Page 11 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“Me too.”

I don’t mean it. I like Brook. He’s a senior and swim team captain and cool with the entire planet. None of us were friends with him before the Lucy thing. I mean, yes, he and I had spoken, shared amicable nods in the halls, but nothing else. People automatically assumed we were friends, that we hung in the same church group or after-school programs. There was a mandatory connection in everyone’s minds.Two male black students at Maplewood? Of course, they’re best friends. Why does race automatically equate to instant bonding? Also, why does the same thing happen when it comes to sexuality, and religion, and age? Am I only meant to be friends with other black, gay, or seventeen-year-olds?

“Sup Awesome Squad,” says Brook.

Awesome Squad?Holy hell. If Lucy is the unofficial mom, Brook owns the dad role. His jokes and corniness teeter on the edge of unbearable.

I’m so blinded by Brook’s magical charm that I don’t notice the guy standing next to him until Brook says, “Everyone remembers Ian, right?”

A shaky hand waves, then out comes a voice that’s three-fourths unsure and one-fourth nasal and sweet. “Hello… Awesome Squad?”

I blink a few times, then stare. It’s hard not to.

It’s him. The boy from last night. The boy with the hazel eyes and unforgettable dimple andcute. The boy who might’ve starred last night in a brief, dizzying dream that my right hand vividly remembers.

“Ian!” squeals Chloe.

“The Parkster,” Jayden says, as if he’s one of those stoner skateboard kids. For the record, Jayden falls firmly into that Looks Sexy But Is So Lame category. He was born to be geektastic.

“Wow, welcome back.” Lucy sizes Ian up.

I do the same. Again, it’s impossible not to. Recognition finally kicks in.Ian Park. I vaguely remember him, except, the Ian Park I recall was nothing but round cheeks and long arms with a short torso and a horrible bowl-cut hairstyle that belonged on an eight-year-old, not a sixteen-year-old with a goofy smile.

Now, well… He’s different. Maybe it’s the black-rimmed glasses that slope down his narrow nose? Maybe it’s the hair, which is longer in the front, hanging down to his jawline. It’s almost the color of a moonless sky, but it has the reddish undertones of a total lunar eclipse.

My teeth hold my lower lip in a vice grip.

“How was Cali?” Jayden asks.

Ian mumbles something, bobbing his head.

“Didn’t you move to Irvine?” Chloe asks.

“Arcadia,” replies Ian.

“The asshole didn’t want to come back,” Brook says, laughing. He winds an arm around Ian’s long neck to tug him closer.

My eyes dart to the distinct shape of Ian’s Adam’s apple. The sharp curves of his collarbones peek from beneath a white T-shirt. The Dimple creases his right cheek when his mouth quirks. And then those eyes find me.

“Yeah, so, I’m Remy. I mean, sure, you remember me.”Does he though?

Heat spreads like an infection under my skin but my mouth is on autopilot. “Or maybe you don’t? Because we weren’t friends.” My ears catch fire. “I mean, we weren’t enemies. We just—you know, you’re a year older and I’m like… I wasn’t cool enough. But now I’m so effing cool. Mad cool. They redefined cool when I came around and…”

Out of nowhere, my voice fails. No, it squeaks like the hero dying in a video game. My throat tightens around every vowel and oxygen has stopped reaching my brain. “So, yeah, I’m Remy Cameron.” I try to sit taller, but embarrassment takes me down like a freaking bowling pin. “President of GSA and absolute lame.”

Painfully awkward seconds pass. Our table is silent. It’s as if the entire cafeteria is holding their breath.

Ian stares, eyes glazed.

“Uh…” My beanie is shoved in my locker. I’m not allowed to wear it during school. I feel every imperfect curl as my trembling hand runs over my hair. “Has anyone tried the fresh soft pretzels today?”

“Haveyou? You probably need something to replace the foot currently occupying your mouth,” whispers Rio.

I want to kick her under the table.

Pinkish flush has taken permanent residence in my cheeks. I hate that it’s so visible. My light skin makes it impossible to hide physical mortification.

“Uh, no,” Brook says, a thick eyebrow raised. “Thanks for the recommendation, though.”

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