How to Be Remy Cameron

by Julian Winters

  I cough into my hand. Is it appropriate to Google-search “How to come out to your newly-found half-sister over coffee?”

  “Single,” I choke out.

  She taps her fingers on the table. Her nails are painted aqua. I focus on that.

  This whole coming out thing—it’s always, always weird. “I’m gay.”

  “I guessed.”

  My head snaps up, eyes squinted. “What?”

  “I guessed you were gay. I mean—”

  “Was it the way I talk? Is it because…” I wave a hand around. “…my body language? My posture?”

  “Your posture?” Free snorts so hard, I swear she’s going to spit up iced coffee. “Damn. You have photos on your Facebook wall with some boy.” Aha! So, this Facebook-stalking thing is a family trait. “He’s cute. He’s got RDF, though.”

  “RDF?”

  “Resting Douchebag Face.”

  I almost fall out of my chair and brain myself on the table.

  “Is he your boyfriend?” she asks.

  “Ex.” I hate how my skin crawls when I talk about Dimi.

  “Ah.” Free’s wearing that same expression. The relaxed one that says she doesn’t give a damn that we’re talking about me dating a boy, that I’m gay. She says, “Should probably delete those cozy Christmas photos in the matching-sweaters, then.”

  She’s right. I hate all this attention on my old scars. “What about you?”

  “What about me?” She’s deflecting, just like I do. Our similarities are showing in fluorescent colors.

  “Come on,” I try, eyebrows wiggling, “There has to be someone.”

  “Hell no!” Her scratchy outburst startles a young woman with glasses who’s hiding behind her laptop. Free doesn’t care. “I’m all about school.”

  “So, no one?” It’s kind of hard to believe. Free is magnetic. She has an electric energy that could compel people to fall in love with her.

  “No Tom, Dick, Harry, Caitlin, Jamar, Diego—”

  “Caitlin?” Hello, puberty-voice!

  Free tosses her head back, shaking that jungle of dark curls from her face. She points an eyebrow upward. “Remy, labeling sexuality is simply a way for closed-minded people to keep everyone in these neat, tidy boxes. Sorry, I’m not about to conform. I already have enough checkmarks on job applications. What happens in my bedroom isn’t going to be monitored too.”

  I slump in my chair. My hand reaches for my cup. It’s empty. “Wow.” I breathe.

  “I’m not saying I’m hooking up with Caitlin or Diego or whoever,” she clarifies. “I’m saying I’m in a relationship with school. A good relationship. I plan to be somebody.”

  Be somebody. Those two words swirl in my brain. Free, like Brook, like Lucy, knows who she is, who she’ll be.

  I watch Free play with her phone and the way she chews her straw: confident shoulders, reckless hair and a curvy mouth, and focused. I have no clue how to tell Free that she looks a lot like a somebody to me.

  Silently, we agree our time is over. Free has to study. And, unfortunately, the Essay of Doom hasn’t written itself yet.

  I grab my phone, zip my hoodie. She hauls on her backpack. Her head’s cocked; she’s watching me without being rude. More curious.

  “Hey.” It’s the first time I’ve heard hesitation in her voice. “Are you sure you don’t want to know about—” Her pause is heavy. I know where she’s going with this, even if she hasn’t finished. “Just his name?”

  “I already know his name.”

  “You do?”

  “Mystery Donor.”

  Free’s laugh shakes every part of her. “Cute. It could use some work, though.”

  “I like it.”

  “Okay. Mystery Donor.”

  We hover by the door. New and departing customers maneuver around us. I kind of shuffle and she sort of smiles. It’s not a goodbye.

  “Next time,” Free starts with that smirk, Ruby’s smirk. “Don’t wait so long to message.”

  “Next time?” I wish I was confident enough for it to not be a question.

  “Yeah. Next time. I haven’t told you everything yet.” She hasn’t. It frightens me. I’m intrigued, but I’m more afraid than curious. “Cool meeting you, Rembrandt.”

  “You too.”

  “Wow. I have a pretty awesome gay younger brother.”

  “Half-brother,” I tease.

  When she leaves, I hold on to the words crammed into my mouth. I might have a pretty awesome nonconforming older half-sister.

  19

  Monday morning, Lucy stops me at my locker before my fourth period anatomy class. I haven’t seen her all weekend. Between the ninth draft of the Essay of Doom and Mr. Riley organizing the GSA club’s Sunday bowling outing—some of the members had plans on Halloween and a few of the younger ones wanted a daytime event instead of facing curfew dilemmas—I only managed to FaceTime Lucy to help decide on an outfit for her Saturday afternoon date with Brook.

  “Two words,” she says, leaning against her locker with a grin. “Homecoming. Prince.”

  “I agree.” I shoulder my locker closed. “No one says no to ‘Purple Rain.’ Ever.” Yawning, I shove my book into my backpack. “Are you putting together a playlist for the dance?”

  “Huh? No.” Lucy huffs. She looks nice today: striped shirt, dark jeans cuffed at the ankles, red Vans to match her necktie. “Sara’s in charge of music.”

  Obviously. Sara’s too controlling to trust anyone with major tasks, even Lucy.

  “You need to run for homecoming prince.”

  Both my eyebrows shoot up. “Me? No.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not happening, Lucia.” I shake my head and edge around her.

  “It is happening, Rembrandt.” She beams. Honestly, she looks as if she’s possessed by the school-spirit demon.

  I bet Aunt Sandra could pray it out of her. “You’re bananas,” I say, walking away.

  The warning bell rings. I take longer strides. Mr. Khorram is a pretty laid-back teacher. Anatomy isn’t an easy course, but he plays Pink Floyd while we study and prefers Q & A sessions to lecturing during lessons. I’m more anxious about getting a good seat than avoiding Lucy, though, the latter deserves extra emphasis, especially when Lucy catches up to me.

  “You’d make a great prince. People love you!”

  “They tolerate me,” I mumble.

  “You’re popular.”

  “People find me affable and ethical and are content with my attentive manner,” I argue. I’ve used just enough SAT Prep vocabulary to stun her silent—briefly.

  “It’ll be no contest,” she says. “Who’s more loved than you?”

  “Jayden, Evan Coles, Armin Darvish, Alex or Zac.” I list each guy on my fingers. “Silver—”

  “Are you effin’ kidding me? Silver?”

  Mr. Khorram peeks at us from behind a stack of papers when we walk in. Sunlight glints off his bald head and softens his cheeks. I wave shyly. Lucy carries on.

  “You’re a front-runner, trust me.”

  I don’t trust her. And I don’t like that Asher Feige snagged the most coveted seat, the front-row window desk.

  Lucy pulls me to the second row, the Pretend Geeks Row. We find desks, and she tugs a rolled-up poster from her bag. “I already have a game plan. I called in a favor and had this mock-up done over the weekend.”

  “‘Called in a favor.’ What’re you, a mob boss?”

  Lucy’s hair is plaited into a neat braid. She flicks it over her shoulder and flutters her eyelashes.

  I almost drop the poster. It’s a drawing of me done up like a character in a manga: large eyes, small mouth, blushing cheeks. Manga-me is waving. Above my curls reads “VOTE 4 REMY” in rainbow colors. A glitter bomb exploded around the edges. And… “Is
that a freaking unicorn?!”

  Lucy smirks down at me.

  I scowl back. If I glare long enough, maybe she’ll catch on fire—or the poster will. I’m good with both.

  “Ian drew it. Well, you. I added the unicorn and glitter. Muy en fuego.”

  “Obviously,” I say, deadpan. “Did it have to be so…”

  “Gay?”

  I swallow the sharpness of that word. I’m not ashamed. But it’s a label, and my mind drifts back to what Free said. Then a T. rex of guilt gnaws at my heart because I haven’t told Lucy—anyone—about meeting Free, so I focus on the poster.

  “We’re playing to your strengths,” says Lucy.

  Perfect. I’m the Superman of gayness. Clearly Lucy’s dubbed herself my campaign manager. Outside of the glitter and rainbow and ridiculous unicorn, the drawing of me is amazingly accurate. Ian nailed my smile and the brightness of my eyes, and my curls appear purposefully unmanageable.

  I want to kiss him. Then, I remember. I already have kissed him—five times. Number six could be just around the corner.

  I shake my head. “I don’t want any part of this, Lucia.”

  “Too late, Rembrandt.” Lucy’s cockiness is in full swing. “You’ve already been voted onto the official ballot by a committee of your peers and constituents.”

  “You lie.”

  She puts a hand over her chest and says, “It’s true.”

  I squint at her. “I’m telling Rosa Maria Reyes you’re spending too much time watching CNN instead of Netflix like a normal teen.”

  Lucy pats my head before taking her seat. “Normal is overrated, Rembrandt.”

  * * *

  “All hail Prince Cameron!”

  The hallways are empty after school, save for a few students running to a practice, a club, or detention. That doesn’t stop my jaw and spine from instantly locking.

  But it’s just Brook. He leans against the locker next to mine, smiling smugly. A “VOTE 4 REMY” pin is fastened to his letterman jacket, rainbow letters and unicorn included.

  I put away my Algebra II book and mumble, “Your girlfriend is dead to me.” He chuckles. “No, seriously,” I say, shutting my locker, “I’ve already planned the funeral. Open casket so everyone can see I had her buried in that stupid Sailor Mars T-shirt.”

  “She loves that shirt.” Brook has this dreamy heart-eyes look. It’s gross. “Come on, little dude. Join the parade.”

  “What parade?”

  “The homecoming parade! You have to admit this place is kind of magical around homecoming.” He still has that same dreamy expression. “Go Marauders!”

  “Brook, the only parade I’m joining is the Pride parade.”

  “Like the button!”

  I scowl. Lucia Reyes, aged sixteen. Maplewood junior class president and unbeloved best friend.

  Brook is eyeing me with a new, serious look. His mouth is a thin line and the soft, concern in his eyes is familiar. “We don’t have to talk about it,” he says, “but—”

  I hold up a hand. “You’re right. We don’t have to talk about it.”

  I’ve carefully tucked those five minutes from Friday night into a deep, dark part of my brain. They sit close to that one big fight Rio and I had in middle school when we didn’t talk for three days and right beside that time I fell down the stairs and it took my dad five minutes to find me, bruised and weeping. Sighing, I lean on my locker.

  Brook watches quietly, as if he knows the ice is fragile, already starting to crack.

  “Thanks for,” I pause, my breaths shallow, “for what you did at the party.”

  He shrugs halfheartedly. “I could’ve done more.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “You did enough. What would’ve happened if you hit him? As cool as Chloe thinks her dad is, I doubt Lieutenant Parker would’ve given you a slap on the wrist. A black kid assaulting someone else at a party where there’s underage drinking and weed? It’s not a good look.”

  “Probably not.” A sly grin crosses Brook’s lips. “Let’s hope Chloe’s dad doesn’t discover that I found out what car that dickhead was driving and had a little fun with Mrs. Cowen’s beauty products all over that nice paintjob.”

  I gasp, and Brook, all broad eyes and relaxed expression, cracks up. Then silence. Brook waits; I settle my breathing.

  “The whole thing sucks.” I close my eyes. “It’s not that he was coming on to me. It’s why. All he saw was my skin color, something he’d never had. It’s like, that’s all people see sometimes? I’m not Remy; I’m Remy, the black kid. Or, sometimes, just the black kid.”

  Brook doesn’t say anything but I can tell he understands. It’s in his eyes.

  “What kind of asshole does that?”

  “A lot of them.” Brook laughs, ironically. “Just another day in the life of being black, right? Our melanin attracts the unwanted. You’re either Suspect Number One or every undercover racist’s get-out-of-jail-free card because, ‘Hey, I’ve got a black friend!’ Or you’re some exotic flavor they just have to try once.”

  “A piece of chocolate.” I make a face.

  Brook says, mockingly, “That warm piece of caramel. Black coffee for their side of cream.”

  “It’s gross.”

  “It’s people, little dude. It’s what they’re taught, either by example or by perception.”

  “It’s effed up, Brook.” I sigh. “All I am is a skin color.”

  “And that’s all they love or hate about you too.”

  I whisper, “We’ll always be a stereotype.”

  “Not to the good ones.” Brook says it in that way that’s all him: certain and full of hope. “To the important ones, we’ll be an inspiration, a best friend, and the love of their life. Those are the labels that matter.” He adds, firm but endearing, “And don’t let others take pride in who you are—your race, sexuality, whatever—away from you. They didn’t give it to you; they have no right to snatch it away.”

  The corners of my mouth twitch. Brook Henry is a universe of so many undiscovered stars. That little corner Liam is tucked into shrinks. It’s still there—let’s face it, things like that are always there—but it gets smaller and smaller.

  “Now,” Brook grabs my shoulder, squeezes, “get on the homecoming parade. It’s happening. You’re gonna win.”

  “I’d rather get mauled by a pack of mountain lions.”

  “Aren’t they solitary animals?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Either way, gruesome imagery.” Brook makes a face. “We’ll work on better campaign slogans later. I’ve got swim practice.”

  “This isn’t happening, Brook.”

  “Can we fit that on a T-shirt?”

  “I’m not running for homecoming prince!” I shout. Brook’s already halfway down the hall.

  “Positive thoughts, little dude!”

  “I’m positive your girlfriend is destined for a freak accident!”

  Mrs. Kowalski, the freshman English teacher, peeks her head out of her classroom, and gives me the stink-eye.

  Brook howls. “My weirdo best friend wouldn’t approve of such nocturnal activities.”

  My mouth clicks shut; my eyes must be wide, blue moons. Then I remember the poster.

  “Traitor!”

  Ian raises an eyebrow as he sits down across from me. He’s on a break. Casually, he passes me a ceramic mug of steaming green stuff. I sniff curiously. It’s not poisoned. Or, it could be, but not with anything I can detect.

  “Matcha,” he says.

  “You’re deflecting,” I say. “This is a trap.”

  “It’s matcha.”

  I sip while squinting at him. It’s not bad. It’s odd, like all green things, but not terrible. I refuse to tell him this. He owes me answers. And kisses. In no particular order.

 
It’s torture to look at him today: The way his hair peeks out of his beanie. Glasses slipping down his nose. Black apron contrasting with his loose red sweater. Stupid hoop earring and fingers snapping along to something rhythmic with synthesizers. Obviously, Trixie has given Ian control of Zombie’s playlist again.

  “You let Lucy corrupt you into ruining my life,” I accuse.

  “It was a paid gig.”

  “Paid with what?”

  Ian’s mouth upturns. “A supersized bag of candy corn.”

  I groan, then sip more green stuff. “She’s playing dirty.”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  I pretend the disappointment in his voice and the wounded look on his face don’t exist. This is a war. Ian’s sided with the enemy; casualties are expected.

  “It’s nice,” I force out. “Okay, it’s sick-as-eff. You’re crazy talented.” Defenses are crumbling. The heat level in my cheeks has reached radioactive levels.

  “Cool,” he whispers.

  “Cool.”

  “I mean, thanks.”

  “You’re not welcome.”

  Our laughter is a harmony only dulled by the guy on the speakers singing about a woman named Eileen. Some girls wearing matching Georgia State sweatshirts join in, crooning into the straws of their iced coffees. This is what makes Zombie great. It’s the aura; even Trixie’s behind the bar dancing. Maybe it’s the music or the way Ian’s Adam’s apple bobs when I catch him staring at me, but I’m feeling good—brave.

  “Hey.” I wait until our eyes meet. “Do you wanna hang out Thursday, after school?”

  “Hang out?”

  “Go somewhere.”

  “Somewhere?”

  I’m helplessly addicted to the shine in his eyes when he says that, as if it’s our word. No-Dating-Remy is a poser. “Yeah, somewhere,” I confirm.

  One side of his mouth lifts. Then something passes over his face, like a reminder. “I can’t. I have to—” He pauses, frowning.

  Eileen’s song fades. I wait in the odd hiccup of silence. “What?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  I doubt that. I nudge his foot, and he shakes his head. “I need to spend time with my dad. Thursday’s my parents’ anniversary—well, what was their anniversary. My dad gets all quiet and standoffish. He pretends he’s good. But he’s not. That first year, he went to church, ate dinner alone. Then, around midnight, I heard him crying in the kitchen.”