How to Be Remy Cameron

by Julian Winters

  Brook shrugs, but it’s carefree. “I don’t let my music tastes define me.”

  “Music doesn’t define us,” I echo, my voice small but dying to be confident.

  Brook’s legs stretch out to the bleachers below. He’s an endless road of limbs and smiles. “You like that one band—”

  “POP ETC,” I confirm.

  “Yeah, them.” He makes a weird face, then says, “But that’s not all you are, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “I mean, I’ve heard the stuff you listen to and, good for you, but that’s not my thing. So what? It’s part of what makes you Remy, but not all of it.”

  “Because music doesn’t define us.”

  “Exactly!” He claps, excitedly. “It’s a fraction of who we are, right now. It’ll change.”

  He’s right again. I went through a minor—underlined and bolded—showtunes phase. It lasted a summer.

  “These things come and go. People come and go.” He’s motioning toward the field, toward Dimi. “They don’t make up who we are.”

  “Do you know who you’re meant to be?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I—” Everything halts in my voice. The brakes slam on my thoughts.

  I can’t seem to explain it to him, to ask the questions I want to ask, because Brook, the country-loving, gospel-jamming, happy-as-hell guy always seems to know who he is, who he’s meant to be. Lucy, as uncertain as she is about the SATs, is confident in everything else about herself. Nothing rattles Rio from being Rio.

  “Never mind,” I whisper.

  Autumn wind whistles between us. The soccer team huddles amid laughter and noise and water bottles. Dimi is in the center. All I see is the guy who was my first love, who broke my heart. The guy who is now a was and no longer a is.

  Brook stands. “I’ve gotta run. Can’t miss the bus or Ma will kick my ass.”

  During the day, Brook’s mom works at a bank. She spends her evenings picking up shifts at a Waffle House across town. He catches the bus there every day he’s not working at the movie theatre. Brook’s mom has one goal: Keep him at Maplewood so he can earn an athletic scholarship. She has a great relationship with Coach Park. Everyone’s confident Brook, all-star swimmer three years now, is headed to a good swim program and possibly the Olympics. I can’t wait to cheer him on.

  At the bottom of the bleachers, he turns, then says, “A little bird says you haven’t called him yet?”

  “A little bird?”

  “Okay,” he chuckles, “Ian’s more like a pelican.”

  Every muscle in my face reacts to the sound of Ian’s name.

  “He’s kind of weird,” I say.

  “A good weird.”

  “A good weird.” I agree, and when did this blushing thing become such a problem? Also, that last crack in my voice? Uncalled for.

  “He was totally casual when he said it,” Brook says, his tone betraying him.

  “Totally casual?”

  “Mostly.” Then Brook gets serious, which usually frightens underclassmen, but I’ve seen this dude cry during Pixar movies. I’m immune. He says, “As his best friend, I’m authorized to harass you about these things.”

  “What things?”

  “You know, things.”

  “Our friendship?”

  “Yes, that.” Brook sighs loudly with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “But, also, because I’ve been his best friend for five years, so I know other things.”

  I raise an eyebrow. Other things is a loose term, and I’m not about to out Ian if his best friend isn’t going to be clear.

  Brook drags a hand down his face. He hesitates. “My weird-but-hilarious best friend has a boner for you. I’m politely—but in an I-will-kick-your-ass-if-you-play-him way—asking you to consider calling or texting him. Sometime soonish.”

  I choke on my spit. Did Brook just respectfully threaten bodily harm? And why is my heart jumping like a kid ten seconds from overdosing on sugar in one of those bouncy houses?

  “I, uh—” No, no, no. I’m not having this conversation. Remy Cameron is not dating this year.

  But Brook’s foot taps on the grass, so I say, “Okay.”

  “Okay? Seriously?”

  “I’ll text.”

  “Wow. Didn’t think that would work.”

  My jaw drops, eyes widening. “You did just threaten to crush me like a Coke can.”

  “I’d never do it,” Brook admits. “Lucy is savage when it comes to you.”

  We share an amused look. It’s true. But out of all the guys Lucy’s dated, which isn’t many, I like Brook best. I think he feels the same about me. He starts toward the large oak tree where the bus stops but pauses. “This is all off the record, little dude.”

  “Of course.”

  “He’s a weirdo, but in a good way, I promise.”

  It doesn’t take much effort for me to believe Brook. Unspoken trust. But I give him a nod for assurance, and then he’s gone. And I’m left on the bleachers, reconsidering my whole “Thou shall not date this year” philosophy.

  All because of Ian Park.

  14

  Message from Remy Cameron

  Is that me?

  Sent Oct 29 10:10 a.m.

  Message from Free Williams

  Yes. And your mother. Do you remember her?

  Sent Oct 29 10:41 a.m.

  Message from Remy Cameron

  She looks like you. That means you’re…

  Sent Oct 29 10:44 a.m.

  * * *

  Rio’s bedroom is filled with the sounds of noisy indie rock. But I don’t hate it. I also don’t know what that says about me nowadays.

  “Who is this again?”

  “Why? Do you like them?” replies Rio without looking at me.

  “Maybe.”

  “Shocking, considering your music taste is the equivalent of Clover’s daily dump.”

  I smirk. “Why am I your best friend again?”

  “Because the Witness Protection Program couldn’t afford to hire you a better one,” she says without missing a beat. “Also, your life would be pathetic without me.”

  “Don’t you mean my life would suck without you?”

  “Don’t go quoting Kelly Clarkson in this sacred space, Romeo,” Rio says sternly, but with this subtle fondness. “I’m not above tossing your scrawny ass out my bedroom window.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  Rio doesn’t respond. She’s studying the wall closest to the window while I begin examining the ceiling of K-pop horror above me. Pre-teen Rio was so much fluffier than this current Mad Tagger-obsessed incarnation.

  “Any new clues?” I ask.

  Again, Rio’s silent. I expect that much. She’s in front of her SUSPECT WALL—capitalized, because Rio’s dramatic like that. Most of the wall is covered by a giant map of Maplewood. Red X’s signify where the Mad Tagger has left their calling card. Polaroid photos of all their art are pinned to the map. Cutout yearbook snaps showcasing all the prime suspects and lists of evidence dangle from red pushpins.

  Ford Turner. Lexi Goodwin. Malcolm Stone. Hiro Itō. Andrew Cowen.

  Wait…

  “Is that Ian?” My voice is strangled.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?” She keeps her back to me. “He’s an art geek. He has a car, access to the school after hours via his dad. None of us hang out with him outside of lunch. We don’t know much about him—”

  “He’s Brook’s best friend,” I counter.

  “Does that give him a pass? Andrew Cowen is Brook’s friend, too, but he’s a suspect.”

  “So? If they’re both connected to Brook, why isn’t he on the list?”

  Rio makes an annoyed noise. “Brook Hen
ry is the living definition of a stuffed teddy bear. There’s no way he’d do it.”

  “Cute and cuddly doesn’t eliminate potential criminal status,” I argue. My heart is pulsing strongly, like a warning. I need to shut up.

  “Do you have any reasons why Ian’s innocent other than the Brook connection?”

  Yes, waits on my tongue. That almost-kiss vibrates against my mouth. The ghost of his hand in mine chills my skin. “No,” I whisper.

  “Then he stays,” says Rio, firmly.

  “But…” I can’t finish. I can’t tell Rio, my best friend, about Ian. About Ian and me. Not that there’s an Ian and me, but still. Besides, Ian’s just a face in a bizarre line-up that also includes Principal Moon, Mr. Riley, and Chloe’s dad. The whole wall is a love letter to old-school murder mysteries, ransom-note-style.

  Music talks for us. It’s a happy, clappy song, so I can’t complain. I should be at home studying or working on the Essay of Doom. But why? Weekends are for being anything other than yourself. Weekends are for irresponsibility and treating the world like that bowl of uncooked cookie dough you’re not supposed to eat, but you do.

  “Sara came by another GSA meeting,” I mention to escape the tension of our previous discussion. Rio hums, scrutinizing a photo with a pen pressed to her pale pink lips. It’s obviously an invitation for me to keep talking. “Another failed attempt to get us on the homecoming bandwagon.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “She doesn’t get it.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “It’s just… strange.”

  What I don’t tell Rio is how, after the meeting, Sara lingered in the back of the classroom, staring at all the other students. Her rehearsed, pyrotechnic-expression remained, but there was a hollowness in her eyes. She didn’t say anything to anyone.

  Sara is a homecoming-princess-in-the-making. Quiet isn’t her style. That twitch of her mouth and her searching eyes replay in my mind, as if a fraction of her wanted to be there, to belong to this thing she hasn’t figured out how to be part of. It’s been haunting me for a few days, especially since I didn’t say anything to her about it. I should’ve.

  “Mr. Riley is talking about doing a group event for the club.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Something for Halloween.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I thought maybe bowling?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Ignoring her robotic responses comes naturally. When Rio’s in a headspace, I don’t dare enter. My feet are in the air, and I stare at my pink-and-yellow polka dot socks.

  “Would you like to go?” I don’t wait for her to answer. “We could dress up, eat pizza, go bowling—”

  “You’ll fall and bust your ass. I’ll happily record and post it on Twitter.”

  We’re not looking at each other, but I can tell her smile is as wide as mine. It’s that third-grade-best-friends feeling. These smiles are heart-shaped mementos pinned to the scrapbook of my brain.

  “Sara’s dropping mad hints about homecoming.” The wall Rio’s bed is pushed against is decorated in those cheap glow-in-the-dark stars and planets, a parting gift from Jo-Ann Fabric. I haven’t decided if I like them or not. “I think she wants me to join the committee.”

  “You’re anti-committee.”

  “Well, duh.”

  “Then there’s nothing to discuss,” says Rio. “Unless…”

  I hate that giddiness in her tone.

  “Remy Cameron, you want to go to the dance!”

  I clutch a pillow over my face and scream.

  Rio softens the music to say, “I’ll totally be your D.D.”

  Designated Date. Rio’s nailed this role flawlessly before—and after—I came out. For every school dance, weekend house party, or group movie date where everyone else was straight and I was—fashionably and miserably—single. She even owns a mandatory dress for such occasions. It’s bluer than the afternoon sky with white skull silhouettes stamped across the fabric and a slight ruffle to the hem. Rio is a mythological god in that dress.

  I grin at my socks. “Nah, I’m good.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Good.” Her focus hasn’t left the wall. “We have a pact about this, remember?”

  I do. I sit up so my elbows support me. “Okay. What’s the deal?” I watch her pace in front of the wall. Her mouth is scrunched, and she looks ready to either punch something or yell, maybe both. “Give me the tea.”

  “There was another incident,” says Rio, not commenting on my casual usage of gay lingo. That’s not like her. “Wednesday. The library doors were tagged with ‘This way to freedom or the best nap you’ve never had.’ Kind of lazy.”

  “Extremely lazy.” It’s half as bad as that Mad Tagger imitator outside of Maplewood Middle. Willow could’ve come up with a better message. “When did it happen?”

  “After school. Soccer coach saw it when practice was over.”

  Wednesday. The same day I just happened to be sitting in the bleachers, watching the team—and Dimi. The same day Silver was hiding—badly—by the trees. The same day Brook stopped to talk.

  “That’s, uh, interesting.”

  I’m trying hard not to put clues together. Not to think about Brook leaving to catch the Marta before practice ended or Silver finishing his cigarette, then following the fencing all the way to the school’s backdoors.

  Brook can’t be the Mad Tagger. He can’t. Rio’s right: he’s squeaky-clean and borderline perfect and the soft embodiment of school spirit. He’s got this big future ahead of him—all these expectations. Plus, Lucy would kill him. Not hypothetically, but full-on, top story on the evening news, Lifetime docuseries on how she did it, kill him. Rio and I would provide the alibi. I like Brook; he’s über-cool, but this is Lucy. She let me cry on her bedroom floor in yoga pants with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s after the whole Dimi-broke-me thing.

  “Andrew’s annual Halloween party is this weekend,” I say.

  “Are you going?”

  “Nope.” I sigh at the ceiling, not out of disappointment, though. I’m looking forward to wreaking havoc on Ballard Hills with Willow. “Are you?”

  “Nope.” Rio sighs too. “I’m actively boycotting that massive pile of social diarrhea.”

  “Why?”

  “Just because I’m popular-by-association thanks to the Junior Class President and the leader of the New Americana Gay-Straight Alliance…” I groan loudly, but only at the Halsey reference. “…that doesn’t mean I actually enjoy going to all the patriarchal functions intended to get the dude-bros at our school drunk and laid.”

  When she looks over her shoulder at me, I mouth “Wow” with wide eyes.

  “I have other interests,” she says. “I have integrity.” The Mean Girls poster hung over Rio’s desk politely disagrees. “Anyway, that’s not why you’re here.” Everything about Rio’s posture is accusing—the hands on her hips, squinted eyes, puckered lips.

  I fake astonishment for six-point-two seconds, but I know I can’t get away with this kind of bad acting when it comes to Rio Maguire, junior detective. Maybe it’s because, as journalists, her parents are always looking for an angle. Maybe she’s just super-intuitive. Or maybe a decade of friendship has made my poker face weak.

  “I…” The words don’t come.

  I think I have an older sister. And, by the way, she found me on Facebook and I’m generally losing my shit every time she messages me.

  “My essay for AP Lit is killing me.”

  Yeah, I chickened out. All those thoughts about Free that pinwheel in my head never make it to my throat. I just can’t tell Rio. I can’t admit that I’ve repeatedly searched Free’s Facebook feed and stalked her Instagram. I’ve seen a dozen different photos of that same woman—my mother, but a little older, frailer, with dead eyes
and less volume to her smile. Free has the same eyes, the nose, the wide grin, so many characteristics that are just like… Me.

  “The Essay of Doom?”

  “That’s the one!”

  “What’re you struggling with?”

  That I keep thinking about bringing up Free to my parents. But every time I get close, my jaw locks up.

  I can’t just ask, “Hey, Mom and Dad, did you know I have a sister? Did you know she existed? By the way, it’s cool if you knew, but what the fuck?”

  Rio’s staring at me, head cocked.

  I swallow, feel the saliva trying to maneuver around the gigantic lump in my throat. “All of it?”

  “All of it?” Rio repeats.

  I tug out my phone. On my Cloud, I have last night’s draft saved. I read it out loud to her:

  “I have tried to write this essay five different times and have come to the same conclusion after each failure: I’m an enigma.

  I’m a 500-piece puzzle with only 472 pieces and the picture on the cover of the box is too faded to recognize.

  I’m a book with pages from other books and chapters that start but never finish, a plot too chaotic to absorb.

  I’m Remy Cameron.

  Unfortunately, I have no idea what that means anymore.”

  “It’s a start,” says Rio, pulling her hair into a ponytail. “And you do know yourself.”

  “I do?”

  “Duh!” She smirks, walking right up to the bed. “You constantly walk around like you own every little thing about you. You’re so damn confident it’s annoying.”

  “I’m not.” My protest is as halfhearted as her ponytail.

  “Yeah, you are. You’ve been that way since you came out.”

  I bite my thumbnail. Here’s the thing: Just because I came out at fourteen doesn’t mean I’m one-hundred-percent secure in myself all the time. Coming out doesn’t equal indisputable confidence. It means that, for those precious seconds it takes to identify yourself to someone else, you’re brave. It doesn’t last.

  “I’m just borrowing my ego from you,” I say.

  “Plagiarizing is more like it.”

  Our laughs are in synch. Mine is a little watery, but Rio doesn’t make any noise about it. She pokes my nose, and I swat her away.