How to Be Remy Cameron

by Julian Winters

  “Rio.” I close my eyes. An intense veil of red—anger—forms behind my lids. “It’s a lot. The essay. My family. I have a—” The words almost fly out. “It’s a lot.”

  “It’s always a lot, Remy.”

  “Freaking hell, Rio. For once, let this be about me. Quit acting as if you’re the only one alone in this world because your parents are never around,” I say with a growl. “You have no clue what I’m dealing with.”

  She winces. Then, with a tight voice, she says, “You’re right. I wouldn’t know. I’m only the friend you talk to about boys and meaningless romance.”

  I hear her walk away. I hear the pain in her voice and the static of my heart and the world ending. I should’ve told her. She’s my best friend.

  “Mr. Cameron?”

  My eyes blink open. It’s Principal Moon. She’s a few feet away, standing with Mrs. Scott, who’s wearing a red-and-gray floral dress and a disappointed expression. There’s so much school spirit around here nowadays—crimson and steel streamers and pirates painted on classroom doors and homecoming posters everywhere—that I want to vomit.

  “Remy?” It’s Mrs. Scott’s “concerned” voice.

  I ignore her, glaring at some art kid’s banner advertising the dance, the stupid, friendship-dismantling dance.

  Principal Moon clears her throat. “Would you like to add attending detention to your class schedule today?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Ma’am is a southern thing. Principal Moon is all grassroots. I guess I’m trying to impress her so maybe she can write me a recommendation to Emory, since clearly Ms. Amos won’t be after I fail AP Lit.

  “Are we going to homeroom today?”

  I whisper, “Yeah.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.”

  I push off the bank of lockers I’ve been leaning against. My heart’s raging louder than one of Zac’s EDM playlists. My nails have left deep crescents in my palms.

  I’m not even halfway down the hall when Mrs. Scott yells, cheesy as a kitten poster, “We’re on the road to success, Mr. Cameron!”

  I successfully stop myself from telling her to shove that “we” up her tight ass.

  * * *

  Message from Free Williams

  Tonight’s date: Physical Chemistry of Biological Systems. Let me tell you. She’s a boring date. I think I have Momma’s poor taste in romance 

  Sent Nov 13 8:02 p.m.

  Message from Free Williams

  BTW I’ve been thinking. Are you sure you don’t want to at least see what Mystery Donor looks like? Momma kept a lot of photos.

  Sent Nov 13 8:05 p.m.

  I stare at my phone for a long time. I shouldn’t be on it. The deadline until I turn in the Essay of Doom—until my dreams of attending Emory bite the dust—is getting closer and closer. But I need the distraction.

  I consider Free’s question. The more we message, the more I wonder if Ruby was anything like her: refreshing and curious. The more I think about my fight with Rio, I wonder if I’m anything like Mystery Donor: selfish and oblivious and angry. I’m angry with Rio. But I’m mostly angry with myself.

  I FaceTime Lucy. She picks up immediately. Her hair is a frizzy mess, and she has heavy shadows under her eyes. She’s finally registered to take the SAT in early December. She’s been possessed by panic for two days.

  “You look scary,” I tell her, half-serious.

  “It’s a good thing you’re gay and not my type,” says Lucy, rolling her eyes.

  “Hey,” I say, then sigh. She squints at me. She can tell I’m not myself.

  “Spill it, Rembrandt. You’re eating up my study time.”

  “If you had the chance to see your dad again, would you?”

  “You know he lives in Texas, right? I could visit.”

  “Hypothetically. If you could.” I feel my throat closing up. The hand not holding my phone is trembling. “Please, Lucia.”

  She twirls her hair around her index finger, eyebrows pinched. A faraway look passes over her eyes. Again, I shouldn’t have asked. Maybe a real reason why Lucy and I don’t talk about these things exists.

  “No. I wouldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  Lucy pushes hair out of her face. That look returns. Then she says, “There are some people who leave our lives and it’s not our job to hold on. To ask, ‘what if,’ even if we want to. We’re supposed to let them leave.”

  I bite my thumbnail. We’re on each other’s screen, backlit by bedroom light and matching laptops, but we can barely make eye contact. “What if it means there’s a part of us that’s hollow? Or always curious?”

  “We’re not empty without them, Remy,” she says, like a reminder, like a vow. “What they take with them, we didn’t need. They only leave behind that ‘what if’—but so does everything else in life.”

  We exhale together. Maybe those doors we’re afraid to open in friendship need to be cracked just a little. Maybe we need to see what’s on the other side.

  “Is this about the Rio thing?” she asks tentatively.

  “No.”

  “I don’t want to…” Lucy chews her lip; her eyes dance in the light. “I shouldn’t get involved.”

  “Good,” I whisper. “It’s for the best.”

  “Is something else wrong, Rembrandt?”

  “Too much shit to unpack, Lucia,” I reply, returning that same weak grin she’s been sending.

  “I hear you. One day?”

  “One day,” I confirm.

  She tells me she has to go. Her mom needs help with her sisters. I hang up. Clover’s pacing my floor. I missed our evening walk. I never miss our walks. I never fight with Rio. I’m someone new. Or this is who I’ve always been. Was Mystery Donor this confused at seventeen? The thought wipes a cold film across my brain. Then I remember Free’s message. And I remember Lucy’s words.

  Message from Remy Cameron

  No. I don’t need to know what he looked like. Who he was. He’s gone.

  I’m not him.

  You’re Free. I’m Remy. We’re not them.

  Sent Nov 13 8:39 p.m.

  23

  “It’s been six days. Our longest fight was three. This feels like it’s gonna be an eternity.”

  “Have you tried texting her?”

  “No.”

  “FaceTime?”

  “Nope.”

  “Have you sent her parents an e-mail?”

  I chuckle, shaking my head. Ian’s such a nerd. He’s the kind of person that would walk up to a friend’s parents, shake their hands, and ask for permission to go on a walk with their child. At least, that’s what he’s done with me. We’ve looped around my neighborhood twice. It’s extra chilly today, but I don’t mind. Clover doesn’t either. She’s chaperoning us—according to Mom. Truth is, she needed a walk. And I needed Ian time.

  Outside of school, we haven’t seen each other much. He’s been busy, I guess. There’s that word again: busy, busy, busy. Except Ian hasn’t been at work—not that I randomly popped up at Zombie the other day. Mom wanted caffeine and Willow wanted a muffin. That’s it. I didn’t casually suggest the café in hopes of seeing him. And Ian hasn’t been with Brook, who picked up extra shifts at Regal Cinema to pay for a rental tux for homecoming.

  We’ve texted. One night, we FaceTimed. It was a bunch of yawning and sleepy smiles and my ramblings about Adult Swim. But nothing else: no hidden soft touches; no dark-classroom kisses; no happy, clumsy sex in the back of my car, which might’ve happened once a week ago. My lower anatomy likes to remind me of that last detail.

  Mostly, I’ve missed Ian’s glasses, his stupid little topknot, his word vomit, and the way he looks in sweaters. He’s wearing mine today, the one I left at his house after our unplanned,
fully-dressed swimming adventure. I’m wearing his hoodie. None of this escaped Mom’s intensely keen observation skills.

  We pass Mr. Ivanov’s house a third time. We always stop to admire the lawn. It’s not even Thanksgiving yet, and he’s already piled the grass with reindeer and elves and plastic candy canes. The big white oak is dressed in twinkle lights.

  Clover barks. Then we’re walking again. Ian’s quiet. More than usual, at least.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  He’s studying the neighborhood. It’s after six p.m.; the sun is a bruised peach in the distance. November looks good in Ballard Hills. The trees are on fire; gold and crimson leaves everywhere, hardly any green left. Election signs fight for lawn turf. Pumpkins and paper turkeys guard front doors. The cooler weather gives the scenery a new gloss.

  “I’m good,” he finally says.

  “You seem distracted.”

  He sighs. It’s not a good sigh.

  Clover’s ahead, marking another tree. Her kingdom is expanding.

  “My mom came to visit,” says Ian, like a whisper on the wind. “A quick visit.”

  I lazily step closer. Our fingers almost brush, but Ian maintains a distance, an invisible wall.

  “We talked.” He pushes hair behind his ear.

  “About?”

  “Me.” That one word is underlined, highlighted, and the font is huge. I already know what he’s going to say.

  “She talked to a few family members about me… being gay. They’re not okay with it.” His nose wrinkles and, under my tight sweater, I can see his muscles contract but not release. He says, “I try not to let it bother me. It could be a lot worse. It is a lot worse for other kids. It’s not as if she disowned me. She still… loves me. I’m not trying to impress her. I’m not trying to impress anyone with my sexuality. But it’s family. They’re all I’ve had for a long time.”

  We pause at a curb. Three orange leaves fall between us. There’s a space and I hate it. I hate what it represents.

  “But family can be a lot of things,” I say. “Friends and support groups and…” One word hangs in my throat. Ian tilts his head. We both know what it is. Neither one of us says it aloud.

  It’s not my word to claim. It should be given. It’s another thing that should come with permission. Instead, I say, “Family isn’t always what we’re born into.”

  Ian smiles at that. It’s small, but genuine. “It’s just been on my mind, that’s all.” His smile endures, but it’s weakening. “No big deal. Back to you and Rio.”

  But I don’t want to talk about Rio. I want to tell him it’s a big deal. That all of this matters. And I want to reach out, touch his hand, but I can’t. Not because I don’t have permission, but because words hang in Ian’s throat too.

  “I don’t know.” I start to walk again. Ian and Clover follow. “We’re just… I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

  Ian hums noncommittally.

  “Now I don’t have a date to the dance.” I try to make it sound like a joke, not an invitation. I fail.

  We’ve paused four houses down from mine. Willow’s Family Circus curtains are visible from here.

  “I can’t,” he mumbles.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t— I mean, I was, but…”

  “I’m not comfortable yet.”

  “Okay.” That entire word tastes like a lifetime of lies. He’s not comfortable. He’s comfortable enough to flirt and kiss my neck and unbutton my jeans and fall asleep on my shoulder in his bed while his dad is gone, but not enough to go to a silly dance. I know that’s not fair. It’s an asshole conclusion, but I can’t help it. I wasn’t in the closet long enough to know what being “uncomfortable” meant.

  Ian’s staring at his shoes when he says, “I need time. I like you.”

  “I like you too.”

  “This is good.”

  “Good,” I repeat, numb and vacant. “It’s no big deal.”

  I wonder if he wants to tell me it is. But he doesn’t. Clover barks, then trots off to our yard.

  Ian turns the other way. “I need…” He sighs. The Bad Sigh. “Just not now.”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  He doesn’t kiss me goodbye, doesn’t promise to text. I think he will, though. Then again, I kind of don’t want him to. I don’t want to miss him. I don’t want to think of Ian as another missing piece from my half-put-together puzzle. And there’s no one to talk to about this. Not Lucy. Definitely not Rio. Brook might take Ian’s side. I can’t go babbling this in a GSA meeting. It’s only me.

  I stare at Mr. Ivanov’s yard, at all these wonderful pieces coming together to create this epic scene, this fully-imagined idea, even if it’s a month early.

  “Where’s the Thanksgiving-love, Ivanov?” I say to the wind, to the white oak.

  Suddenly, a voice beside me says, “Jonathan used to love Thanksgiving. It was his favorite holiday.”

  I whip around, and next to me is an old man with a tired face, sad brown eyes, and a plaid shirt. He’s staring at the tree, too, with tight shoulders and a slight hunch to his stance. I’ve never seen Mr. Ivanov outside of his house.

  “He loved watching the parade,” Mr. Ivanov says. “He was an interior designer, so things like this…” He waves an arm at the lawn. “…were his pride and joy. We’d decorate it together every year until he couldn’t, until he didn’t want to get out of bed. Then he’d let me decorate our bedroom and pretend that was good enough.”

  Something aches in his cold voice. It’s the way I talk about Dimi, the way Free talks about Ruby: hollow resentment mixed with longing.

  I finally get my voice to work. “Jonathan?”

  “My husband.” A brief tremble passes over him. “My late husband.”

  I manage not to appear shocked, but I am. I shouldn’t be shocked that Mr. Ivanov had a husband. I shouldn’t have assumed he was straight or peculiar or anything but a man who’s missing a piece of himself and unable to navigate through that.

  He clears his throat. “It’s been seven years. Seven years since the chemo stopped working. And I still can’t decorate for Thanksgiving.”

  The wind shakes the remaining leaves until they fall. More color to the lawn. Another piece of life ending.

  “Maybe I’ll try again next year,” he adds

  We exhale in unison. Mr. Ivanov’s gaze on me is heavy; his head is cocked. He’s not as old and withered as he looked peering from behind his curtains.

  “Everything okay?”

  Instinct tells me to lie. This is the first time I’ve been in the same breathing space as Mr. Ivanov. He’s always been a ghost with a whimsical yard. But I reply, “No,” because something tells me he knows what it’s like to not be okay.

  “Most of us aren’t okay,” he says. “We’re simply good at hiding it.”

  “I guess.”

  We leave it at that. I watch Mr. Ivanov walk shakily toward his house. Then, over his shoulder, he says, “Tell that dog of yours this land is sacred. Jonathan might’ve loved dogs, but I don’t need her shitting on my lawn,” with a grin, a full one.

  After he’s back behind the safety of his blood-red door, I stand there wondering why Mr. Ivanov shared all that with me. Is it because he doesn’t have anyone else to talk to? Do we find that safe space in strangers, people who don’t know us well enough to judge our flaws?

  It hits me. I tug out my phone, pull up Facebook messenger, and type away. I find the one person who doesn’t know me well enough yet to consider me a failure.

  * * *

  “So, this is about boy problems?” asks Free, picking a leaf of spinach from her pizza slice. “Fine. You’re buying.”

  “Deal.”

  We’re at Savage Pizza. It’s one of my favorite places in Little Five Points. I love all the comic book memorabilia on the walls and the action figu
res hanging from the ceiling. Bright pops of yellow and blue and red are everywhere. The scent of oil and fresh parmesan on the New York-style pizzas is blissful. We’ve been here thirty minutes and haven’t talked much.

  Correction: I haven’t said much. Free’s talked about classes and a party she went to where they played Clue, as in the board game. She’s talked about the cute waiter at the Vortex she’s totally not going on a date with. But we haven’t discussed Ian at all. Until now, I guess.

  “I’m ordering more pizza and you’re gonna pay with that fancy credit card your parents probably gave you,” she says.

  “I don’t have a credit card,” I say with bite. “I’m not some spoiled kid, you know. Living in the suburbs doesn’t mean I get a BMW and a trust fund.”

  “Yeah, sorry. That was whack.”

  “It kinda was.”

  “My bad,” says Free. She tilts her head. “I guess I’m a little jealous sometimes.”

  “Of what?”

  “Gee, I don’t know, little bro.” Her lips pucker. “Maybe it’s the whole ‘our momma gave you up for adoption because she took one good look at our lives and thought you’d be better off’ thing? Maybe she was right?”

  “She wasn’t,” I mumble. “My life isn’t so great.”

  “Shut up.” She chucks a pizza crust at me. “It is.”

  “It’s not.” I sigh. “I’m one of five black kids at school. My freshman year, I was the token gay kid until others finally came out. I’ve been the token everything. I’m like a dragon in a city of unicorns.”

  “Wow. That’s a visual.”

  “It’s not so great.”

  “Just because things suck in this one moment doesn’t mean they’ll always be shitty. It doesn’t mean they’ve always been shitty.” She sips ginger ale from a mason jar—another cool quirk about this place. “It’s temporary. Shit’s not that serious.”

  I rub my temples. It is that serious, isn’t it? It feels that way. In fact, it feels as if I’m the only one who sees how epic all this is. Because, a month ago, I was Remy Cameron. Now I’m Remy Cameron—insert six different labels to describe me.

  Our silence hangs. Free orders another pizza. I don’t complain. Her choices suck—spinach, jalapeños, and pineapples—but I’ll survive. A headband holds back her forest of curls. Her shirt says, “Moody Judy,” and gold hoop earrings match all eight of her rings.