Coach Park crying? It doesn’t compute. Coach Park is silent unless he’s talking to a swimmer. He’s an android, incapable of emotion.
“That’s ironic, right?” Ian laughs hollowly. “My mom used to dance alone in the same kitchen my dad cries in.”
We stare at each other. Nothing else exists: just me, searching for a way to comfort, and Ian, pretending he doesn’t need it.
He looks away first. “Anyway, I plan to crash on the couch with him and marathon sci-fi movies.”
It’s the sweetest, nerdiest thing ever. “Sounds like a good plan,” I say.
Ian bites on his lower lip; his dimple is fully exposed.
I stand to leave. I have homework and the Essay of Doom and I’m desperate for some Willow-Clover sofa time. I don’t get far.
“Hey,” Ian says, two fingers brushing my knuckles. “What about Saturday morning?”
On cue, my voice cracks. “Saturday morning?”
“Yes. Saturday.”
Everything inside Zombie is brushed tangerine by the sinking sun, everything including the small space between our hands where Ian’s fingers still hover. My skin itches for the warmth.
“Okay. Saturday,” I finally say.
And No-Dating-Remy spontaneously combusts.
20
Five minutes before six a.m. is an unreasonable hour for any teenager to be awake. But this is tradition. Our yawns are contagious. They start with Lucy, then Rio. I’m next. We’re this band of yawns and sighs and impatient exhales. We’re parked outside the Krispy Kreme, waiting for the hot light to illuminate the window.
“Why do we do this to ourselves?” I ask.
“Tradition,” Lucy mumbles, eyes closed, reclined in the passenger seat. A nearby street lamp’s amber glow brightens her almost-peaceful face.
“Because I’ve had a hard week,” says Rio from the backseat. She’s been rambling about homework and lab projects and The Leaf since I picked her up twenty minutes ago, but nothing about the Mad Tagger. We haven’t returned to our talk about Ian being on the Suspect Wall. I’m still frustrated about it. I still can’t tell her why I think Ian can’t be the Mad Tagger.
I yawn loudly. The driver’s seat is semi-reclined; my arms are folded behind my head. Last night was another marathon of working on the Essay of Doom.
Correction: I stared at a blank Word document, then Mrs. Scott’s list of potential colleges next to my newly-printed map of all the cool coffee shops around Emory’s campus and the list of Creative Writing workshops offered. I’ve circled all the ones I want to take in red marker.
I also stared at my latest message from Free:
Message from Free Williams
Is your favorite color purple? Momma’s was yellow. What are your other favorites? Food? Drink? Weather? Celeb crush?
Sent Nov 6 10:31 p.m.
My eyes danced for thirty minutes until tears blurred my vision. Everyone wants to know who I am. I don’t have an answer. Eventually, I got sucked into a YouTube vortex of bears swimming in pools and corny ’80s music videos. Seriously, what drugs were those bands on?
At 6:07 a.m., there’s still no hot light.
“I need this,” says Lucy. “Committees, anime club, presidential stuff, Brook. I need a break.”
“A break from Brook?”
“No. Well, yes. But not a bad break.”
“Any break from a relationship is a good break,” says Rio.
I roll my eyes. Rio doesn’t date, ever. It’s, like, her religion. The Church of Love is for the weak. On Valentine’s Day, she sacrifices giant teddy bears while blasting grunge-rock to appease her heartless god.
“One day, Rio, you’ll find The One,” I say affectionately.
“‘The One’ doesn’t exist. This isn’t a Kate Hudson movie,” says Rio. “We’re not all falling madly over a crush like you.”
“What?”
“Oh, come on, Rembrandt.” There’s a look in Lucy’s eyes that’s completely uncalled for. “We’ve seen it.”
“Seen what?”
Rio sighs impatiently.
“Dude,” Lucy punches my shoulder, “the way you look at Ian.”
“Every day at lunch,” Rio adds.
“Ian?” My voice is Prince-levels of high. “I don’t—”
“You do,” interrupts Rio. “Constantly.”
“It’s kind of obvious,” Lucy says.
“Obvious to who?” I ask, eyes narrowed.
“Jayden, Chloe, Sara—”
“That’s bullshit.” Sara is like a shark; she can smell blood. If Sara Awad knew anything about Ian and me, she’d hold it over my head like a dog treat. Besides, I can totally appreciate the way Ian dresses or his nerdy glasses or a little dimple action without having a crush. It’s completely acceptable. “It’s not true. You have no proof to back-up these insidious accusations.”
Lucy snorts. “Insidious?”
“Shut up.”
“SAT Prep looks good on you, Rembrandt.”
I ignore her. “I’m not crushing. There’s no crush. Crushing is sixth grade.”
“And these are the gays of our lives,” Lucy says.
I hate them. I thumb through the playlists on my phone. I need POP ETC. But Lucy steals my phone and finds some random power-pop song.
“It’s not like this is the first time this has happened, Romeo. If there’s a cute boy, you fall over your feet—more than usual—while the rest of us cease to exist,” says Rio, a hint of something in her voice. I can’t name it. After another yawn, she adds, nonchalantly, “We don’t care.”
A balloon of guilt fills my lungs, because I am keeping secrets. Not the Ian thing—his sexuality isn’t mine to share.
But there’s Free—the fact that she exists.
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing, you know,” says Lucy. “You liking someone new.”
Rio snorts. “It would. Infatuated Remy is the worst.”
“He kinda is.”
“He,” I say through my teeth, “is right here.”
“Remember the Elijah thing?” Rio continues as if I’m a ghost.
“Remember the Calvin Ingraham thing?”
In the rearview mirror, I can see my cheeks have reached neutron star levels of bright—just like the neon red “HOT NOW” sign that’s finally illuminating Krispy Kreme’s storefront.
I hop out of the driver’s seat. “I’m getting a dozen.” Rio does this happy shoulder-shimmy dance until I say, loudly, “For me!”
Lucy and Rio respond with twin middle fingers. It’s all the confirmation I need that we’re okay.
I can keep some secrets.
21
No one should spend a Saturday morning at school for any reason—unless that reason involves Ian Park. We’re outside Maplewood’s aquatic center. Ian’s fumbling with a set of keys and the chain lock on the side entrance. I yawn. It’s too early.
An overnight rain has left a thin reef of fog and mist around campus. The sun is a pale glow behind lumpy gray clouds. It’s chilly outside, enough that I’m wearing a sweater for reasons other than fashion choice.
“This is Somewhere?” I ask.
Over his shoulder, Ian says, “Somewhere new.” Ian and his infinite amounts of Somewhere.
“But it’s not new,” I say around another yawn. “I’ve been here.”
“Not with me.”
Good point. But a Saturday morning breaking into school property will land us in a Somewhere called jail. I’d love to explain that to Mrs. Scott while she shreds that list of dream colleges for me. The door snicks open. Ian smiles roguishly. I don’t bother to ask how he has a set of keys to the aquatic center. Perks of being the head coach’s son, I guess. The swim team is away for a meet. It’s just Ian, me, and the pool.
Scratch that—thi
s is the best reason to spend a Saturday morning at school. Ian doesn’t bother turning on the overhead halogens. The lights at the bottom of the pool splash teal and aqua and turquoise against the walls and the tiles framing the water. The air’s warm but damp. It smells of chlorine and possibility. Everything is quiet, except the whispering music coming from Ian’s phone, propped on a diving board.
Tiny ripples disrupt the water’s perfect blue surface. We’re dipping nothing but our toes in. Our shoes are piled by the ladder to the high board. My sweater’s in the bleachers. Ian’s cardigan is near the door. We’re two boys in jeans and geeky graphic T-shirts, nervous, but calmed by the water.
Simple Minds is playing. I’m learning his music. I’m learning the little curves of his mouth that launch that dimple.
“This is kind of cool,” I say to interrupt the quiet. I hate the way my voice echoes.
“Is it?”
I shove him gently. “You know it is.”
“I used to hate this place. The water, the smell, the stupid drenched towels piled in the locker room that my dad would tell me to pick up.” He wrinkles his nose. “I used to think this is all my dad was. And this,” his arms spread out, hands shaking, “is what made my mom leave.”
“It’s not the reason?” I ask, soft and unsure.
Ian sighs. “No.”
His arms to drop to his sides. I give him a look—a question with my eyes. Can I hold your hand? He nods slowly, and I grab his hand.
“My mom didn’t love being away from her family. She didn’t love this place,” he whispers. Blue hues dance across his nose, his sad eyes. “She loves me, but I don’t think she loved him anymore.”
We stand quietly again. The song changes: “Alone” by some band named Heart. Another Max Cameron instant-like. I’m not into it but it’s bearable because I’m with Ian, with his shy smile and hand tucked in mine.
“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “Word vomit.” The coiled tightness of his jaw says he needed to talk about his parents, his mom.
I squeeze his hand because words aren’t forming. It seems good enough for him.
“Can you swim?” he asks.
“Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
I can float. I can hold my breath underwater. I have strong leg muscles, but my coordination between kicking and moving my arms is incredibly amateurish. Clover can outswim me, Willow too. But I don’t tell Ian all of this. I say, quietly, “I’m a willing learner if you’re a capable teacher.”
He laughs at that. Head tossed back, sharp Adam’s apple bobbing, he’s a wonderful canvas of skin to touch, to kiss.
“Maybe,” he says.
“Maybe,” I repeat; the promise rests deep in my spine.
“The water’s warm,” he says with too much confidence. “I promise.”
“We’re not getting in there.”
“We’re not?”
I know better than to trust that dimple. His eyes are bright. His fingers are knotted too firmly around mine. I know what’s about to happen. But I jump first, pulling him with me. We sink right to the bottom; soaked denim weighs us down.
It’s not terrifying, fighting to crack the surface before water fills my lungs. Maybe that’s the adrenaline. Maybe it’s the muscle memory guiding me up. Maybe it’s Ian’s excited shouts echoing against the walls when I emerge. Maybe it’s because we’re still holding hands.
“Asshole.”
“You started this,” I yell, grinning. He smiles back; his hair is stuck to his forehead. I wade closer. We’re halfway between the shallow and deep ends of the pool. I’m breathing hard, but I ask, “Are you mad?”
“Do I look mad?”
“You look wet.”
“Funny.” He splashes me.
I retaliate with a bigger wave. We sway and thrash and never move too far. We float closer. Cold fingers intertwined; our palms kiss until our heartbeats intersect at that one point of contact.
Ian’s cheeks are ruddy; his skin is pale. Quick breaths push his lips apart. My breathing syncopates. He swallows, then says, “Can I—”
“Yes.”
He kisses me, softly at first, then, with a loud gasp, a curious tongue. I sink into it, sighing. My fingers thread into his soaked, dark hair. Our knees knock as we tread water. Our skin is cold. I focus on the heat of our mouths, on the taste of chlorine and matcha and something new happening. On Madonna singing about being crazy for someone.
Then, in silent agreement, we dunk underwater. We’re swallowed by blue-green and silence. For once, I can’t hear anything: not my thoughts, not my fears, the person I’m not or possibly am. I only hear my thunderous heartbeat, and it’s the most calming noise ever.
* * *
It’s the strangest thing, lying in someone else’s bed, gradually learning the shape of their pillow. The newness of wearing their athletic shorts and Pokémon socks as you stretch. Or adjusting to the way their Maplewood swim team hoodie with sleeves so long they bunch over your knuckles feels.
Face-to-face, we’re so close our noses touch. Our foreheads bump whenever one of us shifts. Our quiet breaths are underscored by the rain falling outside Ian’s bedroom window.
I could compare all this to days with Dimi in his bedroom. I don’t. Instead, my eyes roam from Ian’s lazy expression to all the things I notice about his room. He has posters dedicated to weird anime and even weirder ’80s musicians pinned at awkward angles on marigold-painted walls. In a corner is a piano-keys dresser, white drawers with thick black handles. Polaroids of palm trees, fresh oranges, the Pacific Ocean are taped everywhere. His black sheets are dotted with white stars. We’re lying in the middle of a galaxy.
I push hair off his forehead. His eyes trace my face. I bite my lip. It’s still sore from kissing, from his teeth. “You’re quiet.”
He shakes his head, which makes our noses nuzzle. That makes me giggle. His index finger repeatedly draws something against the inside of my wrist, letters, like an SOS, in pressure soft as a newborn’s heartbeat.
“I’m not usually this affectionate,” he says. “This is new. You’re new.” He hasn’t met my eyes. I don’t force him to. “This is strange and weird.”
“Strange and weird?” I repeat nervously.
Nose scrunched, he says, “My dad’s not really a touchy guy. I think that influenced how my mom was about affection.”
“How?”
“Whenever I was in the room with them, my mom only kissed the top of his head or rubbed his hand, gave him a quick hug.”
“That’s not strange or weird.”
“It is,” insists Ian. “It is when you have someone like my halmeoni in your life. When she knows you, she hugs you like you belong in her arms. Sweet kisses to your forehead. She’d lay her head on my shoulder after a long day and tell me all her stories.”
“Is everyone in your family like that?” I ask “Aunt Jilynn?”
The corners of his mouth twitch. I think he likes that I remember.
“Yes.” His finger steadies on. “Whenever I Skype with mom’s family back in California or the ones that live in Daejeon, they’re always piled on top of each other, cheek-to-cheek, trying to talk to me. But my parents were never like that, in and out of public. So I’m not…”
When Ian goes quiet, I press my thumb behind his ear and wait until his heartrate slows. I let him squeeze onto those memories like a midnight that’ll never end.
“This is new,” he says. “You’re new.”
“New is good,” I tell him.
“I should know what to do. Right?”
“Nope. We’re strange and weird. No instruction manual needed.”
He laughs; I do too. Because this is new, which is scary and exciting and unexpected. And I think we both like that.
Ian tells me more about his halmeoni and about his infatuation
with The Pirates of the Caribbean growing up—the reason behind the hoop earring. I talk about Willow and about my obsession with Charlie Brown holiday specials. I almost tell him about Free. But I can’t, not before Rio and Lucy, not before my parents.
“What’re you writing?” I ask.
His finger pauses on my wrist. An outbreak of crimson tints his fawn skin. He clears his throat; his shy eyes roam my face. “Na neo joahae.”
“What?”
“I like you.” Then his finger traces a heart into my palm.
I can’t stop myself. I whisper, “Can I kiss you?” and when he nods, I lean forward. I kiss him. Every soft, insistent feeling for him is in this kiss. Every “no, you can’t” is erased by a loud, vibrant “yes, you will.” My thumb finds his dimple and his leg wiggles between mine.
He touches my hips. I move into his grip. A small tug of war follows as limbs and hands and lips navigate unknown waters. I let him win, because I’m more experienced, because he needs to learn what he likes, what he’s comfortable with. But we’re both hard and needy.
We’re both shaky and clumsy. I almost knee him in the groin. He almost rolls me off the bed. The pillows fall, as do our sweaters. He’s breathless on his back under me. His eyes blink. I kiss a mole on his neck to settle him.
“Remy.” His voice is tight, but happy. “Can we—”
“Can we what?” I interrupt.
He groans impatiently. It’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever heard. But I get the message. I ask him if he’s sure? If he has protection? If he wants his first time to be with me? Because that’s huge. I wasn’t Dimi’s first. I’ve never been anyone’s first.
But every answer is, “Yes, yes, hell yes.”
And every answer comes with a kiss like a promise. What we’re about to give each other, we deserve.
22
Novembers in Georgia are bizarre. The weather is like a five-year-old in a candy aisle—perpetually undecided. Some days, it’s a seven-layers-of-clothing deal. Other days, it’s a light hoodie and shorts kind of thing.
How to Be Remy Cameron Page 20