done except the chalk artwork for Zombie Café. Plus, my input would probably be a bunch of babbling when it comes to Ian. All I think about is that almost kiss with him and how nothing remotely close to that has happened since.
Ms. Amos hovers at her desk after everyone leaves. I take my time stuffing my backpack with my tattered paperback, notebook, and highlighter. Briefly, I glance at my phone—no activity, thankfully.
Ms. Amos is watching me. A molecule of panic wiggles down my spine.
“Everything okay, Mr. Cameron?”
“Everything’s great,” I lie.
Out of all my teachers, Ms. Amos is the most approachable. Well, next to Mr. Riley. She’s professional, but her humor and glowing energy removes that untouchable factor a lot of teachers carry.
“Great is such an underwhelming word,” Ms. Amos says.
“Fantastic?”
“Weak.”
“First-rate?”
“That’s dated, don’t you think?” She crosses to the front of her desk, head cocked. “I’d accept ‘killer,’ though.”
I snort, then stand, pulling on my backpack.
“Also, remind me not to give you any speaking parts when we do A Streetcar Named Desire,” she adds. “A thespian, you are not.”
To humor her, I gasp noisily, hand to my chest. She’s right. In our elementary production of Winnie-the-Pooh, I made a very convincing tree.
“It’s just the…” I shake my head.
“Are you struggling with the assignment?” Ms. Amos finally asks.
Uh, hello! Respectfully, I don’t vocalize that. A quick shrug is my response.
“What about it?”
“Everything?”
“Everything?”
I make a face. “I want it to be perfect. There’s so much riding on this essay.”
“Is there?”
I almost groan. What is it about adults and turning everything you’re trying to tell them into a question?
“I need it to be perfect,” I say, hands squeezed at my sides. “But I don’t know where to start.”
“When I lack a clear view of my writing’s endgame, I look to others,” Ms. Amos says. “Reading helps. Find another space for your brain to exist for a while.”
“Like?”
“For me? Poetry. Do you know Benjamin Alire Sáenz?”
I shake my head. She doesn’t look disappointed.
“He’s an extraordinary author, but it’s his poetry that makes the battles inside of me subside.”
Ms. Amos’s face holds a richness that only exists in sunsets and the first bite of ripe fruit. I’ve seen it before. Any opportunity to speak about her heritage—about where she comes from and those who paved the way for her—ignites this supernova from deep inside her. It’s beautiful, unfolding across her features and blossoming in the way she talks with passion, pride.
“He creates art with his words,” she continues. “I feel a sense of importance, knowing someone like him exists. As if he understands me. In those words, I see that I am who I am for a reason, not by choice.”
I take her words in. We are who we are for a reason; it’s not a choice. I don’t know how to digest it all, so I stay silent.
“Find your art, Mr. Cameron. Your medium.” She walks to the other side of her desk and sits. She rearranges papers, grabs a pen. “Life inspires art, but don’t forget our art inspires life too. It’s an endless circle.”
“An infinite loop?”
She raises an eyebrow as if she doesn’t comprehend.
“Sorry, my dad works in computers.” I point at my temple, “I’m a walking databank of useless tech knowledge and vocab.”
“We create things. What we create changes something in someone else, Mr. Cameron. Who you are isn’t found in one single space.”
I bite my lip.
She cocks her head. “Why is this essay so important?”
“I need to pass this class.”
“Not that I should divulge this kind of information, but according to my records, you’re doing quite well,” Ms. Amos says, smirking—that you-already-know-this smirk.
“Also, I need this essay for…” I pause, chest tight. “…college. I want to go to Emory College of Arts and Science.”
“What a lovely place.”
“There’s an admissions essay�
�”
She nods knowingly. “Emory is very selective.” She sounds eerily like Mrs. Scott. Then she adds, “But you’re still a junior, Mr. Cameron. You have time. This essay isn’t about you impressing Emory. It’s not about being perfect.”
I can’t tell her the reason I need to be perfect is to impress her, not just for a recommendation letter, but because Ms. Amos, with her love for poetry and great authors and the way she lights up about where she comes from and where she’s going, has something I admire, something I want for myself. I can’t tell her that when I admire and respect someone, I try a million times harder to impress them.
I finally say, “Okay.”
I’m an old computer, trying to recycle new information and turn it into a solution. I don’t tell her that the other reason I need to ace this essay is because I refuse to be what Mrs. Scott expects me to be.
But who do I expect myself to be?
* * *
This is the last place I should be after school. The bleachers near the large green lawn where the soccer team practices used to be my second home. I’m huddled with my knees close to my chest. My thin, pink waffle sweater barely keeps the bite of mid-October breeze from my skin. The sleeves are pulled over my knuckles. I can feel the bleacher’s cool steel through my jeans. The afternoon air tastes of sap from the neighboring pine trees, a burst of allspice, and a hint of tart Granny Smith apples.
My earbuds pump music into my bloodstream. I try not to think about Facebook, about logging onto my messages to reread the one from Free.
Do you remember her?
The photo plays like grainy footage in my brain: those eyes, that curly afro. Part of me feels as if I should remember her. She looks almost like me.
Every time I start to type a reply, I wonder if Free sees the three ellipses appear, then disappear. Has she thought about asking me again?
I unlock my screen, check the time. Mom and Willow are having a mommy-daughter Cinnabon date. Lucy’s off being Ultra Class President. The last I heard from Rio, it was Mad Tagger this, Mad Tagger that.
I watch the soccer team. A dozen boys run around in tiny shorts, knocking soccer balls into the net—sweat and sticky athletic tops and Gatorade. And then there’s Dimi.
I spent exactly ninety-nine-point-too-much percent of my time in these bleachers watching Dimi.
Under the lazy sun slumped against an ageing blue sky, his strong jaw and square shoulders look good. His brown hair sits flat against his head. He’s talking to Hugh and Malcolm. They playfully jab each other’s shoulders. When Dimi and I were together, I’d lean against the fence and talk to Malcolm between practice drills. He’d tell me about the girls he was into but was too shy to ask out. I was “in” with this crowd.
Not anymore. Most of these guys barely look me in the eye when we pass in the hallways. As if I’m the one who did something wrong. That’s the thing, Dimi was my world for months and months. Then I was nothing. An ex-boyfriend.
To some of the jock-assholes: “Dimi’s ex-girlfriend.” That guy who used to be with Dimitar Antov. I wonder, is that who I am? Am I who I fall in love with?
“Haven’t you earned an upgrade from this crowd yet?”
Brook bounds up the bleachers toward me. His bony elbow nudges me. He has this infectious grin—huge and eye-scrunching with rows of perfectly white teeth. It’s a nice juxtaposition to the popped collar of his letterman jacket and the humongous headphones hugging his jaw.
“Yeah.” I sigh. “No. I dunno.”
“Come on, little dude.” Brook always calls me that. He’s only a year older than me and a few inches taller. But I never complain. Secretly, I think it fits.
“Maybe this is just my thinking spot?”
Brook shoots me a doubtful look. “Little dude,” he starts, shaking his head, “Even Silver is too fly for these losers.”
It’s true. Silver tries to hide in the shadows of the trees to smoke. None of the coaches ever see him, and that’s not a compliment to his covert skills; it’s just their obliviousness to anything not green, black, or white.
Silver’s the quietly observant type. He’s too cool for anyone, me included. The students have a running bet that he’ll be that guy who drops out, becomes a famous actor, and destroys all evidence he attended Maplewood High. Good for him.
Brook nudges me again. “So, what’s up with you?”
“What’s up with me?” I try—and fail—to ignore the unearthly high-pitch of my voice on that last word.
“This isn’t you.” He waves a hand around my face. “Where’s the super-social, livewire I’ve seen the past two years? He’s missing.”
“Have you filed a report with Lieutenant Parker yet?”
“Nope.”
“You should.” I shove a hand into my untamed curls. “But if you’re gonna turn me into one of those social media Missing Persons posts, please only use photos from the fourth-grade Christmas pageant.”
“Why?”
“Because I was the lead elf and looked damn good in candy-cane socks and green Converse!”
Brook’s laugh booms, scaring a few birds. Mine is quieter, but the unraveling knots in the pit of my stomach feel good—nauseating, but good.
“There he is.”
I try to duck away when Brook goes to scrub my curls, but he wrestles me, and my halfhearted fight dies.
The unspoken trust between Brook and I started long before Lucy and his extreme make-out sessions, before he invaded our lunch table with his husky voice and video game obsessions. Circa freshman year, we didn’t know each other, but that first moment of eye contact, the head-nod in the hallway said it all. It’s the same kindred connection I have with Janelle Peterson and the same one Brook shares with Charles Barnett.
That connection is how the four of us were the first to find Imani Donaldson, a freshman, the Monday after her brother was shot and killed in a misunderstanding at a club downtown the second week of school. We were the only five black students at Maplewood, huddled in a corner, comforting one of our own. The silent “we’re in this together” exists like plasma in our blood. When I came out, Brook didn’t blink an eye. He saw me in the hallways, shrunken and nervous, and walked right up to me for a fist bump and a “you’ve got this” that was said with his eyes before he walked on.
“What’s the story, little dude?”
Before I can answer—and I still don’t have anything acceptable to say that won’t sound as though I’m utterly lost right now—he adds, “And this is me asking. Lucy didn’t put me up to anything.”
“That makes it sound like she did.”
“She didn’t.”
I believe him. Unspoken trust. “Nothing big.” Everything feels big right now. My cold fingers curl tightly around my phone. The strains of some indie pop song beats through my earbuds. I want to curl into the melody, let the lyrics ink across my skin—any means of escape.
I angle my body in Brook’s direction. “Who’s your favorite music artist?”
He gives me a long look before he replies, “Childish Gambino,” as if my out-of-nowhere question doesn’t faze him. That’s the thing about Brook—he’s so easy-going. He’s not overly-curious. He’s just walking the tracks of life, never worried about the train slamming into him.
“Janelle Monae is dope too,” he says, smiling. “But my favorite is Sugarland.”
I blink at him a few times. “What in the actual eff? Sugarland?” There goes my voice again, all screechy and abnormal.
“Sugarland.”
“You’re kidding.”
“What?” Brook isn’t the least bit self-conscious about this confession.
“Nothing.”
“You don’t like them?”
“I don’t know them.” I mean, I do. We live in Georgia. During the summer, there’s this seriously incredible laser show at Stone Mou
ntain Park, a theme park set around a rock that has three Confederate soldiers carved into its peak. The lasers illustrate historical events and cartoony stories and patriotic themes across the rock’s surface while people sit on a giant lawn to watch. They always play randomly popular country songs during the performance. So, I know a few country musicians, but not really.
I don’t like to throw around stereotypes, to box anyone into a package not meant for them but Brook’s never come off as someone who’d call country music his jam.
“Oh, little dude,” Brook’s pulling out his phone, opening YouTube after he’s keyed in the passcode, “You haven’t lived until you’ve heard ‘Stay’ live.”
Full disclosure: Brook’s right. I can’t quite get my mouth to tell him, but the strum of an acoustic guitar accompanied by a raspy voice wrapping around broken emotion wrecks me. Maybe my shaky inhale after the song ends tells him. Maybe I’m thinking about Dimi.
“This is the stuff my pops raised me on,” Brook tells me. “Willie and Loretta Lynn. Grassroots music. It wasn’t a good day in our house if you couldn’t bob your head to Garth Brooks.” His expression is flooded with honesty and joy. As if someone took a memory of his, unfolded it, pressed out all the wrinkles, and let him hold it again.
“Now my G’ma…” He reclines onto the seats behind us. “…she played nothing but gospel music. Every day. I didn’t miss a Sunday of Mississippi Mass Choir or Shirley Caesar. On my pop’s birthday, she plays Aretha Franklin’s version of ‘Amazing Grace,’ and we just sit together. We hold hands and listen.”
Lucy told me Brook’s dad died young from heart disease. That’s the reason he’s so into sports. He eats healthier than any teenager I know and savors every second of life. His dad’s death is also why Brook does everything his mom asks him to. He doesn’t want to disappoint her. To leave her empty-handed. The weight a child carries to impress a parent is bigger than anyone acknowledges.
“Country music and gospel?” I ask.
“And hip-hop.”
“That’s all over the place.”
How to Be Remy Cameron Page 13
