“Yeah. Surprise!”
“Now what?”
She puffs out her cheeks. “I’m done. Finished my last one.”
“Really? Can I see it?”
Darcy turns this sweet, cotton-candy pink from cheeks to neck. We stand, and she leads me down a path behind the stadium, across a half-finished sidewalk, and over the crosswalk that leads to Maplewood’s student parking lot. And there it is. It’s massive—a giant mural stretching over at least ten parking spaces. In huge red and black letters: “Popularity = ‘It is better to be feared than loved.’” And, in pink lettering so small I have to squint: “His name is Cody.”
I turn to her, mouth open. Chilly wind sweeps blonde hair loose; strands blow across her cheeks and her chapped lips. She’s happy. Darcy looks free.
“You’re not scared they’ll know?” I say.
She shakes her head. “Cody should be free to be himself. No labels.”
I nod. That little piece of me that wants to grab her hand, for support, remains. But I don’t. We stand closer, though. We stand together against whatever labels they’ve tried to tag us with.
“I won’t say a word,” I tell her.
Gratitude passes over her face. Rio’s going to kill me if she finds out. That’s okay. This is one more secret I can carry. For Cody.
Darcy tucks her hair back into place; her self-conscious smile is directed at me. “Is it bad?”
“No,” I say. “It’s perfect. Darcy, you’re perfect.”
27
By Saturday evening, my life is a disaster.
Okay. That’s an exaggeration. But I’d rather jump headfirst into a pool of ice than pick out something to wear to the homecoming dance. I don’t have many options. Formal wear isn’t my thing. I own a battleship-gray suit from two Christmases ago, courtesy of Aunt Sandra. There’s also, this cool navy button-up with white polka dots from a date with Dimi for our five-month anniversary. We went to the Cheesecake Factory. My parents paid. I should’ve donated the shirt to charity. Maybe I can get away with a sweater? A dope red one with a gray beanie. All school spirit.
“What about this one?” I hold up a pastel blue button-up. The zigzag pattern on the fabric shines in the right lighting.
Willow shrugs. It’s her response to every option. But it’s better than Clover’s snoring and Bert’s empty stare. They’re my panel of judges for this fashion shitshow. I rifle though my closet and drawers. Honestly, why can’t jeans and a T-shirt without stains be the official attire for all high school events?
“You’re going to a dance?” Willow asks.
“Uh huh.” I tug out a plum sweater. Seriously, what the hell was I thinking with this one?
“With that boy?”
I whip around. Willow’s blinking at me, head tilted. I raise an eyebrow. “What boy?”
She’s sitting on my bed in a Wonder Woman T-shirt and Superman socks pulled up to her knees. These days, Willow’s making strong fashion declarations about her allegiance in the Marvel vs. DC debate. I don’t know if I approve.
She loops a tie from Mount Clothing Rejection around her neck. Then she wrecks her strawberry blonde hair with tiny hands. It sticks up everywhere. And I get it. She’s supposed to be Spike Spiegel. She’s supposed to be Ian.
I cross the room to her and sit down. My neck and ears are hot. Willow knows I have a thing for Ian. I kiss her forehead and loosen the tie so it doesn’t choke her. I say, “No, I’m not” with a small voice.
“Are you sad?”
Yep. I pat her hair down. “I’m good, Willow.”
“He’s fun.”
“A little bit, yeah.”
“You’re funner.”
I don’t have the heart to correct her. Instead, I wrap her in a hug, mash her face to my chest, and we giggle as if this is all we’re meant to do—Willow the Rockstar and me.
I settle on a plain white oxford and a forgotten scarlet varsity cardigan from the back of my closet with the suit’s gray slacks and pair of red-and-white checkered Vans. Dad shows up with a tie. He stands behind me, looping a perfect Windsor knot.
“It was your grandpa’s.”
My lips twitch upward.
It has a rainbow pattern. “It was his favorite,” Dad says, smiling with somber eyes. “Thought you’d like it.”
I admire my complete outfit. It’s a perfect mishmash of all these pieces that somehow fit together. “I love it.”
Rio and Lucy arrive just before eight, which is strange, since the dance starts soon. Not that I live far from Maplewood. But Mom insists we do the picture thing. It’s not as lame as people complain about. We master the Charlie’s Angel pose. Then the Mean Girls one. And a bunch of goofy ones too. This is only homecoming. I can’t imagine prom.
Lucy keeps shooting me looks. She’s blatantly admonishing me with her eyes.
“What?”
She sizes up my outfit. Whatever. This is me trying.
“Leave him alone,” says Rio. “At least there’s no way he’ll upstage us.”
It’s true. Lucy found a vintage strapless gold dress with a ballerina skirt during our shopping trip. Her hair’s knotted on her head; her cheekbones are softened by rose blush. And Rio’s a dream in the D.D. dress. Her hair is purple—deep and beautiful as the night’s sky blessed by wakening stars.
“If I’m going to do homecoming, I’m at least going to wear the opposing team’s colors,” she explains as we walk out the door. Leave it to Rio to be so terminally anti-Maplewood that she’d dye her hair the color of a rival high school.
Brook’s minivan is parked at the curb. A giant bowtie is tied to the front bumper. It’s so corny. It’s so Brook Henry.
“Nailed it, little dude.” He fist-bumps me when I crawl into the back. He’s wearing a rented tux. “Nice tie!”
I blush. “We’re gonna be late.”
“We won’t be late,” Lucy says while fiddling with Brook’s iPod. She puts on something soulful.
“We won’t be late,” Brook confirms, stealing the iPod back to switch to a country song.
They squint at each other, wink, then agree on old school Lauryn Hill.
“We are late,” I argue. I fasten my seat belt, slouching.
“Chill, Romeo,” says Rio. “We’re making a stop.”
“A stop?”
“Yes,” they say in unison.
“Fine. Whatever.” I pout, kicking the back of Brook’s seat. “But I refuse to endure the wrath of newly-elected Homecoming Princess Sara Awad for being tardy to this social-pariah celebration.”
Zombie Café on a Saturday is sparsely populated. The writers are still pretending to craft new novels. The geek squads with their cappuccinos read graphic novels or watch anime on their laptops. The old man in an armchair has his decaf coffee and a newspaper. College kids with dead eyes have overpriced textbooks piled in front of them. But it’s still mostly empty, not that I’m complaining. I’ll take Zombie any hour when there’s a free corner table and Trixie behind the bar.
She marches over to us the moment we’re through the door. “You’re late.”
“Exactly!” I say.
Her attention is directed at Lucy and Brook. “I’m not getting paid to talk anyone off a ledge. I had to cut off his latte consumption after three.”
“Wait,” I say, confused. “You’re not talking about the dance?”
Trixie sizes us up. “You look great, but no.”
“Where is he?” Brook asks before I can interrogate Trixie.
“Bathroom.”
“I’ll go talk him down.”
“I’ll handle our other problem,” says Lucy. Brook kisses her cheek, then punches me in the shoulder. He walks off, humming.
“What in the actual fu—”
“There are chairs already set up,” interrupts Trixie. S
he nods to a corner of the café usually inhabited by hipsters and stoners needing caffeine to come back to Earth. I hadn’t noticed the two stools, an amp, someone’s used guitar, and a microphone.
“Um.”
“Sit. Cold Body’s on the way,” Trixie says to me. “Go.”
“Come on, Romeo,” Rio says, hooking her arm in mine.
I’m dizzy and extremely confused. Nothing’s adding up except that my best friends are really good at keeping secrets.
We’re seated in this semi-circle in front of the stools. The house lights are dim. A string of orange fairy lights hangs on the wall behind the stools. Obviously, this secret comes with ambiance.
Trixie drops off the Cold Body and iced lattes for Lucy and Rio. They’re whispering to each other. I keep checking my phone. It’s after eight-thirty. We’re missing Alex’s EDM music and bad dancing. I’m not mad about that. But I kind of want to hang with Chloe and Jayden. Sara’s probably already plotted a fail-safe plan to murder us without anyone finding the bodies.
Brook slides in next to Lucy. “Mission accomplished. That dude has zero chill.”
“Duh.” Lucy smirks. “Look at his romantic choices.”
“True that.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask. Rio’s mouth pops open to answer—or to snark—but then Trixie’s tapping the microphone.
“Okay. This is a new feature at Zombie. Or a one-time thing. It depends,” she says.
“On what?” some girl shouts from across the café.
“On whether I earn more tips from this or y’all walk out,” replies Trixie.
Rio snorts.
“Anyway.” Trixie winks at someone behind us. A guy with arms stained in tattoos and a ridiculously groomed beard sits at one of the stools. He grabs the guitar, tunes it. Then someone else sits down, playing with his glasses, one knee bouncing nervously.
Ian.
“Welcome to Saturday’s first open mic night-ish at Zombie,” Trixie announces. “Pending.” She gives Ian one quick, concerned look. “Welcome Ian Park to the stage!”
Brook whoops. Lucy claps loudly.
Everything’s blurry, then perfectly in focus, perfectly centered on Ian.
“Thanks,” he says when Trixie steps away.
“Sing!” Brook shouts.
Mr. Tattoos-and-Guitar strums a few chords, and Ian grips the mic. His voice is… terrible. It’s squeaky, and, honestly, singing isn’t his calling. But Ian’s really going for it, eyes closed, mouth way too close to the mic. It’s seriously one of those out-of-body experiences, a disaster you can’t prevent. And I love it. Ian’s singing that one song about letting love open the door, that one song I love. Except it’s slower and chill and probably the best version I’ve ever heard.
Rio and Lucy get up to dance. Brook is a hot mess of yelling and clapping. The geek girls sing behind us. The old man leaves. But the college zombies order more coffee and ditch their textbooks to drag their chairs closer. And no one gives Ian hell about his voice.
It’s epic.
When he’s done, Ian’s a violent shade of red. But he’s smiling at me.
Mild confession: I’m hardcore smiling back.
We’re standing outside Zombie, Ian and I. Our friends’ version of giving us privacy means they watch intently from inside with their faces pressed to the glass.
We’re quiet for a long time. It’s chilly, but I don’t mind. I’m standing close enough to absorb his heat, but not too close to be obvious, just in case. In case what happened ten minutes ago wasn’t what I thought it was.
“Was it too extreme?” Ian finally asks, so soft.
“Extreme?”
“Too over the top?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
I stare at my Vans. “What was it for?”
His feet shuffle in front of mine. His hand closes the gap. Our pinkies link. “For you,” he whispers.
My brain overdoses on endorphins. I can’t deal with the blush overload. “It was great,” I say.
“Really?” There’s something electric in his voice.
“Perfect. Weird.” I knot my ring finger around his. “Perfectly weird.”
“Thanks.” I can hear his relief but still can’t look at him.
It’s so easy to be cynical about romance. I’ll admit, after Dimi, I thought love wasn’t worth it. All those big romantic gestures in movies? In books? Unrealistic. They’re always so lame and corny and it never happens like that. But that’s bullshit. It happens. People do wild, over-the-top, certified mushy things for the ones they care for. And it’s not bad. It’s epic.
“So,” I finally lift my eyes, “Brook knows, obviously. And…”
Ian bites his lip. “I came out to Lucy and Rio. And Trixie.”
I nod.
“And Aunt Jilynn.”
My breath catches, a sharp noise.
“She was…” I wait, then he finally says, “She was great. She told me she loved me and how incredible I am. And that I better visit soon. She was so Aunt Jilynn.”
Our shoulders relax simultaneously. Our breaths come in hushed puffs; the toes of our shoes touch.
“A few friends back in Arcadia know too.” His nose twitches. The cold spreads pink into his cheeks. “Not a lot of people. I’m still… I’m taking it slow. Testing the waters.”
“And?”
“Mostly good.”
“Mostly?”
“Yeah.” The dimple appears as his mouth upturns. “We’ll leave it at that. That’s all I want to focus on.”
Somehow, all my fingers have claimed his. He squeezes.
“Coming out is,” he pauses, making a face.
“A lot.”
“A lot,” he repeats.
It really is. It’s this secret that’s all yours for so long. Then you suddenly have to share it for whatever reason and hope people are okay with it, or not. You suddenly have to prepare for the good, the bad, and the zombie apocalypse. Coming out is freeing. It’s terrifying. It’s monumental and amazing and draining. But it’s yours.
“I’m not ready to march into school on Monday and tell everyone,” he says.
“You don’t have to tell anyone.”
“I know. But I want to. I can. I will.”
“Okay.”
He looks away for a second, then steps closer. “I did this because I know who I am. I’m okay with me. And I want you to know I’m okay with us.”
“With us?”
“Yes,” he says, earnest and happy. “I did this because I deserve to be happy with a boy. I’m ready to tell the world that.”
There’s that word again: Deserve. My favorite word.
“So,” I swallow and grin, “can I kiss you?”
“No.” I flinch. But he smiles so wide, his glasses are touching his eyebrows. “I’m going to kiss you.”
He does. Ian’s chilly fingers brush my Dopey-ears, and his thumbs frame my jaw. He kisses me. His nose bumps mine, we re-configure, and I kiss him back. He tastes like matcha, and he feels like nerves and excitement.
Like a rollercoaster at night.
Like a boy who knows he loves me.
28
“Well, that was quite the presentation today, wasn’t it?” Ms. Amos is sitting on her desk, short legs and tiny feet swinging. She smiles in that way adults do when they’re presenting a rhetorical question. I’m at a desk in the front row. School’s over, and the last GSA meeting before Thanksgiving break starts in five minutes. But, after my essay presentation, she asked to talk. I can’t exactly turn her down.
“Um.”
She lifts a hand. “It wasn’t bad.”
“It wasn’t great.”
“Well, it wasn’t all flashy like Sara’s. It certainly didn’t have the soundtrack Ale
x’s did.” She giggles. “Is that how you felt about it?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, almost shrugging.
She folds her hands across her lap. She’s holding an essay—probably mine.
“I tried really hard,” I start to explain, because it feels as though she wants one, or I owe her one.
I stayed up all night. Started from scratch. I wrote from the heart. My heart. Because that’s what writing is—your heart. It’s not what will impress others. What sounds trendy or cool. It’s what already exists in you. Your truth. What others take from it is just a bonus.
I thought about who people think I am. I thought about the boy I see in the mirror, who receives strange looks for wearing pink T-shirts or fitted sweaters. My brain focused on the boy who wants to attend a college that sees him for more than his sexuality or skin color. There are so many labels I wear—voluntarily and by force.
I said, “Fuck it” to every little piece of Remy Cameron that doesn’t fit a pretty little mold. The Remy scared of his past. The Remy that was anything but a Cameron, an older brother, a best friend, and a boy who loves to dance around his bedroom to POP ETC. I’m not a few checkmarks on some administrator’s diversity checklist. I put it all in my essay—without the colorful language Mrs. Scott isn’t fond of.
“I can tell you tried, Remy,” Ms. Amos says, her tone genuine. “I can tell you worked really hard on this.” She holds up the paper.
“But it wasn’t enough.” I frown.
She shakes her head. “Do you feel it was enough? This is you, on paper. Right? Do you feel good enough?”
“I—” My eyes lower. My heart growls like the center of a thunderstorm. Then I say, “I am good enough. I’m me, and that’s good enough” with my chin lifted.
Ms. Amos claps. “Exactly. You’re good enough.”
“I am?” On cue, my voice cracks.
“Yes!” She hops down. “The purpose of this essay wasn’t for me to judge whether any of you know yourself. It was to open a door. To start a conversation. For some, writing something so introspective and personal injects confidence. It reminds them that, like all great heroes of literature, they’ve overcome monsters and heartbreak and family indifference. They’ve fought all the odds stacked against them. Discovery is in the journey, not the destination.”
How to Be Remy Cameron Page 25