Page 21 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“Yeah. Grow up,” I repeat.

Lucy’s lips twist into a smile. “You mean once you get past this immature dickhead phase.”

“Is it really a phase, Lucia?” I tease.

Despite the dark curtain of inky-black hair falling below her brow, I can still see Lucy roll her eyes. “I don’t know. You first.”

“An actor.” I reply with the conviction of a true thespian—which means none at all.

“You definitely have the dramatic part down.”

“Hey!” I nudge her shoulder until Lucy almost tips over.

“We both know your dream is to go to Emory and become some world-famous writer.”

My stomach twists into eighteen knots. I’ll never make it to Emory without this essay. I did a little research after the AP Lit class: part of the admissions requirement is an essay, a personal statement. They want to know who you are.

So freaking perfect.

“Don’t you ever think about these things?” I ask.

Lucy’s shoulders pull tightly when she’s lies. It’s the first sign. “Sometimes.” Lucy’s a thinker and a planner. “I wonder if my dad imagined being a father at twenty-two. Did he want it? Or was it something he involuntarily settled into?”

I nod, but she doesn’t see. Chin tucked, she’s glaring at her shoes. “A lot of adults do that—settle for what they become.” There are sad wrinkles beside her mouth. “They lose that thing you need to fight.”

“What’s ‘that thing’ they lose?”

Lucy tips her head skyward. Floating islands of clouds hide the sun. “Who knows, Rembrandt.”

We sit in silence. The late school bus chugs in, its motor rattling. Detention-dwellers hop on like convicts minus the orange jumpsuits.

Silver emerges from behind the school and pops the collar of his dark denim jacket. His profile is sharp: long, thin nose and photogenic cheekbones, downward tilt to his bitten-red lips. He was born for the runway.

The marching band has quieted to just the woodwinds playing a somber tune.

I clear my throat. “I want to be a guy Willow looks up to. A role model. Besides my parents and Clover, my little sister is all I have.”

Lucy’s foot nudges mine. Her half smile is a reminder that Willow’s notallI have.

“I want her to know she can be anything.”

“Me too.” Lucy’s index finger pokes my shoulder. “I want to make my sisters proud.”

She’s the oldest of four girls. Her father stuck around long enough to realize he was settling, four daughters later. This bond Lucy and I have burrows deeper than liking the same movies or long hugs or laughing. We’re both children of abandonment, I guess. We don’t talk about that, but it’s there like the roots of a tree, like a sunrise. It’s there, even when people aren’t talking about it.

Maybe all of this is too heavy for today.

“We should hit up Chick-Fil-A,” suggests Lucy. “Brook’s almost done with swim practice. I’m dying for an Arnold Palmer.”

“Gross!” I frown. “First of all, hell no to Chick-Fil-A and their anti-queer agenda. The GSA would disown me.”

“True that.”

“Also, sweet tea?” I make a gagging noise.

“Oh, come on,” Lucy says, tugging my right ear. “How long are you going to wage this vendetta against sweet tea?”

It’s not a vendetta; it’s a lifelong commitment. Sweet tea is the devil’s juice. I know it’s a southern tradition, but it’s sadistic. Iced tea shouldn’t be sweetened. It shouldn’t even exist. The tangy-sugary mixture of sweet tea and lemonade in an Arnold Palmer is against what I represent.

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