How to Be Remy Cameron Read online

I adjust my earbuds while thumbing at my phone to crank the volume. Nothing beats an easy stroll through the neighborhood after sunset while listening to my favorite band, POP ETC. Clover leads the way. I bop to acoustic guitars and mellow vocals.

  The walk is mostly Clover sniffing every bush or small patch of fallen pine needles. She’s a beagle with a killer sense of smell. Walking with her is a constant stop-and-go. I don’t mind that much. It’s not a workout—not the kind I need—but, whatever.

  I love the view of a neighborhood drifting toward slumber: windows lit like glowing gold eyes, cars of various sizes parked in driveways, street lights illuminating arcs of the road.

  Autumn is beginning its annual dance-off with summer. I can smell it. Under the layers of peaches and bug spray is a hint of baked apples and wood smoke. This is the best time of year.

  Our favorite stop—Clover’s favorite stop—is right outside Maplewood Middle School, which is tucked inside the heart of a block about a half mile from home.

  I turn away to let Clover do her business in the line of pine trees near the school’s wire fence. This spot is a maze of memories. I ripped my favorite green jacket climbing the fence with Lucy. The junior football team used to practice a few feet away. Shirtless Elijah always ignited those nerves in my belly, the sizzle trailing lower until I bit my lip sore. Call it a sexual awakening, though my attraction to guys began a little before those Elijah days.

  Maplewood Middle feels like a lifetime ago. It wasn’t. When you’re in high school, middle school seems like a faded memory, and elementary school feels like an alternate reality, one where you’re free as a bird, uncaged and happy.

  Cars cruise by. Their headlights shine across the zipper on my red hoodie and my crimson Converse.

  “It’s cool; nothing to see here,” I say to each car. “Just a kick-ass hunting dog claiming her territory.”

  In the distance, a rabid Japanese Chin yips from behind a fence.

  I chuckle. “That’s right, Fido, this land officially belongs to Clover Cameron. Shit somewhere else.”

  Clover harrumphs, signaling her finish. She starts our walk again while I blindly flip a one-finger salute to the other dog. Clover stops for a whiff of a bush—a potential, new kingdom to claim. I wait patiently, jamming to my music.

  And then there he is.

  His dark hair is tugged into a small topknot. A few strands have fallen to cut across his round jaw. His skin is flushed and shiny; his breaths are uneven. Silver light glints from a single hoop earring in his left ear. His eyes are on the brownish-side of hazel and hypnotic, even at this hour. He’s wearing yellow running shoes, no socks, and a half-zipped, thin, gray hoodie. I dig it. I dig him too; at least, my lower half does.

  My heart is sprinting toward my throat. I want to fix my hair and check for leftover pizza sauce on my face.

  He looks familiar. I can’t put a finger on where from.

  Our eyes meet. I stop breathing. He smiles, a dimple leaves a comma-shaped dent in his cheek.

  Honesty moment: Dimples are irresistible to anyone who doesn’t have them. It’s not a thing; it’s a fact. I’m a proven statistic.

  He eases past Clover and me, because my feet and heart and deer-in-headlights face are frozen. Then he says, “Cute.”

  It’s one very basic word but it rotates in my head for seconds—cute, cute, cute. I want to say something back. Something cool, memorable. But the thing is, flirting is another weakness of mine. I’m only good at flirting via text. Never in person.

  My head turns in his direction. A bloom of pink crawls across his face.

  “Dog,” he corrects. He couldn’t have been talking about me. Not when I look like a Desperately Single Gay Teen in an American Eagle ad for Pride month. “I meant cute dog,” he says, stumbling. His Adam’s apple does a funky dance as he swallows. “Cute dog and… Okay. Have a nice night!”

  Then he’s jogging away, leaving behind unsaid words and an unforgettable smile and cute.

  Clover barks. Or she’s been barking, but I can’t move. Not yet. I need a few seconds to clear this boy out of my head. He can’t stay.

  After Dimi and the Summer of Emo-Music Hell, I decided that it was time to just be Remy, single and focused and chill-as-eff. No more trips to Boyfriend Land for me.

  “Not happening,” I say to Clover—and myself.

  Clover doesn’t give me any crap about whatever just happened. She’s too cool. My dad named Clover. “Because you’ll be lucky if your mom lets you keep her.” It’s true; my mom isn’t high on animals—small, big, or friendly.

  It took a very convincing speech and three hours of pleading until she caved. We officially adopted Clover from a pet shelter into the Cameron clan on a Wednesday when I was nine. She became the young, willing-to-dive-into-danger Jimmy Olsen to my Superman—or maybe the other way around? As far as importance, Clover might top Rio and Lucy on the friendship chain, not that I’ll ever tell them that.

  The sidewalk leading away from the school is cracked and bright gray under halogen street lights. Part of it is covered by a trail of pine needles. But one clear stretch of asphalt stands out in electric green and blue. Fresh graffiti edges up against the soles of my shoes: an intricate maze of arrows and squares, one long stream of artistic chaos.

  “Sick,” I whisper.

  Clover sniffs at it, unimpressed. It’s a war of colors and shapes, but I can’t dissect its meaning. Unique but unfocused, it’s definitely not the work of the Mad Tagger, a somewhat infamous artist in the community. It’s just a lookalike, maybe a homage.

  I step over it. It’ll be gone in a day or two. That’s one thing about Ballard Hills: Rule-breaking is only permitted when it’s fun and whimsical and Better Homes and Gardens-friendly.

  2

  We’re barely through the back door and into the kitchen before Clover is whining. I unclick her leash. She trots off. First comes a casual stop at her food bowl. She sniffs vigorously for two-point-five seconds in hopes Mom generously left her table scraps to enjoy. No such luck.

  Mom isn’t as lenient as Dad about spoiling Clover.

  Clover scampers out of the kitchen, no doubt to find her favorite playmate, my little sister, Willow.

  “Well, this was fun!”

  I can’t blame Clover for wanting to hang with Willow. By far, she’s the coolest seven-year-old I know, not that I make a habit of planning Lego playdates with other seven-year-olds.

  My phone chimes. It’s a new Facebook notification. I can’t believe my mom makes me keep a Facebook page. I rarely use it. It’s mostly for my aunts and uncles on Mom’s side to feel as if they’re part of my life. Okay, I might sneak on there to read all the cheesy, lame, and artificially sweet birthday messages people post on my wall. Seriously, what is it about birthdays that makes people you haven’t spoken to in years suddenly remember you exist?

  There’s a new friend request. “Free Williams?”

  I don’t recognize the name or the profile photo, which is a young, black woman with a dark cloud of loose curls covering everything except her smile. It’s one of those snarky ones that makes you want to laugh with the person. Her mouth is stained by a wine-colored lipstick. She has bright white teeth.

  We have zero mutual friends. Most of her information is private. The bare minimum facts—student at Agnes Scott College, her birthday, last high school—are displayed. She’s an anomaly. Yet, after I stare too long, something simultaneously like a warmth and a chill spreads through my blood. She seemed vaguely familiar to me. Maybe she knows me from a GSA event. Maybe it’s a mistake. Either way, I swipe away the notification.

  After hanging up Clover’s leash and toeing off my shoes by the backdoor, I slide across the kitchen’s hardwood floor toward the fridge. The walk has built a gnarly craving. Ice cream cake.

  Birthdays are a huge deal in our house. We each have strict guid
elines to ensure our special day is ten levels of awesome. My number one rule: ice cream cake only. Not that there is anything wrong with a thick layer of sweet icing on a sheet cake from Publix, but ice cream cake is my favorite. It always has been. Actual scrapbooks dedicated to three-year-old Remy Cameron’s face smothered in melting vanilla ice cream cake exist.

  Inside the freezer, in all its boxed-glory, is my birthday cake from Cold Stone Creamery: layers of strawberry ice cream and red velvet cake and graham cracker crumble. My fingers tingle as I reach for it.

  “Come to Daddy.”

  I pause, then cringe. Since my joyous discovery of porn, phrases like that have been outlawed. Once, I almost jabbed Brook Henry for jokingly using that phrase with Lucy. It would’ve been a short fight. Brook is a swimmer with sweet muscles and godly height and he’s fast. I’m kind of a disaster just walking. It’d make a great viral video.

  I slice a generous piece of cake, dump it into a bowl, then exit the kitchen. Under my breath, I hum a POP ETC song. Something about the rhythm guitar and upbeat lyrics thrums in me.

  Suddenly, my jam session dies. Soft music is coming from down the hall, from the living room. Over a song I don’t recognize, I hear my mom’s tickled-laughter and my dad’s unbelievably bad singing voice.

  “O-kay.”

  I tiptoe toward the living room. If they’re having sex, I’m demanding a bigger budget for pocket money at Emory—and a new car.

  When I peek in, there’s no horrifyingly gross stuff happening on our sofa. Nope. Just my parents. Dancing to music.

  Correction: This is gross. The music is definitely something ’80s. Something about the rains and Africa. As much as I live and breathe for music, I tend to stay in my own indie pop lane or whatever Lucy and Rio force me to listen to. This is a Dad song. His “classics” are ’70s rock and ’80s dance tunes.

  I scout the scene. Most of the furniture has been displaced. The coffee table is angled in the corner. Part of the cream sectional sofa is shoved against the far wall. Any possible tripping hazard has been removed—well, except Dad’s two left feet.

  Watching my parents is strange. They shimmy-shuffle more than they dance. In the warm light of the standing lamp, Dad’s hair looks like a copper crown. Forget-me-not blue eyes follow his feet, probably counting his steps. A serene smile dominates Mom’s baby doll face. Locks of blonde hair fall across her pale skin. Under Dad’s large hands, she’s small and fragile.

  This is unacceptable Sunday behavior. It’s also kind of hard to look away. My parents are the perfect opposites: muscular computer nerd and peppy wedding consultant.

  The song changes. I know this one: Tears for Fear’s “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.” Dad has no concept of romantic music.

  “I love this song,” Mom says, of course.

  “I know.” Dad’s grin is ridiculous. But Mom laughs into his shoulder.

  Sometimes, I wonder if, in ten years, I’ll be helplessly in love, so unexplainably consumed by a connection to someone that we’ll still have date nights, hold hands for no reason, dance on Sunday nights. Is that sort of thing hereditary? Not that I have to worry. Being adopted cancels out the romantic gene, right?

  It’s not that my parents’ ability to keep the spark alive isn’t admirable. But they can have the whole “sappy romance” thing. Relationships are a total buzzkill. So are breakups, especially the crying part. God, I don’t miss that part. Bowls of ice cream cake and Clover are all I need, thanks.

  No love story waiting to happen here.

  * * *

  Mornings in the Cameron house are ridiculously fun. I’m not a morning person, at all. I hate being talkative and smiley and joyous anytime before ten a.m., but my family has a way of bringing it out of me.

  I shuffle into the kitchen Monday morning with the worst hangover—a two-days-away-from-school-isn’t-enough hangover. Thankfully, my dad has the perfect cure—his world-famous French toast. If Bobby Flay is the king of southwestern cuisine, then my dad is easily the emperor of southeastern breakfast breads.

  Since I was a kid and could use my baby teeth to mash food around in my mouth, I’ve been addicted to French toast. No offense to pancakes and waffles lovers, but there’s something ethereal about fluffy, cinnamon-y bread fried in butter. Dad is always coming up with new versions, none more phenomenal than his chocolate and banana recipe. Saliva gathers as if my mouth’s a wading pool when I anticipate the salted-caramel syrup that goes on top.

  “Perfect timing, kiddo,” Dad says. With one hand, he ruffles my bedhead-disastrous curls while his other hand flips a thick slice of toast.

  It’s like watching an artist. Dad doesn’t need fancy brioche bread either. I’ve witnessed him take regular, store-bought wheat bread and turn it into sopping, eggy pieces of nirvana.

  “Hungry?”

  I grin weakly before zombie-limping toward the breakfast table. Mom is already midway through her first mug of coffee. Sunlight pours from the nearby window to cast a golden veil over her as she absently flips through a bridal magazine. She hums and sips. Before she leaves for work, Mom will demolish another cup.

  I pause to hover over Willow. She’s sitting on her knees to lean over the table and read the Sunday comics. Of course, Willow’s definition of “reading” is just a bunch of mumbling and tracing her index finger over the art. It’s very serious business.

  Sunday comics are Willow’s life, along with Bert, her stuffed Batman doll she’s carried around since she was a tot learning to walk. No judgment here. I still have a corner of the blanket my grandma quilted for me as an infant. It’s tucked into a drawer in my room though. I’m sentimental, but I’m also a junior in high school.

  I kiss the top of Willow’s strawberry blonde crown before flopping into the chair next to her. “Mondays are the worst.”

  “Doctors have found that the reason so many people hate Mondays is because they try too hard to change themselves over the weekend, creating mental and emotional confusion.” Over her mug, Mom winks.

  “What doctors, Mom? The ones on primetime medical dramas?”

  “No.” Mom raises a sharp eyebrow. “The ones that say sarcastic teenage boys are more likely to have their phones cut off by Tuesday for being unforgivably rude before their parents have had their proper caffeine fix.”

  “It’s a good thing you don’t have one of those teenage boys, right?”

  “It is, Remy.” She looks at me, her eyes as brown as hickory wood. “At least you’ll be the coolest-dressed kid on a Monday.”

  I smile at my long, knobby fingers. Mom has never had a problem pointing out my awesome fashion sense, even before I came out. Maybe she knew? Was it my obsession with bright colors and cardigans? I doubt it. It might’ve been my mild crush on Nick Robinson. Very mild. But, let’s just say I didn’t see Jurassic World four times for the dinosaurs.

  Thing is, my mom didn’t make a big deal about those things. Neither did my dad. Coming out to my parents was tough and scary and kind of a tear-fest. An entire month of losing sleep over what they would think. How they’d react. And if their adopted, black son would just become an afterthought now that, guess what, he’s gay too!

  But it was nothing like that. Nothing. I can’t explain what it was about my mom’s gentle expression and my dad’s fingers combing through my curls and the taste of those first few tears on my lips, but I’d relive that moment over and over just to hear again, “Okay, so what’s the big deal?” from my mom in a choked, crying-laugh.

  “And how long did this outfit take to put together?” Mom asks.

  I shrug nonchalantly. I don’t tell her I planned it out Wednesday of last week. Some secrets should be kept. “Guess.”

  “Too long,” Mom says, half amused.

  “Yep!”

  Today, I’m sporting a loose, black-and-white-striped T-shirt under a thin, purple hoodie with faded
olive skinnies and a pair of bright-white Vans. Later, I’ll tug a beanie over my messy, short curls. For a first day back to school, I’m killing it.

  Mondays can bite me.

  “If you’re trying to look casually-sharp, mission accomplished.”

  Her compliment leaves me kind of dizzy. I cuff my hands over Willow’s ears. “You’re a badass, Mom.”

  “Thanks, honey,” replies Mom. “But I’d appreciate it if, next time, you covered your dad’s ears instead. He’s at that impressionable age.”

  “Hey!” Dad yells.

  “The truth hurts, babe.”

  “So does a life without my killer French toast.”

  I chuckle as I lower my hands from Willow’s ears, careful not to disrupt the messy buns on either side of her head. She’s got this whole Princess Leia obsession lately. I approve.

  “Don’t listen to her, kiddo,” Dad says. He dishes out plates of French toast accompanied by burnt bacon and runny eggs. Emperor of breakfasts might’ve been a stretch. Dad flops into the chair next to Mom. “She’s still not over Zack Morris. Hashtag Man Crush Mondays.”

  “Dad, no.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not allowed to hashtag anything. Ever.”

  Dad’s laugh is a cross between a bear and a Disney character. It’s loud, but silly and contagious.

  I scrunch my nose. “And Zack who?”

  “Kiddo!” Dad’s indignant expression isn’t very believable. He and Rio should start an acting troupe. “Have we not taught you enough about the glory of Saved by the Bell?”

  “Is it on Netflix?”

  Mom smacks Dad’s bicep when he squawks. Her cheeks are lit like a stop light. “Jesus, Max, please. Hush.”

  “But he—”

  “I know, I know.” Mom squeezes his forearm to stop the flailing. They trade a sweet, crinkled-eye look that makes me want to vomit. Seriously. My parents and their heart-eyes.

  Across from them, Willow pretends to gag. I grin. Hands down, Willow is my favorite tiny human. I’m not worried about having to be that menacing older brother who threatens bodily harm on some random boy or girl for crushing Willow’s heart. Romance isn’t Willow’s jam either.