“And the others?” I mean the Ford Turners. The Andrew Cowens.
She sighs. “The others see this as an opportunity to get a better grade. To write what they think sounds good. They wear their masks to look like heroes in their own story, but they’ve yet to truly see the truth. And so, they’ll continue pretending.”
“How can you tell the difference?”
She points at her chest. Her heart. “Instinct. A little thing called teacher’s intuition. Also, I’ve met my own challenges. Tragedies. I’ve asked myself this question for decades. Over and over.”
“Have you found an answer?”
“Yes and no.” I make a face. “Are we really looking for the answer, Remy, or are we proud to know we can ask the question?”
That “we” thing again. But Ms. Amos doesn’t use it in a patronizing way. She doesn’t use it like other adults. It’s sincere. It’s comforting.
“Your essay wasn’t perfect,” says Ms. Amos, serious, “but it’s a start. A beginning.”
I play with the zipper of my red hoodie, the one I love, the one I wore while walking Clover and seeing Ian for the first time.
“A beginning to what?”
“The journey to asking yourself the right questions,” she says. “To rejecting the labels and accepting it’s not all in your control, but what is in your power—it’s beautiful. It’s magical. It’s yours. Don’t let others take that from you.”
I think about my family—my true family. My friends. About Ian. Then I think about Ruby—the woman who gave me a gift. I don’t know her as a mother, but I know her as selfless, as someone who took what little power she had and did something amazing with it.
Ms. Amos is still holding the essay as I stand, grab my backpack.
The Essay of Doom.
No—the Essay of Me. Sincerely, Remy Cameron.
“Enjoy your Thanksgiving break, Mr. Cameron,” Ms. Amos says, eyes twinkling. “I look forward to us working on something similar to this next year.”
“Next year?” I choke out. All that and I still failed?
“Yes. You want to go to Emory, correct?”
I nod.
“Then we’ll have to perfect this little essay of yours for admissions.” She turns to her desk, then stops. “Until then, just be Remy.”
I run to Room 302. Electricity surges through my blood. A smile pulls at my mouth. I can’t help it.
I passed, I passed, I passed.
My Vans squeak against the terrazzo floor. I’m almost there. I nearly collide with three people loitering outside Mr. Riley’s classroom.
“You’re late,” says Sara. Alex and Zac are behind her.
I’m breathless and sweaty. “Um. Sorry?”
“Whatever.” Sara rolls her eyes, but her mouth twitches. She’s anxious.
“What’s going on? Is this official The Leaf business? Student council stuff?”
“We’re here because…” Sara trails off, eyes lowered.
Zac steps forward. “We’re here for the meeting. For the club.” He fiddles with a seashell bracelet around his left wrist. “To join. As students who belong.” A careful emphasis is put on that last word. Belong.
Alex raises a hand. His hair’s exceptionally blue today. “I’m here as an ally.”
I give him a thumbs-up—message received. Then, I glance at Sara. She swallows, nodding gently. I don’t need to ask more. I don’t need her to identify or wear a label. I realize I only want Sara to be Sara, whatever that means.
“Cool.” I step around them, opening the door. “We’re just about to get started. Would you like to meet the others?” I’m still holding Sara’s gaze.
Her mouth pinches. Thick, beautiful eyelashes flutter. Finally, she gives me the one answer we’ve both waited for: “Yes.”
Epilogue
“Okay,” Free takes a giant swig of Cold Body, “this place might be cooler than Little Five Points.”
“I know. Right?” I wave a hand around the air. “It’s the ambiance.”
She rolls her eyes. “SAT Prep doesn’t give you an excuse to toss words like ‘ambiance’ into our conversations.”
“No,” I grin slyly, “but being gay does.”
She spits out her coffee over the table we’re sitting at, snorting. I mop it up with a stack of paper napkins.
“Jesus. Little bro, you’re not some silver fox on a queer makeover show. You’re only seventeen.”
“Yep,” I say. “But I’m crushing this adulting thing.”
Free reaches over to scrub my curls. We share a smirk, the Ruby smirk. Zombie is so chill today. Maybe because it’s two days before Christmas. The city is pretty dead. Only the local college kids crowd the prime real estate inside with hot cocoas while a happy rotation of music plays in the café—all ’80s Christmas tunes. I know who’s responsible for that.
Ian’s at the bar, talking to Trixie as she prepares his latte. Matcha—the green stuff his kisses taste like.
“He’s cute,” Free mentions, nudging my foot. “It’s the glasses.”
“Yeah.”
“And the dimple.”
I shake my head. It’s a thing, okay?
“He’s nervous about meeting you,” I tell her. I’ve caught at least five panicked stares whenever I peek at him. I’m nervous too. Not about him meeting Free. Ian’s mom will be in town next week for New Year’s. I’m having dinner with them, meeting Ian’s mom.
Ian insisted on it. I gladly held his hand, kissed that dimple, and promised I’d only spill one drink the entire time. Something relaxed in his eyes. Something relaxed in my heart too.
“He should be nervous.” Free fixes her curls; they’re big and wild and fierce today. “I plan to give him The Speech.”
“The ‘I’ll kick your ass if you break my brother’s heart’ one?”
“Nope. The ‘wear protection every single time because diseases are real, I don’t care where you put your thing’ speech.”
Coffee spews from my mouth this time. Seventeen’s not too young for a heart attack, right?
I kick her foot. She cackles. Half-sisters are the worst. I’d rather get The Talk from Aunt Sandra than live through this. She’s coming tomorrow, with Uncle Dawson and Gabriel. Uncle Dawson’s fiancé Gabriel. I can’t wait to celebrate that.
“I like his style.” Free’s still studying Ian. He’s wearing a denim jacket—because it never gets too cold in Georgia until January—and that one hoop earring and a plain black beanie. Why do I love this boy?
“It’s okay. Can’t top mine.”
“You’re a walking advertisement for American Eagle,” she deadpans.
I sit taller, prouder.
“Speaking of that,” Free leans closer, “who tops and who bottoms?”
Just that fast, I’m in full-fledged blush meltdown. Luckily, I don’t have to talk to my older sister about that—not that it’s any of her damn business. The jingle bells over Zombie’s door rattle and in come three familiar faces. It’s my family.
Free freezes. My parents do too. Willow bops around like the little unbothered badass she is. Today isn’t just about introducing Free and Ian. It’s about her meeting my family, about them getting to know my half-sister.
Free fiddles with her curls, then tries to fix her ripped sweater with all the safety pins on it. Mom brushes her bangs back and straightens her peach cardigan. Dad’s picking invisible lint from his UGA sweatshirt. It’s this epic two minutes of ‘do I look okay?’ motions.
I swallow a laugh. Willow runs over; my parents slowly trail behind. Free stands.
Ian meets my gaze across the café. I finally crack up. All these strong, caring forces of nature in my life. All in one room. Finally. All these important parts of me colliding. No. Intersecting.
All the pieces in my puzzle finally fitting i
nto place.
Essay
I visited my birth mother’s grave for the first time today. It was cold and windy; every inch of the earth was covered in either leaves or mud from yesterday’s storm. I had to kneel to wipe the dirt from her headstone. It reads:
“Breathe in art; exhale life.”
I didn’t know exactly what it meant but, for some reason, I knew it was important. In a few ways, it defined who she was.
Her name was Ruby Williams. She loved art and jazz and old-school movies. She died when I was too young to know she existed.
She named me Rembrandt, after the painter. According to Wikipedia, Rembrandt is “generally considered one of the greatest visual artists in the history of art.” That’s a lot to live up to, even at seventeen. I like to think my mother knew I wouldn’t disappoint her.
My full name is Rembrandt Joshua Cameron. My middle name is from my parents, who named me after my grandpa. I don’t remember much about my grandpa, just as I don’t remember much about my birth mother. But I know my grandpa loved to sing to me and rock me to sleep. He was a good man. Sharing his name means another weight for me to carry—to be a good person, to be loving to others, even if they weren’t my blood.
Some people in this world would want me to clarify that my adoptive parents named me after my adoptive grandpa, but I try not to live in that world, a world where we not only use labels to clarify and identify, but also to remind people of what we are not.
From an early age, I learned to carry those labels as an indicator, a definition. When I was five-years-old, a classmate taught me a new label: different. We were drawing portraits of our families and, unlike my other classmates’ portraits, I was not the same color as my parents.
I was not my parents’ birth son.
And even though my parents have always taught me to be myself, I began to only know myself by the labels other people gave me: Black. Best friend. Adopted. Clingy. Popular. Gay. I wasn’t always consciously aware of these labels unless others pointed them out, unless others defined me by what I’m not.
I let them taint how incredible it is to be Black, a best friend, confident, a part of a loving family, the president of the Gay-Straight Alliance in high school.
When I was ten-years-old, I received a new label: older brother. At seventeen, again, I found another label: younger brother. I discovered I had an amazing older half-sister, who loves music and ginger ale and studies biochemistry at Agnes Scott College, who continues to teach me that labels stretch beyond basic definitions and how labels do not encompass the entirety of who we are.
Part of me wants to believe I already knew this, back when I was five-years-old and being given my first official labels. But who are we without our labels? Do our labels define us, or do we give definition to our labels? I think it’s the latter. I’m still learning.
A lot of what I’m learning is being shaped by my family, including my birth mother, who was a woman living outside the lines of definitions. My mother, who loved art and jazz and old-school movies, who loved me enough to give me to my parents, to give me the beginning of my story and the questions probing who I am. And though I may not ever have all the answers, I have one:
We have no control over what labels others give us, but we can define who we are by the ones we choose to give ourselves.
The End
Acknowledgments
The journey to writing a second novel was far from easy. But it was worth every moment of doubt, fear, and joy. Fortunately, some great people walked beside me for at least part of this journey.
Deepest and sincerest thanks to:
C.B. Messer, rockstar cover artist and Remy enthusiast from day one. I’m so grateful for all our conversations throughout the process of publishing this book. Thank you for your words of strength, understanding, and excitement and for listening to me when I didn’t feel confident. I still firmly believe you are made of magic.
Annie Harper, editor extraordinaire. Thank you for challenging me. You always believed Remy was special and that I had it in me to show that to others. You helped me find the heart of this story. Every month should be Hallmark Holiday Movie month for you.
Candysse Miller, marketing genius. Thank you for the laughs, the encouraging phone calls, the chats in California traffic, and the hockey. Every day, I hope I make you proud.
To the early readers who helped shape Remy’s story: My “OMG” twin—Jude Sierra, you’re seriously inspiring—C.B. Lee, Taylor Brooke, Tiffany Chapman, and C.B. Messer and to my incredible sensitivity reader, Axie Oh, who helped bring Ian and his family to life.
My copyeditor, Nicki Harper, who continues to teach me the power of words.
My wonderful Interlude Press family—Pene Henson, Jude Sierra, Laura Stone, C.B. Lee, Julia Ember, Alysia Constantine, Killian B. Brewer, F.T. Lukens, Lilah Suzanne, S.J. Martin, Carrie Pack, Lissa Reed, Naomi Tajedler, Rachel Davidson Lee, E.S. Kariquist, Michelle Osgood, Mia Kerick, Taylor Brooke, Tom Wilinsky, Jen Sternick, Charlotte Ashe, intern Will, and many more.
Becky Albertalli, I will never be able to thank you enough. You’ve made a lot of my dreams come true and you’ve been a true friend. French toast is on me next time!
Adib Khorram, you’re my favorite nerd, the Picard to my Riker, and the most unexpected surprise in this journey. “You’re simply the best.”
Nic Stone, you intimidate me in the most inspiring ways. Thank you for always standing in my corner.
Simon James Green and Cale Dietrich, your support, jokes, and epic storytelling inspire so many of us.
Adam Silvera, my comic book geek twin—thanks for knocking down so many walls for me. Mark Oshiro, you always make me cry in the best ways. Shaun David Hutchinson, you’re best of the best even when you don’t believe it. Bill Konigsberg, your courage and love keep a lot of us going.
The G Squad—Adam Sass, Phil Stamper, L.C. Rosen, Caleb Roehrig, Tom Ryan, Alex London, Cale Dietrich, Adib Khorram, Shaun David Hutchinson, I hope we live loud and proud so that others will hear our voices and do the same.
My agent, Thao Le—thanks for your patience and geeky heart.
The incredible people continuously inspiring me: Angie Thomas, Nic Stone, Tiffany D. Jackson, Dhonielle Clayton, Patrice Caldwell, Kacen Callender, Jason Reynolds, Jay Coles, Brandy Colbert, Camryn Garrett, Sierra Elmore, Alyssa Cole, Karen Strong, Ryan Douglass, Justin A. Reynolds, Kimberly Jones, Kosoko Jackson, Brittney Morris, Ibi Zoboi, L.L. McKinney, Elizabeth Acevedo, Claire Kann, and more. I love our magic.
The awesome people in this amazing community I’m fortunate to be a part of: Dahlia Adler, Zoraida Córdova, Heidi Heilig, Eric Smith, Natasha Ngan, David Arnold, Samira Ahmed, Claribel A. Ortega, Kelly Loy Gilbert, Kiersten White, V.E. Schwab, Mason Deaver, Sandhya Menon, Sarah Enni, Arvin Ahmadi, Roshani Chokshi, S.J. Goslee, Terra Elan McVoy, Sabina Khan, Aisha Saeed, Sara Farizan, Kat Cho, Julie Murphy, Laura Silverman, Vanessa North, Susan Lee, Tara Sim, Claire Legrand, Jeffrey and Jeremy West, Sophie Cameron, Randy Ribay, Abdi Nazemian, Kevin Savoie, Ben Monopoli, Ryan La Sala, TJ Ryan, Michael Barakiva, Saundra Mitchell, Angelo Sumerlis, Preeti Chhibber, Roselle Lim, Natasha Díaz, Greg Howard, Jennifer Dugan, Ashley Herring Blake, Sam J. Miller, J.C. Lillis, Diane Capriola, Little Shop of Stories, Read It Again Books, YATL, and countless others. If I’ve missed your name, it’s not because I’ve forgotten you. It’s because my heart is overflowing with love and gratitude for all you’ve done.
The librarians, booksellers, teachers, bloggers, booktubers, artists, agents, and publishing professionals who have made my dreams come true. DJ DeSmyter, Rachel Strolle, Fadwa, Mina Waheed, Charlie Morris, Robby, Kav, Cody Roecker, James Tilton, Shauna Morgan—you’re all amazing.
Mom: This book is a big hug to you. You’ve always known who you are.
My family: Dad, Sonya, Tamir, Piper, Lindsay, and the extended Indiana loved ones. My friends: Tamica, Ang
ela, Jason, Ahmad, and Tony. S.A. McAuley, to whom I owe the biggest hug for starting me on this path. All the fandom peeps: you light up my world like… well, you know the rest.
Zeke, Daniel, Malachi, Jael, I hope each of you know you’re my world.
And for all the queer teens of color: No single label can define you. You’re more than the box they use to contain you. You’re made of stars; let the world see you shine!
About the Author
Julian Winters is a best-selling author of contemporary young adult fiction. His award-winning debut, Running With Lions (Duet, 2018), received accolades for its positive depictions of diverse, relatable characters. A former management trainer, Julian currently lives outside of Atlanta where he can be found reading, being a self-proclaimed comic book geek, or watching the only two sports he can follow—volleyball and soccer. How to Be Remy Cameron is his second novel.
Content Warning: This book contains discussions of racism, homophobia, past minor characters’ death, and alcoholism, as well as depictions of homophobic bullying, and a scene involving brief sexual harassment/racial fetishism.
For a reader’s guide to How to Be Remy Cameron and book club prompts, please visit duetbooks.com.
Twitter | Tumblr | Store
NOW AVAILABLE
from Duet Books
Running with Lions by Julian Winters
IBPA Benjamin Franklin Gold Award Winner
When his estranged childhood best friend Emir Shah joins his team, star goalie Sebastian Hughes must reconnect with the one guy who hates him. But to Sebastian’s surprise, sweaty days on the pitch, wandering the town, and bonding on the weekends sparks more than just friendship between them.
ISBN (print) 978-1-945053-62-7 | (eBook) 978-1-945053-63-4
How to Be Remy Cameron Page 26