“It wouldn’t?”
“Your mom coordinates real-life Anne Hathaway romcom movies. I tell people how to power their Wi-Fi on and off. We’re doing okay without AP Literature.”
“But what about Emory?”
“What about it?”
“Dad.” I exhale shakily. “It’s all I’ve dreamt about for the past two years. Emory. Writing. It’s my path. Where I should be.”
Dad squeezes my shoulders and laughs, not condescendingly, but amused. “Kiddo, Emory is a wonderful place, but it doesn’t have to be your place. You don’t have to commit yourself to one dream.”
“But you did.”
“You think UGA was my dream?” Of course, I do. It’s all he bleeds: black and Bulldog red.
Dad sighs heavily. “UGA wasn’t my dream school. It was the school closest to home. That’s why I chose it.”
“Why stay?”
“I had a younger brother who was going through things that I didn’t understand, and he didn’t explain. Grandpa wanted me to go across the country, be the ultimate tech geek, but I wanted to be nearby just in case Dawson needed me, because he’d do the same for me. Do you understand?”
I do. It’s why I chose Emory in the first place. I can’t imagine living on the west coast. Or even somewhere like Florida. I can’t be that far from my family. From Willow… in case she needs me.
In case I need them.
“And that path I chose at eighteen didn’t look anything like the one I wanted at sixteen,” says Dad, eyes brighter. “But it’s the path that introduced me to your mom. To a job in Dunwoody. To your birth mother who introduced us to you.”
New tears kiss my cheeks, but not from frustration, not from the unknown, from the love I could feel in my dad’s voice and in the way he held me.
“Your path isn’t determined by an essay. Or a grade. You will find your place only one way—by continuing to walk. Keep walking, kiddo. You’ll get there.”
“And the rest?” I ask.
“The rest we’ll talk about another time. Me, you, and Mom,” says Dad.
“I hurt her,” I whisper, eyes lowered in shame. “I said some awful—”
Dad cuts me off. “It’s okay. She’s okay.” His hand brushes my curls back. “We’ll talk about,” he hesitates, blinking, “your half-sister. We’ll go through all the adoption stuff. The things we know about your birth mother. Together. Just the three of us. If you want?”
I still don’t know if I do. This is my life. This is my dad. I don’t know if I need the rest. But I whisper, “Okay.”
Dad tosses the leftover French toast scraps on the floor for Clover, then walks to the sink. “Talk to Rio,” he says again. He starts washing the dishes.
I pull out my phone and text her:
I miss you.
A lot.
Third grade levels.
And I’m sorry…. Really sorry.
I wait. I see the text bubble appear, disappear. And then nothing. Nothing until my phone lights up. It’s Rio on FaceTime. I answer, and there she is, eyes as green as the face mask she’s wearing: nose scrunched and that Rio smirk.
“It’s about time, Romeo.”
25
The thing about revealing secrets is, your mind is always anticipating six million scenarios of how it’ll go before the secret is ever out: the good, the bad, the zombie apocalypse version. It never goes the way you’re expecting. Sometimes it’s worse. Sometimes it’s not a big deal. I’m not sure which of those this moment is.
Lucy’s wide-eyed, jaw agape. I’m certain she hasn’t blinked for a solid two minutes. Rio’s studying me. It’s almost like her detective face—squinted eyes, pinched mouth, lowered eyebrows—but gentler. It’s her journalist face, her compassionate face. I’ve missed that face. I’m glad I apologized. I’m glad she apologized too.
We’re sitting on a blanket in the field behind Maplewood Middle. Memories are stamped onto every inch of our surroundings. The playground’s see-saw is where Lucy had her first kiss. The brick of the building where Rio shoved a kid—the first and last—for making fun of my eye color. The fence we’ve climbed. Yellow-green grass where I watched Elijah play football. Deep blue sky and clouds we’ve laid under, on our backs, and watched for hours. I thought it was the perfect place to tell them about Free and my birth mother.
“Wow,” says Lucy.
“You have a sister,” Rio says for the third time.
“Half-sister,” I say.
“You have a half-sister,” repeats Rio.
I nod. She continues to scrutinize me.
“And your parents know?” asks Lucy.
I nod again. She finally blinks.
“Wow.”
I want to laugh. None of this has been funny. Life is funny in that super-ironic way no one likes. It’s catastrophes and tragedies, and there’s just something so hilarious about how emotions guide the ship instead of anchoring it.
Talking to Mom about this was weird. She was super calm. She held Dad’s hand, then mine, and listened patiently. Mom did all the things you’re supposed to when someone is telling you something big. Even the “I love you, thank you for talking about this” part. Somewhere inside me, I knew she wanted to cry: for me, for not knowing what to say, for not knowing.
But she did say something. She said, “You might not ever want to know her. That’s okay. But know this: Your mother gave us a wonderful gift. She gave us a beautiful boy who is strong enough to carry the world on his shoulders. But you don’t have to, not always. Even when you think you’re supposed to for the sake of others, you don’t have to.
“Remy, we don’t get to decide who other people think we are. What labels they want to attach to us. But we get to show ourselves who we know we are. You know yourself better than anyone. You’re a gift. You’re you, no explanations or labels necessary.”
Then I cried. But it was a good cry.
Mom combed my curls back. She whispered, “You know who you are,” and I do. I know, I know, I know.
“So,” Rio says, tapping her chin, “what now?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” I repeat happily. “I have a half-sister. She’s really cool. And, I don’t know, we’ll probably hang out. We will hang out. But this doesn’t change me.”
Lucy’s eyes brighten. She grabs my hand. “This doesn’t change you.”
Something swells inside me, forcing its way up through my chest, to my throat. “I’m a Cameron,” I say. I can’t stop beaming. “I’m a Cameron!”
“You’re a loser with an unhealthy Reese’s addiction,” Rio says. “And poor wardrobe choices.”
“You’re a coffee addict,” Lucy chimes in.
“You’re incapable of making smart love life decisions, Romeo.”
“And you’re a future homecoming prince without a date,” says Lucy.
I groan. Seriously, I need to spend less time on the Essay of Doom and more on my intricate, indisputable—thanks PSATs—plan of revenge on Lucy. “I don’t need a date,” I say with the confidence of a virgin liar.
Rio side-eyes me. Lucy cracks up. She grabs a glazed donut from the Krispy Kreme box I brought. Guaranteed reinforcements were needed.
“You could go stag.” Lucy sighs disappointedly. Lucy, the anime-infatuated secret romantic. “Or,” the corners of her mouth curl, “you could go with a certain cutie in glasses who loves Yuri!!! On Ice and is totally friends with my boyfriend.”
I glare at her. Cool best friend loyalty aside, Lucy’s annoying about these things. She’s obsessed with taking two people she thinks will be great together and trying to make magic happen. But Ian and I aren’t characters in one of her fanfics. We can’t just… happen, as much as I want us to, as much as I miss that geek.
“No.” I shake my head. “
It’s not… It’s not like that, Lucia.” I shove a donut in my mouth and leave it at that. I’m not outing Ian. I’m not feeding her fangirl dreams.
“Or,” Rio starts, “you could go with me.”
Lucy’s head snaps up. I’ve got this goldfish-face thing going on. Is Rio Maguire going to homecoming? No. That’s ridiculous. She’s not.
Except Rio has this determined look. She says, “I’m not going to the game, Lucy. That’s beneath my antisocial heart.” She turns to me. “But I’m your best friend.” To Lucy, she says, “And I’m your best friend. Promises were made in third grade over juice boxes and Adventure Time. I’m not bailing on that.”
“You don’t have to,” whispers Lucy.
“I know.”
“But you are?”
“Hair appointment made. Mom is skipping a trip to New Orleans for the whole manicure and make-up thing. Dad is documenting the entire ordeal for future family reunions.” Rio gags. “Sacrifices are being made.”
I reach out to squeeze Rio’s hand. It’s sweaty and shaking.
Secrets—they’re a son of a bitch.
Lucy leaps across the donuts to hug Rio, knocking her over. I join. We’re a dogpile of laughter and grass stains and friendship.
26
I never come to Maplewood High football games. I don’t do the whole football thing, period. Not unless it’s required, like Dad and UGA games. Even then, it’s only bearable because of Willow and Clover. The first half is almost over. I’m sitting on the hood of my car in the parking lot outside the stadium. I’m not sure who’s winning. Judging by the constant echo of frustrated yelling, I’m guessing it’s not us.
Lucy’s inside. She’s texted me seven times. Jayden has too. Brook sent me a video message from the stands, surrounded by the boys’ swim team, whose faces are painted crimson and steel. I wonder if Ian’s inside. Then I frown. We still haven’t talked.
The bright stadium lights create this cool lavender tint to the sky. It’s chilly tonight. My nose is tingly, and I really should’ve brought a heavier hoodie, but I don’t know. I’m wearing Ian’s hoodie. Why? Because pathetic is in my DNA—probably on Mystery Donor’s side.
My fingers ache from the cold. I squeeze my phone. It lights up: 8:02 p.m. Half-time is soon. That means the homecoming court presentation and the crowning and everything I’m avoiding. Well, everything superficial.
My phone screen brightens again. A text from Free:
Big nite!!!
I snort. We had another meeting at Savage yesterday. No big family stories or heavy questions. Just us, shooting the shit.
I text back:
Yep. Potentially Maplewood’s first openly gay HC prince. Yay!!!
I hope she gets my sarcasm. She texts a string of emojis that are either cheering me on or calling me on my cynical bullshit, probably the latter. Then, for whatever reason, I think about our mother. I almost visited her grave today. Free gave me the address. She had to coordinate the entire funeral and the burial at a cemetery in Decatur; her father helped. To bury your mother at nineteen—Free’s stronger than I’ll ever be.
What would I say to Ruby?
Why?
What made you so sure I’d end up happier than with you and Free?
Would you love me if you knew I was gay?
I have nothing to say to her. Not because I’m angry or because I’m hurt. Because I have a mom. I have a family. And Ruby gave me that gift, so I guess the only thing I could say is, “Thanks,” but I’d still feel weirded out talking to a headstone.
The thing about curiosity is, it never really goes away until you have an answer. It stays quietly curled up in a dark corner of your mind. Always there.
I text Free again:
Do you think she’d be OK w/ me being gay?
It takes a minute before her reply chimes in:
She would’ve loved you for being you. She was dope like that.
I tip my head back, smile at the lavender sky. That’s good enough.
The cheers from the stadium boom. A few people mill about in the parking lot. It’s time for bathroom and smoke breaks. It also means it’s time for that thing I’m hiding from.
By the time I make it to the side of the football field where the homecoming royalty and their escorts are crowded together, the seniors are marching onto the green to the band’s sick rendition of Fall Out Boy’s “Thnks fr th Mmrs.” At the back is a pouting Ford Turner. He looks like playing dress-up instead of competing in the big game is killing him. Good.
The juniors are a talking, cheering, disorganized mess. Sara’s at the front. She looks amazing, all deep reds and hints of gold. Her hijab is crimson. She has this perfect winged eyeliner, like the ones in YouTube tutorial videos. It’s kind of stunning. Differences aside, I can admit Sara deserves to be chosen Homecoming Princess. And not just because Lucy—the traitor—opted out of the ballot, but because Sara truly is junior class royalty.
I spot Jayden in the chaos. It’s the hair—flawless and super tall. He’s wearing his cheerleader uniform, but with a bowtie: classic Jayden Blue. He’s being escorted by both his moms. They’re in matching bowties and suspenders. Nancy’s hair is swept up with flowers, and Tori’s sporting a gel-stiff faux-hawk. It’s clear where Jayden gets it from. Chloe, as star quarterback, has to focus on the game instead of walking him onto the field. It’s awesome his moms are here, though.
He waves me over. I pause. It hits me: I don’t have an escort. I’m not even dressed-up like everyone else. I look out into the stands, where hundreds of faces are blurred by the bright lights. This isn’t what I want. This isn’t who I am.
I shake my head at Jayden and try not to drown in guilt when he frowns. Then he nods, as if he understands. Homecoming court isn’t my scene, just like GSA isn’t his.
I backtrack. I speed-walk to my car. Maybe Rio’s free. We could drive to downtown Decatur, get hot chocolates and stroll around. Be anti-homecoming together. I’m only halfway to the parking lot when I hear, “And Homecoming Prince is… Jayden Blue!”
Perfect. Jayden deserves it. It feels like a victory for both of us. I turn right, then left and collide with someone.
Aerosol cans clatter against the cement. They roll aimlessly between our feet. I stumble out an apology to whoever I crashed into.
It’s Darcy—pink-faced, wide-blue-eyed, perfect-blonde-ponytail Darcy. And she’s scowling at me.
“Sorry.”
“Whatever.”
I squint at the cans. Spray paint. Darcy’s fingers are red and pink and black. Her hoodie is a mural of colors too. She’s breathing heavily, and her backpack hangs off one shoulder, opened. A tattered copy of Alice in Wonderland peeks out.
“Holy shit. You’re—”
“Could you just, like, move. Go away.”
“Darcy, you’re—”
“I’m not,” she screeches, then flushes when an older couple passing by gawks at us. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But I do. The panic in her moon-sized eyes says we both know I do.
Darcy Jamison is the Mad Tagger.
She bends down to pick up the cans. She’s scrambling, hands shaking. I help. When her eyes meet mine, I ask, “Why?”
She sighs, then sits on the cold ground. Knees to her chest, she wraps her arms around herself. Her jeans are worn at the knees. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Darcy in jeans. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Darcy sit on the ground. She looks so small.
“Because,” she closes her eyes, “everyone labels you a Jesus freak because you went to Christian summer camp as a kid, because praying before every meal makes you a religious dictator. Those same girls who played dolls with you as a kid whisper behind your back now.”
Her damp eyelashes begin to flutter. I consider touching her arm, maybe her shoulder. Then I think about Ian, ab
out his halmeoni teaching him to always ask for consent before touching anyone and I don’t. But I scoot closer, so she knows I’m there, so she can borrow some of my warmth.
“Because, one day, your little brother comes into your bedroom crying. All the kids at school tell him his sister loves God and no one else.” She exhales shakily. “He thinks I hate him because…”
Our elbows brush. Darcy tucks her chin. I nudge her shoe to tell her to continue. I think she needs to say it, say everything.
“Because he’s demisexual. He thinks I hate him because he’s demisexual and not straight. ‘Not what God wants’ is what those kids told him.” She giggles, but it’s wounded. “But I don’t care that Cody’s demi. He’s my brother.”
Cody. Not Silver.
Her nose twitches. “Despite what everyone tries to preach, God loves Cody for Cody. You can still believe in a higher power and not be heterosexual. They’re not mutually exclusive.”
“I know,” I whisper.
I know Aunt Sandra loves me. I know I can be me and still have faith in something greater. I know, I know, I know.
“But why?”
Darcy’s eyes finally blink open. They’re fiery blue. “I’m tired of living like every label they give us matters. I’m not a label. Cody’s not a label either.”
Wow! Darcy freaking Jamison—straight A’s and perfect hair and a rule-breaking legend.
Darcy cocks her head. “I treated you like crap because I was too afraid to admit I was jealous.”
“Of what?”
“Of you. You live your life loud and proud. You’re always yourself. You don’t give a shit.”
I’m speechless. I’ve never heard Darcy swear. Not even a “damn.”
She blinks at me. “That was a lot, right?”
“Word vomit,” I say, face happily scrunched. I shake my head. “That was… perfect.”
Our elbows are pressed together. People step around us, staring and whispering, but I don’t care. I’m used to it.
“Darcy Jamison,” I whisper. “The Mad Tagger.”
How to Be Remy Cameron Page 24
