Page 15 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“Good. Are you gonna post about it on your SnapBook, InstaTweet, or whatever?”

“Dad…”

“Let me guess. There’s a rule against notifying the world you’re hanging with family, right?”

“Pretty much.”

We laugh. I love laughing with my dad, love how the depth of his chuckle infects me. Its low rumble manifests way down in Dad’s chest before it springs free like a dolphin cracking the ocean’s surface.

Tossing a dishtowel over the charred dessert, Dad leans on his elbows, his chin against pinkish knuckles, before he asks, “How was school, kiddo?”

My body mirrors his slumped appearance. My muscles put a lazy effort into a shrug. “Another Monday.” It’s the easiest answer. My thoughts still drift like abandoned satellites. In the deepest, darkest parts of my brain, Chloe’s words echo.

Someone like you is always somewhere.

Someone like me. What does that mean? Someone gay? Someone whose sexuality will always be the punchline of stupid jokes from assholes like Ford? I can take the heat. Coming out at fourteen was scary and heavy and exhausting, but that was three years ago. I’ve adjusted. Plus, being queer is freaking boss.

“Kiddo?”

I blink at my dad. My jaw moves with nothing coming out.

Willow comes running in, yelping and sparing me additional fatherly questioning. Bert swings from one small hand as Willow leaps into Dad’s open arms. They twirl and giggle.

“Well, hello there! How wasyourday?” Dad asks.

Willow rambles excitedly.

Chin propped on my knuckles, I watch. Dad’s energy carries a different kind of charge when it comes to Willow: a Ferris wheel’s lights against a blue-black blanket of night’s sky, neon signs hung in dimly lit restaurants.

The differences between Willow and I are slight. We both laugh as though helium fills our lungs. We love cartoons when we’re sick. Mom swears the only time we didn’t cry as infants is when she’d sing to us. And photo evidence proves Dad had no clue how to put a onesie on either of us or how to brush our hair so it didn’t stick up the wrong way.

But Willow has Mom’s strawberry blonde hair. Dad’s wide, earnest eyes. Her smile is a charming mix of theirs. I don’t have any of that. Denim-blue eyes, light-brown skin, and thick eyebrows don’t match my parents’ features.

I stand. “I’m gonna take Clover for a walk.”

Clover’s so smart. One word and she’s scampering into the kitchen, tail wagging. She’s an adorable manipulator.

“Kind of early, isn’t it?”

I shrug. “Maybe she’s takingmefor a walk.”

“Maybe, kiddo.”

“Maybe.”

Dad returns to fawning over Willow and her wild stories about beating some snotty-nosed boy at a swinging contest during recess.

I click on Clover’s leash. She leads me out the door.

Lilac skies greet us, stretching toward infinity with pinkish clouds swimming lazily. Early evening heat curls around me. Pinprick beads of sweat tickle my hairline. Ballard Hills is easing into a peaceful hideaway of minivans and sedans finding their homes in driveways.

Clover waddles like the queen of the neighborhood.

“Have you come to greet your loyal subjects?” I say to her.

Clover ignores me when a red car zooms by.

Before Willow, it was just me, loud, anxious, adopted Remy Cameron. Doctors told my mom she couldn’t have children. I don’t know the medical term, maybe because I never asked, but whatever it was meant my parents found me. I didn’t need to know why my mom couldn’t have children, not after I was seven, when they explained what adoption meant. Maybe that’s because I had so many other questions:Why did that lady give us a funny look at the grocery store? Why do kids at school say I’m not yours? Why do I color pictures of us with different crayons?

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