Page 37 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“My point is, how many people out there have a similar background at Emory or Morehouse orfu—freaking Stanford?” My hands tremble against my thighs. “Are there statistics for that? A club for the adopted, gay, black kids from the suburbs?”

She sighs again, lips pinched.

“I’m seventeen.” My voice squeaks. Damn it. “Am I supposed to know who I am?”

According to Ms. Amos and Emory and the entire universe, I guess so.

“You’ll figure it out, Remy.” Mrs. Scott’s expression has returned to a cellophane, TV-ready gleam that probably wouldn’t comfort a baby deer. “Until then, these are just alternatives to Emory. Helpful starts.”

I tip my head back, glare at the ceiling: tiles and tiles of mineral fiber, hundreds of dots sectioned into perfect squares. Is that how Mrs. Scott imagines life after high school? Hundreds of clueless adults sectioned off in their squares?

“This printout will help.” She shuffles a few papers, pinches one, then passes it to me. “President of GSA will look great on your applications, especially atthesecolleges. Talk it over with your parents. I’m sure they’d agree with me.”

I hope my parents would agree Mrs. Scott’s “suggestions” can go to hell.

“Now,” the rainbows-and-power-of-positive-thoughts return to Mrs. Scott’s voice, “let’s focus on that AP Literature class, shall we?”

10

Friday’s pep rally is coolbut controlled. Principal Moon ensures order is maintained, openly eyeing every student during club speeches and the football coach’s lame attempt at sparking interest in the team’s potential. What Principal Moon lacks in height, she makes up for in personality and directness and one of those “I’m in charge” bob hairstyles. A mini-Angela Bassett, she always looks poised to take anyone on, toe-to-toe.

Next to her, Lieutenant Parker surveys the students in the bleachers as though he could get one of us to crack during an interrogation. Chloe’s dad loves wearing Ray-Bans and blank expressions. I don’t know him too well. His work commitments keep him from attending any of her games, but his appearance at our pep rally means this whole Mad Tagger business is getting serious.

It seems as if he and Principal Moon are secretly creating a lineup of suspects. Lucy and I sit together, sharing Twizzlers and betting on who’s already being marked for questioning.

“Andrew,” I suggest.

“Andrew, as in Brook’s friend Andrew?” Lucy snorts. “Not a chance. Too nerdy.”

“It’s always the nerdy ones.”

“It’s always the religious zealots or the scorned exes or the bored, rich kids who never heard the word ‘No’ from their parents.”

“So, three-fourths of Maplewood?” I wiggle a licorice mustache at her.

“Basically.”

“Darcy Jamison?”

Lucy rolls her eyes. I do too. As hardcore as Darcy is about God and Jesus and wearing skirts that have hemlines below the knee, she doesn’t seem to have one corrupt gene in her body. A mean streak? Definitely. But not enough to disfigure school property.

“Ford Turner?”

I stare off into space, trying not to cringe. His name makes my skin crawl. “No,” I whisper, but my brain screamsHell yeah, the classless asshole is a suspect!

I watch Jayden and the cheerleaders rally the crowd. The freshmen seem into it. The sophomores are bored, heads down, thumbing away at their phones despite the zero tolerance for usage during school hours. We’re sitting with the juniors, who are either talking to each other or stupendously baked, depending on how many of them caught Zac and Alex between classes.

The seniors are the real hurricanes. They boo the underclassmen, roar at the introduction of the football team, and toss merciless jokes at our vice principal. When the announcements about homecoming start, they split time between doing the wave and flirting with each other. Friday nights around Maplewood are good for three things: sports, parties, and the next episode of “Who Hooked Up in the Pool?” to be aired in the hallways on Monday mornings.

“It’s Jayden, I’m telling you,” Lucy says. She’s braiding three Twizzlers into a friendship bracelet. My best friends are all mad talented.

“Obviously.”

“That hair is hiding secrets.”

I recline. My eyes wander again. In the sea of seniors, I wonder where Brook is? Is a certain someone is sitting next to him?

Lucy thumbs at her phone. “I can’t believe Rio ditched us.”

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