“It’s the only class you have as a legitimate argument to get into Emory. President of Maplewood’s celebrated GSA and perfectly acceptable grades in standard classes is a fine talking point, but not enough,” Mrs. Scott says.
“I know.”
“Well, just in case, I’ve been looking at alternatives. There is no Plan A without a Plan B, C, D, and so forth.” What page of Counselors Monthly did she get that one from? “We have so many wonderful choices for you! Prestigious universities; great support systems. All customized for you, Mr. Cameron.”
All customized for me. How much is Mrs. Scott being paid to sound like an ad for an online university?
She clicks on a tab. “First, there’s Morehouse.” She goes into a calculated speech that sounds as if it belongs on the front page of a brochure. Rich history! Location! Culture!
“And then we have Morris Brown…”
I squint at her. There’s a theme happening here.
“And if those two aren’t in your wheelhouse, and you’re willing to travel,” Mrs. Scott clicks the next tab, “we have the University of Pennsylvania.” Really? “Maybe San Diego State University?” Next tab. “Look at that campus! Glorious.”
Yes, because I’ve incessantly voiced my need to move to the west coast.
“Or Ithaca.” Click. “All these colleges rate high as institutions that have wonderful ties to the LGBTQIA…” She lists every letter on a finger, as if she’s trying to make sure she doesn’t miss one. “…community!”
Click click click. “Excellent academic institutions that have environments created to support students whose identity falls under the LGBT umbrella.”
“Umbrella? Is it raining queerness?”
Mrs. Scott laughs in that movie version of Dolores Umbridge way—quick and uneasy. “These are great places to consider, Remy.”
Whenever Mrs. Scott starts using student’s first names, it means she’s trying to calm a storm. The thunderclouds are already hovering over my brow.
“Friendly environments. Top colleges for you because—”
“I’m black? Gay?”
Meticulously, Mrs. Scott fixes a stray bobblehead. Her plastic smile is pasted on her rouge lips. “Smart. Creative. Courageous.”
“Courageous? For being black? Gay? Or both?”
“Remy.” She exhales through her teeth. Crinkled eyebrows pinch the skin just above her nose. Folding her hands, she says, eerily calm, “College isn’t easy. Movies makes it look that way. All the parties and friends and relationships; but being out on your own is tough. New environments take adjusting.”
“Adjusting,” I repeat.
Mrs. Scott straightens her shoulders. “You’ll need a support system. People like you with similar backgrounds. Who know who they are.”
I want to laugh—or scream. “Mrs. Scott, I’m black. I’m adopted. My parents are white. I came out when I was fourteen and still don’t understand why that’s supposed to be a big fucking deal.”
“I’m sure, as someone pursuing a school for creative writing, you can find more inspired language to use other than that word, Mr. Cameron.”
And there it is. The change in tone. Suddenly, we’re not a “team” anymore. Mrs. Scott is the adult and I’m the… the kid.
“My point is, how many people out there have a similar background at Emory or Morehouse or fu—freaking Stanford?” My hands tremble against my thighs. “Are there statistics for that? A club for the adopted, gay, black kids from the suburbs?”
She sighs again, lips pinched.
“I’m seventeen.” My voice squeaks. Damn it. “Am I supposed to know who I am?”
According to Ms. Amos and Emory and the entire universe, I guess so.
“You’ll figure it out, Remy.” Mrs. Scott’s expression has returned to a cellophane, TV-ready gleam that probably wouldn’t comfort a baby deer. “Until then, these are just alternatives to Emory. Helpful starts.”
I tip my head back, glare at the ceiling: tiles and tiles of mineral fiber, hundreds of dots sectioned into perfect squares. Is that how Mrs. Scott imagines life after high school? Hundreds of clueless adults sectioned off in their squares?
“This printout will help.” She shuffles a few papers, pinches one, then passes it to me. “President of GSA will look great on your applications, especially at these colleges. Talk it over with your parents. I’m sure they’d agree with me.”
I hope my parents would agree Mrs. Scott’s “suggestions” can go to hell.
“Now,” the rainbows-and-power-of-positive-thoughts return to Mrs. Scott’s voice, “let’s focus on that AP Literature class, shall we?”
10
Friday’s pep rally is cool but controlled. Principal Moon ensures order is maintained, openly eyeing every student during club speeches and the football coach’s lame attempt at sparking interest in the team’s potential. What Principal Moon lacks in height, she makes up for in personality and directness and one of those “I’m in charge” bob hairstyles. A mini-Angela Bassett, she always looks poised to take anyone on, toe-to-toe.
Next to her, Lieutenant Parker surveys the students in the bleachers as though he could get one of us to crack during an interrogation. Chloe’s dad loves wearing Ray-Bans and blank expressions. I don’t know him too well. His work commitments keep him from attending any of her games, but his appearance at our pep rally means this whole Mad Tagger business is getting serious.
It seems as if he and Principal Moon are secretly creating a lineup of suspects. Lucy and I sit together, sharing Twizzlers and betting on who’s already being marked for questioning.
“Andrew,” I suggest.
“Andrew, as in Brook’s friend Andrew?” Lucy snorts. “Not a chance. Too nerdy.”
“It’s always the nerdy ones.”
“It’s always the religious zealots or the scorned exes or the bored, rich kids who never heard the word ‘No’ from their parents.”
“So, three-fourths of Maplewood?” I wiggle a licorice mustache at her.
“Basically.”
“Darcy Jamison?”
Lucy rolls her eyes. I do too. As hardcore as Darcy is about God and Jesus and wearing skirts that have hemlines below the knee, she doesn’t seem to have one corrupt gene in her body. A mean streak? Definitely. But not enough to disfigure school property.
“Ford Turner?”
I stare off into space, trying not to cringe. His name makes my skin crawl. “No,” I whisper, but my brain screams Hell yeah, the classless asshole is a suspect!
I watch Jayden and the cheerleaders rally the crowd. The freshmen seem into it. The sophomores are bored, heads down, thumbing away at their phones despite the zero tolerance for usage during school hours. We’re sitting with the juniors, who are either talking to each other or stupendously baked, depending on how many of them caught Zac and Alex between classes.
The seniors are the real hurricanes. They boo the underclassmen, roar at the introduction of the football team, and toss merciless jokes at our vice principal. When the announcements about homecoming start, they split time between doing the wave and flirting with each other. Friday nights around Maplewood are good for three things: sports, parties, and the next episode of “Who Hooked Up in the Pool?” to be aired in the hallways on Monday mornings.
“It’s Jayden, I’m telling you,” Lucy says. She’s braiding three Twizzlers into a friendship bracelet. My best friends are all mad talented.
“Obviously.”
“That hair is hiding secrets.”
I recline. My eyes wander again. In the sea of seniors, I wonder where Brook is? Is a certain someone is sitting next to him?
Lucy thumbs at her phone. “I can’t believe Rio ditched us.”
“You know she doesn’t do mandated social activities like this.”
Lucy says, “I invited her to
the game.”
We are both aware Rio’s not going. She never does. Rio and loud crowds and trying to find justifiable reasons for two hours of sports don’t gel. But something about Lucy’s optimism makes me nudge her and wink.
“She’ll be too busy trying to uncover the real Mad Tagger.”
“Maybe she needs our help?”
“Yeah.” I sigh wistfully. “Because we’ve obviously figured out who it is.”
“Maybe it’s you.” Lucy’s grinning.
“Clearly. It’s always the cute gay ones.”
“Who says you’re cute?”
“Who says I’m not?”
We settle in for the marching band’s epic Bruno Mars medley. That’s all pep rallies are about, anyway: percussion and trumpets and losing ourselves in the groove of music we all know the words to.
After school, I skip the game. I’m not in the mood to drive to an away game. School activities are usually excuses for more time with my friends, but not today. A loop of the meeting with Mrs. Scott has taken over my mind. A Technicolor, bobblehead nightmare, it replays like a gruesome YouTube compilation of country singers covering pop-rock songs.
The voiceover in the chaos of Mrs. Scott and her college recommendations is, “Who are you, Remy Cameron? Who the hell are you?” The narrator sounds eerily like Voldemort.
It leaves me feeling very un-peppy. I don’t want to ruin the game for Brook and Lucy. Rio’s locked herself away in The Leaf’s offices—also known as Mr. Ahmed’s Creative Writing classroom—to work on her Mad Tagger piece.
That leaves me and the mostly empty student parking lot—well, me and one student leaning against an atomic-blue Honda Civic. It’s an older model, but with subtle, newer modifications. A messenger bag lies at his feet. He’s wearing a denim jacket with his hair tucked under an ordinary black beanie. I hesitate to approach him.
It’s just Ian. Just a guy that’s friends with Brook, who sits with us at lunch, who likes matcha lattes, who thinks my dog is cute. We can talk. How hard is that? We’re Facebook friends now and that’s big… to grandparents and the government, but whatever.
“Cool car,” I say when I’m close enough. “It’s very—”
“Please, don’t say Asian,” says Ian, smiling. “Don’t be that person.”
I blink a few times, stunned. “No.” I shake my head. “It’s very retro, like your music. Like you.”
Ian squints. He’s not wearing his glasses. Why am I noticing that instead of what the hell just came out of my mouth? He probably thinks I insulted him.
Retro? What the actual—
“I mean, you’re not old school or outdated or…” I pause, rubbing my curls. “You’re not. Retro is cool.”
“Is it?”
“So cool,” I say. “You’re dope.”
“Am I?”
“You are.” Sweat tickles my hairline. “You’re like, way cool.”
“I’m not even marginally cool.”
“You are! Cool hair. Cool car. Cool clothes.” Like an idiot, I tick everything off on my fingers. He’s not even looking at me. His chin is tipped up; sunlight bronzes his cheeks as he watches the clouds edge across the blue like ivory glaciers.
My stomach bends and knots like a Cirque du Soleil performer. I lick the dryness from my mouth.
Ian’s eyes lower. “Cool clothes? They’re sort of—”
“Retro!” A laugh eases through my throat like honey. “You look hot in them.” I don’t even flinch. My mouth clearly has no chill, so I continue. “Wow. This is terrible. And offensive. The epitome of disaster.”
Ian’s mouth rises on one side. “Word vomit.”
“There are research studies on that, right?”
“Extensive.” Ian cocks his head. “I can send you a few links.”
It’s still warm for October. The breeze swirls between us bearing scarlet leaves and promises, with hints of apples and smoke. The sky is the perfect shade of blue. I love it. This awkward hush between Ian and I doesn’t exist when our surroundings are filled with such unpredictable magic.
“Hey,” I whisper, then clear my throat. “Do you wanna, like, go somewhere?”
“Somewhere?”
“It’s the weekend, and we’re two lame teenagers hanging out in a school parking lot.”
“Speak for yourself.” That solo dimple creases Ian’s right cheek. “I’m not lame. I have it on good authority that I’m retro and cool and… hot?”
I look away. Fire prickles beneath my cheeks.
“Come on.” Ian’s fingers squeeze into my shoulder. “We can just, uh, drive.”
“No destination in mind?”
“Somewhere for cool people like myself and lames like you, obviously.”
My laugh is carried by the cozy-warm breeze. It’s loud and geeky and I don’t want to take it back.
Our ride to Somewhere is the easiest thirty minutes of silence I’ve ever experienced, mostly because it’s filled with Ian’s eclectic collection of ’80s music. His phone is plugged into the aux chord; the interior of the car is filled with a steady flow of synthesizers and guitars and awesome.
“This is?” I ask.
“The Bangles,” he replies, fingers drumming along the steering wheel.
“And that last song—”
“The Smiths.”
I nod along, watching him sing under his breath. He’s off-key but doesn’t care. Ian’s in his own world. I love how music does that—takes us to the middle of a packed arena with a spotlight and a microphone, even if we can’t sing the ABCs without our voices cracking. Music doesn’t just seep into our souls; it wraps careful fingers around our nerves and presses new life into them.
The windows are cracked open. Fresh air with the scent of orange leaves circulates through the interior while music escapes into the neighborhoods we cruise through. The sky is a canvas of melting pinks and blues. Clouds are brushed gold by the sinking sun. It’s The Magic Hour.
A song kicks in, all acoustic guitar and bass. “I know this one!” I thump my palms on the dashboard. “George Michael!”
Ian’s soft dimple reappears. He drives a manual transmission and shifts gears like a race car driver. I’m not coordinated enough to text and walk simultaneously. Watching Ian pump the clutch with one foot, using the other to gently press the gas pedal while his right hand eases us into a higher gear, all while he talks about music, is nirvanic.
“Careful,” warns Ian, “you might become cool around me.”
“Knowing who George Michael is isn’t cool. It came with my gay card.”
For the first time in a long time, I flinch. I don’t know why. After the first six times, coming out became as basic as telling a stranger my name. It became a joke: “Hi, my name is Gay and my sexuality is Remy Cameron.” Over and over, I’ve had to acknowledge my sexuality as if it’s a warning. The thing is, you always have to come out. Every day. To new people, to people you’ve known forever, to people who keep trying to ignore it.
I’m this.
I’m that.
Yes, I’m still Insert Anything Other Than Straight Here. And maybe that bothers me a little some days. But I’ve gotten used to it. Until now. Now it feels like the first time I’ve acknowledged my sexuality as this thing that could possibly matter. I don’t want it to be a big deal, but it’s a big deal.
Ian’s expression is neutral. His eyes stay on the road, but I watch him earnestly. “I haven’t actually…” His words fade, cheeks reddening. “I haven’t received my card in the mail yet. I just became a subscriber.”
In GSA, we have monthly talks about coming out: how to be supportive, language and tones and how to offer encouragement in face of something scary and new. But those words fail me in this moment.
“Okay.”
Ian inhales sharply, the skin around his eyes see
ms tighter.
“Hey,” I whisper. My hand itches to touch his shoulder, to squeeze, but there are boundaries I’ve been taught not to cross unless invited. “It’s cool. So, you’re new to coming out—”
“I’m not out. Not too many people know, especially around here,” interrupts Ian. His white knuckles are stark against the black steering wheel. “I’m new to realizing I’m gay? Or admitting it to myself? I dunno. I don’t want that to be the spotlight people shine on me at Maplewood. Not now.”
The music is softer. I don’t know which one of us turned it down.
“I’m not saying it’s bad or anything,” Ian continues. “It’s cool that people can come out. Be themselves. That the process is easy—”
“It’s never easy,” I blurt. I stare out the window, watching burnt-orange leaves dance over gray sidewalks. “Not even when you’re fourteen and so sure of yourself.”
Fourteen is a strange place to deal with sexuality and hormones and math. I managed two of those things—I still suck at math. And, really, who comes out as a freshman? In the middle of student council elections, no less.
Hi, Remy Cameron does. Happily. At least, I was happy for three fleeting seconds after I announced to the entire freshmen class in the auditorium, “Hello, I’m Remy Cameron. I’m running for class vice-president. And I’m gay. Any questions?”
I worked all night on that speech. And, holy shit, did I get a bunch of questions. None of them were about my proposed plan for better lunches, a mandatory state-wide recess for high school students, or Charlie Brown Day during homecoming’s Spirit Week.
But there it was. Remy Cameron—the only black student running for student council, the only one wearing a bowtie and paint-speckled Vans with no socks, the only openly gay member of Maplewood’s freshmen class.
We’re back to silence, Ian and me. More music spills into the streets; the early evening wind seeps into the car. Our silence is heavy as a thick winter sweater. Can we roll back time five minutes? Is that possible?
“Sorry,” Ian finally says. “Word vomit thingy.”
How to Be Remy Cameron Page 10