Page 40 of How to Be Remy Cameron

In GSA, we have monthly talks about coming out: how to be supportive, language and tones and how to offer encouragement in face of something scary and new. But those words fail me in this moment.

“Okay.”

Ian inhales sharply, the skin around his eyes seems tighter.

“Hey,” I whisper. My hand itches to touch his shoulder, to squeeze, but there are boundaries I’ve been taught not to cross unless invited. “It’s cool. So, you’re new to coming out—”

“I’m not out. Not too many people know, especially around here,” interrupts Ian. His white knuckles are stark against the black steering wheel. “I’m new to realizing I’m gay? Or admitting it to myself? I dunno. I don’t want that to be the spotlight people shine on me at Maplewood. Not now.”

The music is softer. I don’t know which one of us turned it down.

“I’m not saying it’s bad or anything,” Ian continues. “It’s cool that people can come out. Be themselves. That the process is easy—”

“It’s never easy,” I blurt. I stare out the window, watching burnt-orange leaves dance over gray sidewalks. “Not even when you’re fourteen and so sure of yourself.”

Fourteen is a strange place to deal with sexuality and hormones and math. I managed two of those things—I still suck at math. And, really, who comes out as a freshman? In the middle of student council elections, no less.

Hi, Remy Cameron does. Happily. At least, I was happy for three fleeting seconds after I announced to the entire freshmen class in the auditorium, “Hello, I’m Remy Cameron. I’m running for class vice-president. And I’m gay. Any questions?”

I worked all night on that speech. And, holy shit, did I get a bunch of questions. None of them were about my proposed plan for better lunches, a mandatory state-wide recess for high school students, or Charlie Brown Day during homecoming’s Spirit Week.

But there it was. Remy Cameron—the only black student running for student council, the only one wearing a bowtie and paint-speckled Vans with no socks, the only openly gay member of Maplewood’s freshmen class.

We’re back to silence, Ian and me. More music spills into the streets; the early evening wind seeps into the car. Our silence is heavy as a thick winter sweater. Can we roll back time five minutes? Is that possible?

“Sorry,” Ian finally says. “Word vomit thingy.”

“No, it’s cool,” I say, my knees pressed to the dashboard. “Like you. And it’s…” My voice evens out, happier. “…cool that you’ve sent in for your gay card. The official laminated version is usually a little late.”

“Fashionably late?”

“Look at you! Did you join the Facebook group already?”

Ian chuckles, and it’s carried by whatever chilled-electronica anthem is on the radio.

We’re stopped at a red light when he asks, nervously, “Do you think they’ll turn me down?”

“Nah, the club isn’t that exclusive.” Laughter crawls into my mouth, vibrates in my nostrils. “Unlike everyone else, we’re all about letting people be themselves. Retro losers like you included.”

We crack up together. I crank the music as we finally reach Somewhere.

11

Somewhere is a shopping plazadominated by a Chipotle Mexican Grill, a rank Payless ShoeSource, and a Kroger grocery store. Small shops are stuffed between a travel agency, a sketchy dentist’s office, an inauthentic New York-style pizza place. Aged gray exteriors with pops of color meant to attract wandering shoppers bleat: nothing exceptional.

“So, this is where the cool people hang?”

Ian’s cheeks are lit like a rose-colored neon sign. “All the cool people come here.”

Every parking space except for the ones outside Kroger is empty. “Obviously.”

In the middle of Post-Apocalyptic Plaza is a small shop owned by a short, old Taiwanese-American man with a thin mustache and crinkles around his smile. He greets Ian with a hug and focused attention. Ian introduces him as Mr. Tsai. We shake hands.

I wander around while they catch up. Sweet and floral scents mix with a hint of cleaning product. Behind the counter, a girl with pink-streaked hair that matches her bubblegum reads a graphic novel. Her seafoam fingernails tap along to the music playing overhead. The menu lists drink after drink in hypnotic colors and cool fonts.

“Bubble tea?”

Ian sidles up on my left side. “Boba,” he says. “Ever heard of it?”

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