How to Be Remy Cameron

by Julian Winters

  “It’s not that serious, Remy.”

  “But it is!”

  “To who?”

  “Emory. Mrs. Scott. My parents.”

  “I doubt your sweet-as-apple-pie parents give a flying eff about a damn essay,” says Rio.

  “I disagree.”

  “Obviously.” Rio shakes her head. “At least your parents are around to talk about these things.” A thin layer of hurt blooms in Rio’s voice.

  “Yours are right downstairs, you know,” I say, lighthearted. I can hear them playing music in the kitchen—Duran Duran, of course.

  “Yeah. Today.”

  “But—”

  “Holy mother of Buffy Summers.” She groans, hands thrown in the air. “Do some research. There are, like, hundreds of ancestry websites nowadays. Figure. It. Out.”

  I whisper, “It’s hard. I’m adopted.”

  “No way,” deadpans Rio. “Is that why your parents are white?”

  I chuck a pillow at her head, giggling. My aim is terrible, and it thuds against the wall before sliding down to the carpet. Rio ignores it.

  “Your parents have to know something about your dead mom, right?”

  A flash of cold runs from my hairline to the tips of my toes. Talking to my parents about my birth mother again isn’t a bridge I planned to cross. It’s a journey I’ve been avoiding for years, simply taking the long way to figure out who I am. Maybe it’s unavoidable? It’s that ten car wreck right in front of you with no detour to get to your final destination.

  “I-I can ask,” I stutter.

  Rio turns back to the suspect wall. “Good. I need to focus a little less on Remy the Unknown and more on this Mad Tagger case.”

  I fall back on the bed, feet in the air, arms spread out. This is why AP Lit sucks. Average literature students wouldn’t be forced to question their existence. Normal lit students talk about Shakespeare and the absurdity of the Catcher in the Rye. I’d kill for Holden Caufield-levels of angst. My current emo-shit-storm is the stuff freshman year of college is made of.

  I clutch my phone for a second before pulling up the Facebook messenger app. My hands shaking, I take three tries to login. Free hasn’t replied to my last message. Maybe she’s busy. Or maybe she’s given me enough clues to put it all together. She expects me to know she’s my sister.

  I jab out a message:

  Message from Remy Cameron

  Can we meet?

  Sent Oct 29 2:43 p.m.

  Tiny tears sting my eyes. My breathing is shallow and quick.

  I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.

  I hit send.

  I don’t have to linger in the black hole of my unknown existence for long. I don’t have to wait for the three ellipses to indicate Free’s writing back. My phone’s already vibrating: an incoming call. It’s not Free, though. That doesn’t mean the large knot in my stomach loosens. It tightens, but for a new reason, a better reason.

  An Ian kind of reason.

  15

  It’s Friday night. It’s Halloween. And Mom is watching me as if I ate the last of her peanut-butter-swirl brownies. That last part might’ve happened. But that’s not why she’s staring at me.

  “You’re plotting something, Remy Cameron.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Oh yes, you are.”

  “I’m not. You have no evidence.”

  “You have that look. You know the one.”

  I don’t. I mean, I don’t think I do? Guilty is my least favorite expression. It’s impossible to look Mom in the eyes, mostly because she’s wearing this awful platinum blonde wig to complement her costume, which is orange pants and a turquoise top with fringe—lots of fringe.

  “It’s Christina Aguilera, circa ‘Genie in a Bottle’ phase,” she announced earlier.

  I don’t really get it. Then again, I haven’t researched that part of Christina Aguilera’s history on YouTube either. Still, I’m determined not to look her in the eyes.

  I sit on the sofa hugging a throw pillow while Mom fills three glass bowls with bite-sized candies. The kids of Ballard Hills are going to hold her for ransom unless Dad hands over full-size bars. Our community isn’t notorious for late-night criminal activity—Mad Tagger aside—but Halloween is a pretty serious thing. It’s overloaded with ravenous teens searching for anything high in sugar content.

  Squinting, Mom walks up to me. “I smell body spray and deception.”

  “Mom!”

  It’s complete bullshit—the first part, at least. I’m not one of those guys who rocks body fragrances meant to attract your crush and small woodland creatures the way all those commercials advertise. Aromatherapy body washes? Definitely. Today’s scent: orange zest and ginger with a mild hint of deception.

  Mom’s eyebrows lower. “What’s your endgame here, Remy?”

  “Twix and pixie sticks?”

  “What else?”

  “Twizzlers, but only the original kind,” I say with a little more confidence.

  Mom sizes me up. Her bad cop routine is rather intense; immensely better than Dad’s. “A likely story,” she says, drawing back. “I’m watching you.”

  “I’m watching you too!” Willow yells, running into the living room fully-dressed.

  Our trick-or-treating tradition started three Halloweens ago. Mom came down with the flu and couldn’t march us around the neighborhood. Dad offered to replace her. He was wearing a foam banana costume and… no. On the verge of adulthood, at the ripe age of fourteen, I threatened to boycott every major holiday for the foreseeable future if I didn’t get to fly solo with Willow. Famous last words. It’s been my duty—and privilege since Willow’s so cool—ever since. The two Cameron kids braving the wicked streets of Ballard Hills alone.

  But this year—

  The doorbell chimes, along with the Wicked Witch of the West-cackle Dad installed for the occasion. Yep, we’re overflowing with all kinds of lame traditions in this neighborhood.

  “Mine!”

  I leap from the sofa, disposing of the throw pillow. I hit a perfectly timed high jump over poor Clover on the way. It’s hard to ignore Mom’s “The aroma of a trap is all over you, Remy Cameron!” as I reach for the doorknob.

  Ian Park is standing on my front stoop, carefully patting his severely spiked and gelled hair as though it’s out of place. It’s dyed dark green, which really brings out the moss and amber in his eyes. He’s wearing a dark suit with a pale-yellow shirt. The collar’s popped and a skinny tie hangs loosely. I have no idea who he’s supposed to be, but he’s freaking adorable.

  “Hey.”

  “Whoa,” says Ian, half-laughing. “Um, tiger?”

  Absently, I touch my face. I forgot.

  Mom helped with the face paint, only giggling every five minutes. I’m wearing an orange-and-black tiger-striped hoodie and ripped, dark, skinny jeans. Mom put together a headband with faux-fur tiger ears, but I nixed that.

  “I’m Hobbes.”

  “Who?”

  I regret every life decision I’ve made in the past forty-eight hours. Of course, he doesn’t know who Hobbes is. I shouldn’t know who Hobbes is. Clearing my throat, I say, “Hobbes, as in Calvin and Hobbes, the comic strip.”

  He blinks at me.

  “Willow has a mild obsession with the Sunday comics. Halloween is our thing, and since last year…” My voice trails off in a painful squeak.

  Ian’s hand is carefully hiding his amused smirk. “What about last year?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Bet I can find it on Facebook if I—”

  “We went as Franklin and Sally from the Peanuts comic strip!”

  That’s all it takes. Ian cracks up, and I wither under intense embarrassment. This night r
eally was a trap, a trap for one Remy Cameron.

  “That’s so perfect,” he says.

  “Yeah. Well,” I mumble, shoving down the “and so are you” that’s raging up my throat. “Anyway, who are you supposed to be?”

  Ian squares his shoulders; his chin is smugly cocked. It’s kind of hot. I’m so screwed.

  “Spike Spiegel,” he replies.

  “I’m sorry, a what?”

  His shoulders deflate. This time, I’m the one holding in a chuckle. Ian mutters, “The main character from Cowboy Bebop?”

  “Is that porn?”

  “No!” Ian’s face wrinkles. “Spike Spiegel!”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “It’s from an anime,” he tries to explain. “Spike is this cool-but-uncool bounty hunter. Super cocky. People love to hate him.”

  “Okay.”

  “Seriously, you’ve never heard of him?”

  I shrug. “Is this one of those cosplay things? Practicing for Dragon Con next year?”

  “Exactly, Tigger.”

  “I’m not—” I stop, mid-breath, when a playful smile inches across Ian’s mouth. Touché. Something suspiciously tingly crawls down my chest, right into my organs, and it’s going to take years for me to forget that sensation. Ian licks his lips and that feeling sinks lower. These jeans can only hide so much.

  “That doesn’t sound like trick-or-treaters at the door, honey!” Mom singsongs.

  My plan—because this is not a scheme and I have nothing to hide, thanks Mom—did not include introducing Ian to my parents. I love them. I love Willow. I’ve had plenty of friends over before. Even Dimi’s been here. All those visits have included old photos of chubby-baby Remy and video documentaries of past birthdays and one too many reminders of the time I upchucked a colorful stream of melted cotton candy after riding a mini-rollercoaster at Six Flags Over Georgia. But this feels different. I can’t figure out how, but maybe Ian’s different from Lucy or Rio, different from Dimi, which, he can’t be, right?

  Ian’s not even in the Boyfriend category. Or Casual Hook-Up category.

  “Is that a friend of yours?”

  “Uh, yeah?”

  I can hear Mom approaching, Willow too. This is happening.

  Like an adult, I suck it up. I open the door farther and step back, my best invitation for Ian to enter the Cameron House of Baby Photo Embarrassment.

  Ian removes his shoes before crossing the threshold. I stare, eyebrows lifted.

  “It’s a habit. We take our shoes off at my house,” he says.

  “Oh. Cool,” I say.

  He steps inside. We linger, standing in a void where our eyes meet and our breaths synch, and I almost feel as though every one of our cells is moving to the same rhythm. I almost think this might be more than a crush.

  “Hello, there.”

  Our quiet moment is interrupted by Mom and Dad and Willow, who giggles from behind my legs.

  I introduce Ian to my parents. They shake hands. Ian’s voice is clear but soft, as if his nerves are choking his larynx. Mom is chatty; Dad is corny. I’m mortified.

  “And you must be Calvin, right?” Ian asks, peering around my legs at Willow.

  Ian calling her Calvin draws Willow out from behind me. With a toothless grin and gleeful voice, she goes on and on about Ian’s hair. I’m more than a little proud of Willow’s costume: red-and-black-striped T-shirt, black jeans, hair just as spikey and gelled as Ian’s.

  Mom mentions something about photos and I immediately intervene. “Right, so we’re just gonna go…” I motion toward the door.

  Dad nods his approval and slings an arm around Mom’s shoulders to stop her protests. But Mom has this look in her eye. Ian and I are a little close. Our hands dangle in close proximity. It’s the perfect set-up for bad-motherly thoughts, as if she’s planning our wedding.

  It’s definitely time to leave. I mumble, “Who’s ready for candy and fresh air?”

  Willow runs to retrieve her ghost-painted candy bucket from the kitchen. Ian grabs his shoes, but not before Clover vigorously sniffs them. I sincerely hope she’s not plotting where to mark her next territory.

  I escort Willow and Ian and my inch of dignity out the front door.

  Ballard Hills is lit orange by streetlights and gray-blue by the almost moonless sky. We cover most of the neighborhood—and a few adjacent ones—in under two hours. It’s a leisurely stroll, because Willow has short legs and I’m in no rush to lose Ian’s company. The streets aren’t super-crowded. Sporadic groups of pre-teens are followed by bored parents or older siblings. The occasional duo of teens smuggle eggs and toilet paper under their hoodies.

  Everyone is really into Halloween around here. Pumpkins and cotton-ball ghosts are everywhere. But no one’s lawn is as decorated as Mr. Ivanov’s. Willow’s bucket is stuffed to the brim with candy. I carry it for her, pouring the excess into one of those reusable Publix grocery totes Mom packed in case of a candy emergency.

  Willow’s a smash with the adults. Old-school costumes easily beat out all the princesses and Transformers and Disney knockoffs. Everyone slides her an extra piece of candy while raving over how in-character she is. Of course, she is. Willow wouldn’t have it any other way.

  I get a ton of “And look at you, the perfect companion!” It cracks Ian up every single time. I’m not earning any extra cool points parading around as a tiger with my younger sister, but it’s not so bad. Willow’s happy; that’s enough.

  But there’s also the occasional exchange with a nosy adult: “Oh, are you her babysitter?”

  “No.”

  “Tutor?”

  “She’s seven.”

  “Kids start young these days! My nephew Jake is studying French and—”

  “I’m her brother.”

  That always triggers a brief odd look before they put on a tight smile and counterfeit cheery eyes. They pass over handfuls of candy, more than they gave the last trick-or-treater, as if that’s an apology or an easy way out of their closed-minded observations. Whatever. It’s all for my sister.

  “We got so much!” screeches Willow.

  We’re clearing Hopper Street, headed home. I’m the navigator. Ian’s humming ’80s songs. Between us, Willow marches, wide-eyed, already dreaming of the sugar overdose she’s about to experience after Mom investigates every piece of candy.

  I used to hate the endless wait for Mom or Dad to inspect the candy. I mean, I get it now. People are messed up. But it was still hell on a seven-year-old dying for a mini-Reese’s cup and a pound of M&M’s.

  “You killed it tonight, Willow,” I tell her.

  She’s shaking her hips to whatever upbeat song Ian’s singing. He’s so damn off-key, but I can’t help snapping my fingers to the beat.

  “Okay, favorite candy?” Ian asks.

  “Gummy worms!” Willow shouts, without hesitation.

  I laugh. The last time I gave her a bag, she ended up with rainbow teeth and tongue. Mom did not approve.

  “Gross, Twinkle Toes.” I use my free hand to pat her softening hair. “Those come from the dirt!”

  “And I love them!”

  I look over at Ian: grin-scrunched eyes, fluffy green hair, and skin bronzed by orangey light. My stomach flips.

  “What’s yours?” he asks.

  We never break eye contact.

  “Reese’s peanut butter cups.”

  “The minis?”

  I make a face and his cackle echoes through the entire neighborhood. “Full-size. Like me.”

  This time, he makes a face—one of those “save the bullshit” faces.

  “You?” I ask out of politeness, out of a sudden need.

  “Candy corn.”

  “Too sweet.”

  Ian slows down; Willow mirrors him. “Too sweet?” He tips his head bac
k and beams at the crescent moon. “Coming from the guy who takes his little sister trick-or-treating instead of partying with kids his own age?”

  I’m not close enough to punch his shoulder but I telegraph it with fiercely squinted eyes.

  “I think that’s pretty sweet,” says Ian. “Very sweet.”

  I bite my thumbnail. “Pretty corny, Ian.”

  “Candy-corn-corny?”

  I choke-snort and cover my face. Ian freaking Park.

  “Come on Spike Spielberg.”

  “Spike Spiegel,” Ian corrects me.

  “Whatever you say, handsome.”

  And… wait. Did that just come flying out of my mouth?

  I blink so hard, everything in front of me turns red, yellow, and green. Then I chance a look at Ian. My moment of regret for having zero chill dies at the sight of Ian quietly observing Willow. She’s stopped in front of Mr. Ivanov’s house.

  “Hey,” Ian says, hesitantly. “Can I hold your hand?”

  The neighborhood is so noiseless. People are turning off their front-porch lights. One-by-one, Ballard Hills’ residents are saying goodnight to October.

  Willow reaches up for Ian’s hand. She’s seven levels friendlier than I am when it comes to strangers, but she’s not big on physical contact. Willow doesn’t latch on to new people. I’ve always appreciated that, even if it meant she never connected with Dimi. Maybe Willow saw something I didn’t. Maybe younger siblings know a trash fire when it’s right in front of them.

  But this just happens. Willow latches on. Ian swings their hands back and forth. I lead the way, wearing a dopey smile and overdosing on something way better than Reese’s.

  “So.”

  “So?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.”

  Ian laughs breathily. His eyes are soft, that midway between green and brown. “I think we’re capable of more than one-syllable words.”

  “Are we?” I tease.

  “Yes, we are.” His head tips back for another laugh. Obviously, we haven’t made much progress.

  We stand in the foyer of my house. Clover’s sniffing around our feet. Ian’s wearing two different socks—one blue, one yellow. His shoes are lined up neatly by the door. I can’t stand still; my Vans keep squeaking on the hardwood floor. The noise is probably pissing Mom off. She’s an earshot away, in the living room, with Willow tucked into her side. They’re watching the last of The Nightmare Before Christmas. Up next is Hocus Pocus. It’s a Mom-Willow tradition.