Page 4 of How to Be Remy Cameron

I chuckle. “That’s right, Fido, this land officially belongs to Clover Cameron. Shit somewhere else.”

Clover harrumphs, signaling her finish. She starts our walk again while I blindly flip a one-finger salute to the other dog. Clover stops for a whiff of a bush—a potential, new kingdom to claim. I wait patiently, jamming to my music.

And then there he is.

His dark hair is tugged into a small topknot. A few strands have fallen to cut across his round jaw. His skin is flushed and shiny; his breaths are uneven. Silver light glints from a single hoop earring in his left ear. His eyes are on the brownish-side of hazel and hypnotic, even at this hour. He’s wearing yellow running shoes, no socks, and a half-zipped, thin, gray hoodie. I dig it. I dig him too; at least, my lower half does.

My heart is sprinting toward my throat. I want to fix my hair and check for leftover pizza sauce on my face.

He looks familiar. I can’t put a finger on where from.

Our eyes meet. I stop breathing. He smiles, a dimple leaves a comma-shaped dent in his cheek.

Honesty moment: Dimples are irresistible to anyone who doesn’t have them. It’s not a thing; it’s a fact. I’m a proven statistic.

He eases past Clover and me, because my feet and heart and deer-in-headlights face are frozen. Then he says, “Cute.”

It’s one very basic word but it rotates in my head for seconds—cute, cute, cute. I want to say something back. Something cool, memorable. But the thing is, flirting is another weakness of mine. I’m only good at flirting via text. Never in person.

My head turns in his direction. A bloom of pink crawls across his face.

“Dog,” he corrects. He couldn’t have been talking about me. Not when I look like a Desperately Single Gay Teen in an American Eagle ad for Pride month. “I meant cute dog,” he says, stumbling. His Adam’s apple does a funky dance as he swallows. “Cute dog and… Okay. Have a nice night!”

Then he’s jogging away, leaving behind unsaid words and an unforgettable smile andcute.

Clover barks. Or she’s been barking, but I can’t move. Not yet. I need a few seconds to clear this boy out of my head. He can’t stay.

After Dimi and the Summer of Emo-Music Hell, I decided that it was time to justbe Remy, single and focused and chill-as-eff. No more trips to Boyfriend Land for me.

“Not happening,” I say to Clover—and myself.

Clover doesn’t give me any crap about whatever just happened. She’s too cool. My dad named Clover. “Because you’ll be lucky if your mom lets you keep her.” It’s true; my mom isn’t high on animals—small, big, or friendly.

It took a very convincing speech and three hours of pleading until she caved. We officially adopted Clover from a pet shelter into the Cameron clan on a Wednesday when I was nine. She became the young, willing-to-dive-into-danger Jimmy Olsen to my Superman—or maybe the other way around? As far as importance, Clover might top Rio and Lucy on the friendship chain, not that I’ll evertellthem that.

The sidewalk leading away from the school is cracked and bright gray under halogen street lights. Part of it is covered by a trail of pine needles. But one clear stretch of asphalt stands out in electric green and blue. Fresh graffiti edges up against the soles of my shoes: an intricate maze of arrows and squares, one long stream of artistic chaos.

“Sick,” I whisper.

Clover sniffs at it, unimpressed. It’s a war of colors and shapes, but I can’t dissect its meaning. Unique but unfocused, it’s definitely not the work of the Mad Tagger, a somewhat infamous artist in the community. It’s just a lookalike, maybe a homage.

I step over it. It’ll be gone in a day or two. That’s one thing about Ballard Hills: Rule-breaking is only permitted when it’s fun and whimsical andBetter Homes and Gardens-friendly.

2

We’re barely through the backdoor and into the kitchen before Clover is whining. I unclick her leash. She trots off. First comes a casual stop at her food bowl. She sniffs vigorously for two-point-five seconds in hopes Mom generously left her table scraps to enjoy. No such luck.

Mom isn’t as lenient as Dad about spoiling Clover.

Clover scampers out of the kitchen, no doubt to find her favorite playmate, my little sister, Willow.

“Well, this was fun!”

I can’t blame Clover for wanting to hang with Willow. By far, she’s the coolest seven-year-old I know, not that I make a habit of planning Lego playdates with other seven-year-olds.

My phone chimes. It’s a new Facebook notification. I can’t believe my mom makes me keep a Facebook page. I rarely use it. It’s mostly for my aunts and uncles on Mom’s side to feel as if they’re part of my life. Okay, I might sneak on there to read all the cheesy, lame, and artificially sweet birthday messages people post on my wall. Seriously, what is it about birthdays that makes people you haven’t spoken to in years suddenly remember you exist?

There’s a new friend request. “Free Williams?”

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