“They’re so blue,” he continues. “I’ve never seen that on, like, a…”
“A black guy?” I say, because I can tell he’s struggling. It pisses me off when people act as if black is offensive. That’s what I am. Say it.
“Yeah, a black guy.” His eyes continue to roam over me.
I don’t know how to respond to that. His hand is still on my spine; his deliberate fingers map out each knob. I’m sweaty and uncomfortable.
“You’re cute.”
“Thanks?”
He laughs, head tipped back, neck flushed. Three moles form a zigzag pattern against his skin. He catches me staring, then winks.
Now I’m blushing.
“I’m Liam, by the way.” He extends the hand that was once on my back. I shake it, but only briefly. Then I wipe the sweat from his palm on my jeans. That doesn’t seem to bother him.
“Remy.”
“Seriously? Dude!” His eyes are lit like his lopsided smile. “Remy as in Rembrandt? You mean like that rat from Ratatouille?”
I make a face. Major confession: I hated it when kids teased me about my name. No offense Pixar, but I don’t want to be compared to a rat. No one does, no matter how funny that movie was.
I sigh. “Something like that.”
“That’s adorable.” He’s back to leaning in my direction. “Like you.” He licks his lips, then his teeth catch the bottom one. “I’ve never been with a guy with eyes blue as yours. It’s hot. Like, a black guy as cute as you with blue eyes? That’d be nice.”
We’ve stopped moving. Well, I have. The heels of my shoes and the wings of my shoulders are against the wall. Liam is in my breathing space.
Soccer Ally of Dimi clears his throat rudely. “Get a room.”
Liam ignores him. His fingertips skim my hip.
“I’ve never even been with a black guy,” he whispers. “I’ve wanted to. And you’re so damn cute.”
I flinch. My fingers curl into a fist, but I don’t swing. I think about it over and over. But he’s taller, probably quicker. The last thing I need is Lieutenant Parker crashing Andrew’s party to arrest me, self-defense or not. The last thing I need is to be plastered across the news as the angry black kid who decked a more-than-deserving white male.
“Interested?”
“Nope.”
Liam frowns. “Why not?”
I shake my head. Every breath entering and exiting my lungs feels as if it’s made of fire. Frustrated tears prickle my eyes. This isn’t happening.
“I’m not—”
“Interested,” Brook finishes, appearing out of nowhere. His body fits between mine and Liam’s. He’s the same height as Liam but bigger, with square shoulders and tension running through his forearms. “Maybe you should leave it at that.”
Liam stumbles back, hands raised. He’d look like the perfect victim to anyone watching us now.
“We were just flirting.”
“Were you?” Brook’s jaw tightens.
Liam tries to look past Brook toward me. I shrink, struggling to steady my nervous breaths.
“It was nothing.” Liam shakes his head; his face is scrunched. “No biggie, bro.”
Brook steps toward Liam. I want to reach out just in case he decides to clock Liam. Lucy would lose her mind. And Brook could lose a potential scholarship.
“I’d like to believe my ma is a little more selective with her sperm donors,” Brook says with this tight smile, “so we’re definitely not bros. Not even close.”
Liam pffts. “Yeah, whatever. Was just trying to get my dick sucked.” Then Liam storms off, flipping us both the middle finger.
I’m frozen, slumped against the wall like a puppet without a ventriloquist.
“Hey.” It takes me a second to realize Brook’s helping me stand straight, ruffling my curls. Now his smile is kind, as though he hadn’t been three seconds from ripping Liam’s face off. “He’s gone.”
“He’s gone,” I repeat, throat dry.
Brook’s eyes trace my face, as if he’s waiting for me to snap back to myself, as if he hopes I do.
It takes a minute. Then I greet Brook with a shaky laugh. “That was wild,” I say, instead of “I can’t believe that dick.” Rather than, “He only wanted me because I’m black. Because I have blue eyes. Because I was a fetish.” I don’t say any of that.
“Sorry that went down,” Brook says, rubbing the back of his neck.
I blink at him, confused. Does Brook think this is his fault? That I was picked out of a house-filled with people because I’m black? Because Liam has a boner for things he’s never had? Because some people fetishize race and are complete assholes?
“Don’t apologize,” I say, almost angrily.
He frowns and doesn’t say anything else, as if we both comprehend. This is how it is. This is what it means to be black at Maplewood.
“Anyway, I’m here ‘cause there’s a certain someone waiting at the bottom of the steps for you,” Brook says. “He’s ready to leave. I guess you are too?”
When I nod, Brook exhales a happy sigh. “Good. My best friend is too spineless to say he wants to walk you home. Weird guy.”
“A good weird,” I say with way too much enthusiasm.
Brook says, “The best kind of weird.”
He pulls me under the wing of his arm, then waits a moment as if I’ll react negatively to someone touching me after what just happened. I almost do. Then my shoulders relax, and Brooks hauls me closer. He leads me toward the staircase while rambling about all his weekend date plans with Lucy.
I’m confident Brook won’t tell Ian about any of this—unspoken trust at its finest.
17
“We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?”
“Somewhere.”
We’re back to this again. Somewhere, somewhere, somewhere. To be honest, I love following Ian to Somewhere. Anywhere, really. He guides me with a shy expression and his hand wrapped around mine. Our fingers have found this natural home, interlocked, so our fingertips learn the surface of each other’s knuckles. Mine are a little rough; his are inexplicably soft. It all works.
We’re not too far from Ballard Hills; we’re close to Maplewood Middle School, but not. Near the spot where we first reconnected, while I was walking Clover and he was running and we were both lost-and-found. Yet, this feels like being in a completely different world. Trees tower over us. The sidewalk is covered in pine needles—autumn’s love letter to humanity, a mint-green pathway to Somewhere.
I don’t ask Ian about where we’re going. Instead, I ask about California, about his halmeoni. He sheds his inhibition as if it’s an extra layer of clothing in the summer. Ian misses the beach, but not the water. Ian loves the sunsets but hates the coconut scent of suntan lotion. Ian’s grandmother is Korean-Mexican. He inherited her love for spicy foods. Most Sundays, she cooks his favorite meal: buldak with nuringji—deep fried, bite-size barbequed chicken coated in a chili sauce, served with a thin crust of slightly brown, crunchy rice found at the bottom of the pot.
I tell him about my Dad’s French toast obsession and about Mom’s passion for pop culture. I don’t tell him about Dimi, and he never mentions any of his exes, and that works too. We exist in a space outside of reality and inside of our racing hearts. I don’t think I’ll ever leave.
Somewhere ends up being a clearing just behind the trees. It’s a place I’ve never been, or maybe I have, but never paid attention. Nothing hides the sky. It’s a navy canvas, marred only by stars flicked against its surface like white paint splatters. There’s not a single cloud.
“Somewhere.” Ian presents it as though it’s a gift, with his free hand stretched outward. And it is, wrapped with a lovely crescent-moon-bow smack in the middle of it.
Ivory light swims through my vision. My heart floats on
a bed of unexpected emotions—happiness, nerves, and anticipation. For what? I have no idea. I don’t think I want to know.
“What do you see?” he asks, quietly.
“Everything.”
“Yeah.” His fingers tighten around mine. “Me too.”
It’s the most calming thing—standing in our silence, breathing in the unsaid words, exhaling the smiles they produce. This is exactly what I needed to get my mind off Liam, to take me away from how that made me feel: like a prize. Even in the queer community, race plays a factor. It’s the deciding piece in whether you’re desired or rejected, a swipe left or right. For some, it’s this holy grail, a checkmark on their bucket list. I didn’t want to be anyone’s checkmark. I didn’t want anyone to want me because of my race. I wasn’t a prize.
The night air smells like heat and sugary sap. All the insects are humming their nightly opus. When I turn to look at Ian, he’s watching me.
He says, “There’s one rule to Somewhere: You can’t leave alone.”
“What?”
“There’s one rule. You can’t leave alone.”
“I’m still here.”
“But you went away for a moment.”
I did, for a moment too long. But my fingers tighten around his. Without question, I know he can feel my heartbeat through my palm. I’m not ashamed of how fast it thumps—because of Ian freaking Park.
His eyes, hazel and blinking repeatedly, move across my eyebrows and cheeks and jaw. But he’s not coveting me the way Liam did. He’s only observing, learning my face as if he might forget it. Funny thing is, I know he won’t.
But I need to remind him. “Can I—” The words fizzle in my throat like carbonation. Then, my courage hardens like fired clay. “Can I kiss you?”
My request hangs between us. This is a moment too, except it doesn’t last long.
Ian licks his lips. “Yes.”
“Okay.” I try not to sound surprised.
He trips getting closer. And I laugh, briefly. Then I kiss him. Our lips are gentle but sure. Our noses are awkward; then his hand touches my cheek, and I find a rhythm. I bury every nerve not attached to my heart into the kiss. Ian kisses back as if he’s falling from orbit and I’ll be the one to catch him. With my fingertips cupping his chin and my eyes shut, I catch him.
We pull apart on a hiccup—from me—and a shudder—from him.
“Wow.”
I blush. Or my cheeks try to, but there’s a lot of blood flowing south of my navel. “Have you ever—Was I the first boy you kissed?”
He nods, eyes lowered.
“Wow.”
“Don’t get an ego.”
“Too late.” I snort, and his eyes lift, crinkled by his upturned mouth. “It was good, right?”
“Six out of ten.”
“Six?!”
This time, he chuckles. Gently, he says, “But I have nothing to compare it to. A second kiss might raise my score.”
Instead of pointing out the flaws in his math, I step on his toes and kiss him again. And a third time. A fourth time just to secure my superiority over any future kisses. Not that I want him to have anyone else to compare this to. I want to be the only one in his Somewhere.
It’s after midnight. October kissed Georgia goodbye in a whisper of jack-o’-lanterns being blown out and a shout of teenagers high on sugar and an explosion of toilet paper across tree branches and houses.
I’m half-curled on the sofa with Mom. Between us, Willow’s asleep. Her little lips are parted; whistling breaths escape. Clover’s nearby, shamelessly snoring. Exhaustion weighs on me, but I’m still wired by Ian’s kisses and by the way he held my hand all the way back to my doorstep.
We sit in the dark. The blue of the television glows on our faces. It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown plays on a loop, a Mom-and-me tradition. All the characters are dancing manically to the “Linus and Lucy” theme.
“Late night, Remy.”
These are the first words she’s said since I tiptoed inside, three minutes past curfew. To be fair, I wasn’t late. Time doesn’t exist during kisses on the front step, at least, not during Ian’s kisses.
I clear my throat. “Not too late.”
“I’ve seen worse.” I can hear the snark in her voice. Dimi was a terrible influence. If I was making out with him—or other things—I was usually grounded for coming home too late because of him.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re young.” Her hand is on my head; my curls twine around her fingers. “Ian seems nice.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yeah. I guess.”
“Uh huh.”
She’s waiting for more. I’m afraid to give it to her, not because my mom isn’t great with me being gay or dating, but because I haven’t pieced together what information is worth releasing and what I need to keep close to my chest, just in case Ian’s nothing more than a friend. Friends that kiss but don’t date exist, right?
“He likes you.”
“Okay, let’s not assume things, Mom.”
“It’s not an assumption.” When my eyes open, she’s smirking—that I Know Things smirk trademarked by most moms. Then, in a serious tone, she says, “Be careful. Not with just your heart; use protection.”
I resist screaming out of respect for Willow. But it burbles in my throat, lava-hot. “Mom,” I hiss to alleviate some of the pressure.
“I’m not ready to be a grandmother.” The urgency has faded, replaced by humor. “I haven’t even gone through my Britney Spears phase yet.”
“Which one? Catholic schoolgirl? Snake girl? Shaved head? Barefoot at a gas station?”
“Oh, honey,” Mom’s mouth curves upward, “All the Britney phases are important.”
In the dark, the television screen’s bluish glow brushes over Mom’s crow’s feet, across those miniature wrinkles around her mouth. Her strawberry-blonde hair is beginning to lose some of its luster. She’s not old, but age is catching her.
Her fingers shift in my curls. “I want to be that cool grandmother who still wears sports bras and track pants.”
I groan. “That won’t be happening,” I say. “I’m gay, remember?”
Mom blows a raspberry that shakes Clover awake. It’s almost the same reaction she had when I came out. I was thirteen and decided to do it the summer before freshman year, before the Age of Remy, the Gay One. She and Dad were right here, on the sofa. I told them in the most unique way I could think of: strolling into the living room, ruining a perfectly nice button-down shirt by ripping it open like Clark Kent changing into Superman to reveal a T-shirt that said “PROUD” with a rainbow over the letters. I thought I was badass.
Dad blinked at me for a minute, head cocked. He was confused. But Mom—she blew a raspberry, pulled me down between them, and turned on coverage of NYC Pride. We watched, the three of us, all the rainbow flags and floats filled with dancing people and joy, pure joy.
“Okay, so what’s the big deal?” Mom said. Then she laughed, wetly, with my head tucked under her chin. “We’re the proud ones, Remy. Thank you for being yourself.”
Dad patted my curls and whispered, “Love you, kiddo.”
That was it. Honestly, it was incredible. I cried afterward, locked in my bedroom, with power-pop on full blast. But I wasn’t sad. I was so damn happy. Yes, it took Dad some time to adjust to me talking about boys like that. No, Mom didn’t join the local chapter of PFLAG. They both struggled in the beginning with Dimi. It was frustrating, but I recognized something important: My parents aren’t perfect.
“Being gay doesn’t mean you can’t have children, Remy,” Mom reminds me. Her lips are pursed; her intense eyes watch me. I sense a speech coming. “When doctors said I couldn’t have children naturally, I didn’t mourn the loss. Your father didn’t either. We knew what we wanted. Adoption was the best thing ever
.”
I blink at her. Everything around us softens: Clover’s snores, Willow’s exhales, the television.
“Adopting you was the best thing,” she pauses. A grin overtakes her face. “Adopting you is the best thing that happened to us. You know that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“The best thing, Remy.”
Our smiles are the same size, shape, everything. Is that possible? I’m not their blood, but so much of who I am—internally and externally—is my parents.
“What about Willow?”
Mom snorts, glancing at Willow. “She’s okay.”
I don’t bother to restrain my giggle. Willow shifts, curling into me. Mom washed her hair, and I tuck a still-damp lock of it behind her ear.
“You’ll make a great dad someday, Remy.”
“Yeah?”
“The best,” she says, toying with my curls. “You’ll change someone’s world.”
“Like you did for mine?”
“No,” whispers Mom. I think she might cry. “Like you did for ours.”
We fall quiet. My mind doesn’t. It buzzes and roars with new thoughts: a birth mother, a sister, a possible birth father, people who might change my entire world. I’m not sure I want that.
18
Message from Free Williams
Saturday. Aurora Coffee. Little 5. Meet me @ 10 a.m.
Sent Oct 31 9:19 p.m.
* * *
Meeting the sister you didn’t know you had is the SAT of familial situations. You can prepare all you want with cram sessions studying her Instagram, her Facebook. You can research her zodiac sign to anticipate her personality traits—I didn’t do that but I think Rio would have.
I should’ve invited Rio. No. This is awkward enough. Texting Rio “Hey, do you wanna spend Saturday morning meeting my birth sister? BTW, I have a birth sister… crazy, right?!” isn’t the way I want this to go down. It’s not the way I want any of my friends to find out about Free. Do I want my friends to know about Free? I still haven’t decided.
Aurora Coffee is a chill, old-school-meets-now coffee shop. It’s in Little Five Points, a two-and-a-half-mile strip of shops gathered in Midtown. Little Five is a black hole of hipsters and city-dwellers and bohemians. It’s also where suburban moms go to find vintage clothes in their horrible attempts to appear cool.
How to Be Remy Cameron Page 17