My half-sister defines cool. I want her to hang with Willow. I want her to know Willow, so I ask, “Are you sure you don’t want to meet them someday? My family?”
It’s bizarre to ask. My family, as if Free isn’t family too.
“Remy—”
“It’s just that…” I bite my thumbnail. “…you said you wanted to find me because you wanted to know the little brother you never got to meet, because Ruby took that from you. And I get that—to have a missing piece. But you found me, and they’re part of me. I’m not asking you to fall in love with them, though that’d be pretty cool.”
Free purses her lips.
“I’m asking you to know me. And to know me is to know who helped me get to where I am.”
“Bro.” She sighs. “Don’t you get that that’s part of the problem? Our mother made sure you could get somewhere while I’ve had to do it alone. Just me.”
“But it doesn’t have to be that way. Not anymore.”
She leans back, studying me.
“You don’t have to,” I whisper, “but it’d be cool if you’d at least gave it a shot. Gave me a shot.”
Free smirks—that Ruby smirk—and says, “Are you sure you want to go to Emory? You’d have a pretty good career as a lawyer.”
A halfhearted version of her smirk tugs at my mouth. “That might be my only option unless prayer gets me a passing grade in AP Lit.”
Free laughs so hard the bored waitperson behind the register turns to squint at us. Then I ask Free if she’s religious, what she believes in. She tells me about Ruby and her issues with organized religion. After Ruby died, Free found friends that prayed with her and took her to church. Now, she finds solace believing in something.
I like that. Tension melts away from my muscles, my bones. I feel loose. So, I talk. I tell Free about coming out, about Dimi. I babble about the Essay of Doom for ten minutes: my questions, my uncertainty, everything.
“Do you actually believe all these things define you?” she asks.
I shrug. Or, I try to, but suddenly my shoulders are too heavy again.
Free says, “You think because you like corny indie music and live in the ‘burbs, you’re not black enough? Because you have dope-ass taste in clothes, you’re too gay? Because you’re adopted, you don’t think you know yourself? You date an asshole and that defines you?”
“I mean—”
She holds up a finger. “Yes, these things are a part of you, but they don’t define you. Don’t let them define who you are. Know your history, Remy. Know the struggles. Know the victories. Understand why people marched and protested and fought for you. Martin Luther King Jr. existed for a reason. Stonewall happened for a reason. NWA saying ‘Fuck the Police’ was a statement. For us.”
Her hand covers mine on the table. I hadn’t realized it was shaking.
Free’s speaks gently: “I love thoughtful hip-hop with messages about who we are, who we’ve been, who we will be. But I can jam to folk-singer-songwriters, too, and still be black. Still be me.” Her fingers squeeze mine. “There’s no such thing as ‘black enough.’ You can’t be ‘too gay.’ Adopted doesn’t mean you’re not whole. There’s just you. And that’s pretty dope.”
New pizzas come out. A family of eight crams into a corner booth. This girl outside sings showtunes. But we’re in a bubble.
I blink hard until my eyelashes unstick. I breathe, shallowly at first, then clearer. “Am I anything like her?” I ask.
Something in Free’s smile changes. She’s in an alternate universe where smiles are sad. “I don’t know. Maybe? You love hard, I can tell. She did too.”
“Why’d she give up?” It’s not the first time I’ve wondered. It’s the first time I wanted to know, though.
“Easy answer: the alcohol.” Free watches the bubbles in her ginger ale. “Long answer: She loved him too hard. He left, and then she didn’t want anything. Or, she did. She wanted something better for you. And then nothing. She wasn’t my momma; she was a shell.”
Across the table, Free’s eyes shine. Maybe it’s the lighting. Maybe it’s something else.
“They say you can’t die from a broken heart, but Ruby did.” Free looks away, smiling that alternate-universe smile. “A broken heart and alcohol and painkillers. Ironic, right?”
We’re quiet. So very quiet. We’re giving each other space—me to absorb and Free to release.
“Maybe you are like her,” says Free. I turn my hand over to cup hers. “Maybe the better parts?”
“The best parts,” I say.
“The parts that refuse to use men or anyone as a reason to breathe. As a purpose to live. The parts that don’t let any one thing give him validation.”
I absorb that. Then I grin, sad but hopeful. “Hey.” I nudge her foot under the table the way Lucy would, the way Rio does when I’m spaced out and need direction. “What do you do for the holidays now that… you know.”
Free leans back. Springy curls brush her shoulders. “Mom’s been dead since freshman year of college. I’ve managed. I’ve got friends. I house-hop and go bowling. I’m good.”
“Maybe you could, I don’t know, add another house to your plans?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll think about it?” I squeak. Pizza and vocal disruptions of the puberty kind—my favorite kind of afternoon.
Free rolls her eyes. “It’s being considered.” She orders another ginger ale. “I haven’t had any family to want me around during the holidays in forever. Not even my dad.”
I think about that for a moment. About what Free’s said about Ruby’s e-mails. “She never told them, did she? She never told my parents you existed?”
A small tremble moves across Free’s mouth. She shakes her head. “It’s not that I don’t want to meet your family, little bro. It’s that, after she died, part of me wished I was given that same opportunity. That they should’ve known I was there.”
“But they didn’t.”
She shakes her head again. “It’s messed up, right? For me to think that way?”
“No.” I squeeze her hand. “But our future family therapy sessions are going to be wild.”
“Damn right.” She giggles, then pushes the pizza aside with her free hand. Leaning on the table with her chin on her knuckles, she says, “Okay, tell me about this boy.”
24
When I was nine-years-old, my dad brought paint buckets and brushes and sheets into my bedroom. “We’re going to do something cool,” he said, beaming. “Cooler than watching TV.” I didn’t believe him. Cooler than cartoons? No way. He wanted to paint my ceiling, which was way more complicated than HGTV made it seem. It was a lot of work, but it was also the most adult thing I’d ever done. I painted swirls and zigzags. My dad held me in place.
The result: a mural. The sea and clouds and stars intertwined. Full moon yellows and ocean blues and minty green. I love this mural. I love lying under it, on my bedroom floor, after a bad day, listening to music, letting Clover rest her head on my stomach. Under a hurricane of colors, I’m at peace.
Today wasn’t great. Yesterday either. Lucy had SAT stuff and boyfriend stuff. Rio and I are still on radio silence. Ian’s quiet too, extra quiet. So, it’s just me, Clover, a POP ETC playlist, and a view of the clouds, stars, and sea.
My laptop is opened. A finished draft of the Essay of Doom awaits editing. I refuse to read it over. Every word seems as if it’s not good enough. It’s trash. It’s a Welcome to the Failure Parade anthem, sung by Mrs. Scott.
I should finish it. I should eat dinner. But I stay here, drowning and floating simultaneously.
“Hey.” I turn my head. Mom’s leaning in the doorway. A half smile twists her mouth.
I try to smile back and fail. There’s a theme here.
Mom sighs. It’s either disappointment or concern. Maybe i
t’s exhaustion. She’s still in a black and white striped, tie neck blouse and slightly wrinkled rose slacks from work. Her hair’s gradually come undone from a bun. Something passes over her eyes. “Is this about a boy?”
“What?”
“Your mood lately, Remy. Is it a boy? Is it your friends?”
I don’t answer, peering at a blue patch on my ceiling.
“Is it school?”
“Mom, I just—” I pause, words unable to pass through the dryness in my throat. Frustration has built a lake of fire in my chest. And all the days without Ian and Lucy, the resentment I still have toward Rio, are like kerosene. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Remy.” Her shoulders fall. “That’s not healthy. I wouldn’t—”
“No, you wouldn’t,” I finally snap. “You wouldn’t get any of this, either. You wouldn’t get why I’m feeling like this.” I glare at her. She’s stiff, arms folded. “Maybe I’m not like you. Or like Dad.” My voice trembles like my hands at my side. “Maybe I’ll never be like either of you.”
For a moment, Mom’s stunned. She closes her eyes, whisper-counts to ten. And then the firestorm inside of me subsides. Regret douses the flames.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Mom.”
“No,” she says, hoarsely. “Don’t apologize. Don’t…” Her eyes are wet. “This is part of growing up.”
There’s those two words again.
We’re so quiet. Clover’s breaths are as loud as my heartbeat. Then Mom says, “‘You Make Loving Fun’ by Fleetwood Mac” with this fondness in her voice.
“What?”
“I don’t know what you’re going through or when you’ll want to talk about it,” she says, “but that song helped me through tough times when I was younger.”
I squint at her. My mom, younger? What a wild concept!
“We’ve all been there.” She clears her throat. I hope she doesn’t cry. I hope I don’t either. “Maybe not the exact same situation or the same results, but… just listen to that song, and I’ll be downstairs with hot chocolate and a shoulder when you’re ready.”
“And your world-famous peanut butter brownies?”
“World-famous?”
“Moderately well-known peanut butter brownies,” I compromise with a shy lift to my lips.
“If this is you baiting me, you’re terrible at it.” Then, as she’s closing the door, she adds, “But, yes, that can be arranged.”
After she leaves, I reach for my laptop. My music app is already up. In less than ten seconds, my bedroom is filled with rhythm guitar and something dreamlike. I can’t help it. I dance. Clover barks at my feet, but I ignore her. The music and the voice singing about miracles and magic seeps into my blood. Breathless, I dance off the regret and confusion. I shake away the image of what my words did to Mom. On one foot, hands in the air, head tossed back—from my hairline to my toes, I feel light.
Like the clouds.
Like the song of the ocean.
Like the stars at night.
Along the walls of Dad’s office is a photographic walk through our family history: Mom in the kitchen, beaming over a peach pie, Grandpa holding me in a rocking chair, Dad in his varsity football uniform, Willow’s toothless grin on her fourth birthday. My favorite one is from the first day my parents brought me home. I don’t know why. But there’s something about Mom’s glassy eyes and Dad tentatively cradling me like a balloon that might pop; their smiles, identically wide, almost too big for their faces; and my tiny fingers curled into Dad’s shirt—just the three of us.
That’s messed up, right? Willow’s the best sister ever. But there are moments where I miss being all my parents could think about. Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe we shouldn’t rush to grow up and make our own choices. Maybe you can’t really get those days back.
I wonder what Free’s childhood home looked like. Did Ruby have any photos of a toothless Free? Any birthday pictures? Did she keep any photos of me that my parents e-mailed her? I quickly ditch that thought. I don’t care. I don’t want to know anymore.
“Hey, kiddo?”
I startle. In the doorway, Dad’s watching me. He’s backlit by the hallway light, gauzy yellow across his rust-colored hair, against his stubble and warm blue eyes. He looks tired, happy but tired.
“Everything okay?”
I stare at him, unblinking.
When I was younger, I’d come stumbling into this office and crawl into Dad’s lap. I’d go on and on about whatever was on my mind: cartoons and the sky and kids at school, the new baby growing in Mom’s tummy. Everything. Just me and Dad. Now it seems like a hundred million years ago, like I can’t be that kid anymore, like I can’t tell Dad everything.
“Kiddo?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Really?”
I can almost hear it in his voice—the doubt. Maybe Mom told him what happened. “It’s nothing, Dad.”
“But—”
“I’m fine.” It’s such a lie. It tastes sour, like drinking Coke after brushing your teeth.
“Come on.” Dad motions to the hall. “Let me show you something.”
“What?”
“Something cool.”
Peanut-butter-and jelly-stuffed French toast, the end-all of breakfast-bread meals, the Godzilla of French toast. It’s Dad’s favorite recipe—mine too—and he only breaks it out for special occasions: New Year’s Day, my parents’ anniversary, my birthday. It’s a rigorous process; precision is key. There’s a rule that no one can talk to Dad while he’s creating. We’re not even allowed in the kitchen. But, this time, he’s teaching me the recipe. This time, I’m a part of creating something cool.
Bobby Flay, eat your heart out.
It’s after nine p.m. Willow’s already asleep. Mom’s in the living room binge-watching grim crime shows to exorcise the life of a wedding consultant. It’s Dad and me—and Clover, but she’s the exception to every rule, as all good dogs are.
Dad walks me through all the steps. He lets me do everything. Sometimes, he stands over me, guides my hand or directs with his words. Mostly, he leans against the island, observing. And every time I look over my shoulder, he’s smiling.
We eat at the island instead of the table. One plate, two forks. We don’t say much, but I don’t think either one of us knows what to say. There’s a mystery between sons and fathers. It’s a universal rule that they can be in the same space and never be able to say things—stupid rule.
“Tell me,” Dad says.
“Tell you?”
He digs into the fluffy bread until creamy peanut butter and sticky jelly spews from both sides. “Whatever. Anything. Tell me, kiddo.”
I stare at him. His soft features are happy and tired. It’s the same dad who held me in his lap while I talked for hours. He’s still him. And I’m still… I think I’m still me.
Dad nudges my elbow. “It’s just me.” It’s just my dad.
“I have a birth sister. A half-sister.”
I wait for his reaction. Surprise. Anger. Disappointment in me for hiding this. But he does this little eyebrow lift, chews quietly, and then says, “Tell me, kiddo.”
My brain and heart are moving in two different directions, stretching my insides like a rubber band. I don’t know where to start, how to start. But I try—from the beginning.
I start with the essay. Facebook. Messaging Free. Meeting Free. The thing with Ian. Fighting with Rio. My dead mother and Mystery Donor. My fading dreams of Emory. It’s as if a dam inside me splinters before shattering, and my thoughts are the flood. I talk so much, so long, that I’m hoarse. But it’s out. All of it.
Dad doesn’t say a word. Periodically, it looks as if he wants to, but he doesn’t. He lets me talk. He lets me finally breathe.
Afterward, his thumbs are on my cheeks, catching tears. I don’t know when I st
arted crying. I’m not sure I’ll stop.
“Kiddo,” he says, sadly.
“Don’t.” I try to shake my head, but I realize I’m trembling all over. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m not,” I whisper.
“But you don’t have to be,” he tells me. “You don’t always have to be fine.”
I let him pull me in, wrap his arms around me. Tears dampen the cotton of his UGA T-shirt.
“When you were younger, I was terrified. I’ve always wanted to protect you. All parents want to protect their children. I tried so hard when you were little. But I knew, one day, there were things I couldn’t protect you from. Things that I’ll never face.”
He doesn’t name those things, but I know what they are. I’m black and he’s not. I’m gay and he’s not. I’m adopted and he’s not.
Dad kisses the top of my head. “You’re amazing, kiddo. You’re so strong.” There’s a tremor in his voice. “Maybe I can’t protect you from everything, but I feel so blessed knowing you’re strong enough to face some of it by yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“Not fully, but you’re much braver than you give yourself credit for.” We breathe together—inhale, exhale. “I know you’ll ask for help when you need it. When you’re ready.”
Will I? I want to ask him. It took so long to tell him.
“I should’ve been a better dad.” He’s sniffling.
I hide in his chest a little longer. “You’re great.”
He guffaws, wet and broken. “If I am, it’s because of my son. Because he’s hashtag cool-as-eff.”
“Dad, no.” I pull back with tear-stained cheeks.
Dad’s nose is red. His eyes are shiny jewels. His grin is a sunrise—comforting and renewing. “Talk to Rio,” he tells me. “If the Ian thing works out, great. If not? That’s okay too. And this essay…” I groan. “Write what feels right. Yes, your mom and I would love it if you aced AP Literature, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you didn’t.”
How to Be Remy Cameron Page 23
