Page 38 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“You know she doesn’t do mandated social activities like this.”

Lucy says, “I invited her to the game.”

We are both aware Rio’s not going. She never does. Rio and loud crowds and trying to find justifiable reasons for two hours of sports don’t gel. But something about Lucy’s optimism makes me nudge her and wink.

“She’ll be too busy trying to uncover therealMad Tagger.”

“Maybe she needs our help?”

“Yeah.” I sigh wistfully. “Because we’ve obviously figured out who it is.”

“Maybe it’s you.” Lucy’s grinning.

“Clearly. It’s always the cute gay ones.”

“Who says you’re cute?”

“Who says I’m not?”

We settle in for the marching band’s epic Bruno Mars medley. That’s all pep rallies are about, anyway: percussion and trumpets and losing ourselves in the groove of music we all know the words to.

After school, I skip thegame. I’m not in the mood to drive to an away game. School activities are usually excuses for more time with my friends, but not today. A loop of the meeting with Mrs. Scott has taken over my mind. A Technicolor, bobblehead nightmare, it replays like a gruesome YouTube compilation of country singers covering pop-rock songs.

The voiceover in the chaos of Mrs. Scott and her college recommendations is, “Who are you, Remy Cameron? Who the hell are you?” The narrator sounds eerily like Voldemort.

It leaves me feeling very un-peppy. I don’t want to ruin the game for Brook and Lucy. Rio’s locked herself away inThe Leaf’s offices—also known as Mr. Ahmed’s Creative Writing classroom—to work on her Mad Tagger piece.

That leaves me and the mostly empty student parking lot—well, me and one student leaning against an atomic-blue Honda Civic. It’s an older model, but with subtle, newer modifications. A messenger bag lies at his feet. He’s wearing a denim jacket with his hair tucked under an ordinary black beanie. I hesitate to approach him.

It’sjust Ian. Just a guy that’s friends with Brook, who sits with us at lunch, who likes matcha lattes, who thinks my dog is cute. We can talk. How hard is that? We’re Facebook friends now and that’s big… to grandparents and the government, but whatever.

“Cool car,” I say when I’m close enough. “It’s very—”

“Please, don’t say Asian,” says Ian, smiling. “Don’t bethat person.”

I blink a few times, stunned. “No.” I shake my head. “It’s very retro, like your music. Like you.”

Ian squints. He’s not wearing his glasses. Why am I noticingthatinstead of what the hell just came out of my mouth? He probably thinks I insulted him.

Retro? What the actual—

“I mean, you’re not old school or outdated or…” I pause, rubbing my curls. “You’re not. Retro is cool.”

“Is it?”

“So cool,” I say. “You’re dope.”

“Am I?”

“You are.” Sweat tickles my hairline. “You’re like, way cool.”

“I’m not even marginally cool.”

“You are! Cool hair. Cool car. Cool clothes.” Like an idiot, I tick everything off on my fingers. He’s not even looking at me. His chin is tipped up; sunlight bronzes his cheeks as he watches the clouds edge across the blue like ivory glaciers.

My stomach bends and knots like a Cirque du Soleil performer. I lick the dryness from my mouth.

Ian’s eyes lower. “Cool clothes? They’re sort of—”

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