Page 17 of How to Be Remy Cameron

Rio nudges me with her hip. “Yuck. You stink of popularity.”

“You do too.”

“Only by association, my little social pixie.”

We follow the flow of bodies to the east wing. It’s not overcrowded today, but the hallways reek of cheap deodorant and perfume that’s supposed to smell like jasmine but reminds me of drugstore candles.

I’m halfway to class, to breathable air, when someone brushes my left side. My body reacts immediately: muscles charged like the aftershock of lightning, pulse fuzzy like footsteps in a heavy snowfall, skin numb like after an overdose of Novocain. I smell only the expensive body spray, like crisp leaves before they change colors, like a love sampled but never savored, that I desperately miss.

Dimi walks with a small pack of soccer teammates marching behind. His laugh crawls under my skin, warm and strident.

I can’t move. Wait, that’s a lie. My shoulders pull forward, my chest sinks, as if I can hide in the middle of the hall. My heart beats and thumps and cracks against my ribs like a rioting thunderstorm.

He doesn’t even notice me.

“Are you okay?” Rio’s gripping my elbow with her thumb in the crook as if she’s testing my pulse.

“Yeah,” I manage to get out despite a heavy tongue. “No biggie.”

Rio’s a true friend. She nods and doesn’t make a single comment about how pale I am, how my breaths are irregular.

“We’ll talk about this Mad Tagger business later.”

“Sure,” I reply, an obvious lie.

She doesn’t comment on that either. Only a glimmer of annoyance passes through her eyes, then disappears. “He’s a nobody,” she whispers.

I count backwards from ten, a little trick Mom taught me when I used to get off rollercoasters with clenched fists and blurred vision. Then I say, “Relationships are for losers.”

It’s a shame that I’m the biggest loser to ever lose.

I’m in danger.

It prickles hotly up the back of my neck, tingles in my fingertips. I pretend today’s lunch of questionably authentic chicken fajitas are a lot more appetizing than they taste. I watch Principal Moon scold a freshman for texting during school hours. But disaster is looming, and it comes in the form of Sara when she plops down at our table. I haven’t been avoiding her—much. It’s not as if we share any classes outside of AP Lit. Sara is a borderline super-genius and I’m an average student.Very average.

“Nice shirt,” says Sara, civilly.

I pause mid-sip from my peach soda, carbonation bubbling on my tongue, then look around. Jayden is curled in on himself, laughing. Chloe’s red-faced, demolishing her second Capri-Sun pouch. Zac, animated hands and all, is leading the discussion about whatever MTV teen saga was on last night. I’m not keeping score.

Sara’s staring from across the table. Okay, so sheistalking to me—perfect.

It’s not that Sara and I aren’t friends. We are, on some level. It’s just that all our conversations depend on someone else starting them. Then we chime in, agree or disagree. Our social interaction hinges on a third party initiating what we’re too awkward—or indifferent—to do ourselves.

After a swallow, I say, “Thanks?” Usually I’d be proud to show off my wardrobe—it’s kind of my thing—but this feels like a trap. Compliments are the bait.

“New?”

Rio guffaws.

“No.” I squint at Sara. The ruthless fluorescent light gleams off her ceramic braces. Her plastic grin is the lure. Mouth twisted, I say, “What is—”

“So,” interrupts Sara, elbows on the table, hands bridged for her chin to rest on, “when is the next GSA meeting?”

“Monday.”

“Monday?”

I nod slowly, waiting for her to reel me in. Then, I add, “We welcome new members promptly at four if you’d like to…?”

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