Page 42 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“But I’m not a stranger.” Wait… am I a stranger? Does he see me that way?

“I know.” The magic dimple reemerges. “But you’re also someone who deserves to be asked if it’s okay to hold your hand.”

Deserve. It’s the only word in my head. It tastes fuzzy but sweet like a slice of mango against the roof of my mouth. But I don’t answer Ian’s request with my voice. I reach out. He reaches back. Ian holds my hand.

My tea forgotten, I ask, “What’s next?”

That wild, weaponized smile of Ian’s emerges—locked, loaded, and I’m its target.

“I’m gonna die!”

“Not today!”

“Okay, but I’m gonna need immediate medical attention and one of those lifesaver bracelets and an unquestionably hot doctor to revive me!”

Under the shine of artificial lighting, we race each other in rickety Kroger grocery carts. The parking lot is a proverbial snooze-fest on a Friday night. Most of suburbia has found something better to do than shop for instant ramen noodles and half-priced energy drinks. There aren’t many obstacles to dodge other than the occasional parked minivan with its armor of bumper stickers. Every cart we commandeer has at least one wheel that sticks. Their carriages aren’t meant to carry the weight of a bored high school teenager. And the pavement has far too many cracks for the velocity we’re zooming at. It’s not the safest idea, but it’s the most recklessly fun activity I’ve ever done on a Friday.

“Car!” I screech.

“Emergency evasive maneuvers engaged!”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Ian grins and banks left. The cart tips, but we don’t crash. We find a new path void of grandmas in big luxury sedans.

Wind whips against my face. We take turns howling like wolves at the top of our lungs. The intensity of the moment, of the night, of thefreedomsuper-charges me in an unexpected way.

I never want this to end. Of course, it does, when a college-aged Kroger employee stomps up, barking. His face is filled with acne scars and the shame of minimum wage. He never gets close enough. We sprint away, laughing at the indigo sky; our sneakers pound the pavement. Our hands are twisted and twined until we reach Ian’s car.

Another song: this one aboutdancing in the dark. It sums up my feelings right now. It’severything.

Lingering between my car and Ian’s, we’re tucked away in a corner of the school’s parking lot, hovering in the night’s shadows. Ian’s car idles with the passenger window cracked enough to enjoy the heavy-synth and percussion.

“Bruce Springsteen,” he tells me.

I bite the smile I’m barely hiding from him.

“It’s Bruce Springsteen,” he says, this time without the squeak but with equal jitteriness, as if the adrenaline from shopping-cart racing still bubbles in his cells. “Big tune. I really like it.”

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

Seriously? Crayon-eating first-graders have better communication skills than us.

We should probably move. The flashlight-wielding rent-a-cops the school hires to watch over the grounds on weekends might spot us. Lucy texted me twenty minutes ago—the football team picked up an anemic victory. That means the team bus could roll in any minute with loud cheerleaders and adrenaline-junkie football players. My friends are meeting at a diner to celebrate the win. But my feet have decided this is where I should be.

“So.”

“So,” I repeat, breaths shallow. I rock back and forth on my heels. Ian mimics me. We can’t hold each other’s gaze for long. It’s so cheesy, so like a middle school crush, back when liking someone was more fun and less traumatizing.

“I’m just gonna…” Ian jerks his head in the direction of his car, but the rest of his body doesn’t cooperate. “If you’re good, I mean. It’s late. I don’t have a curfew, but—”

“Word vomit,” I tease.

Ian’s nasal laugh riffs better than Bruce Springsteen’s voice. My fingers itch to touch his hand, to test whether it’s sweaty and hot enough to burn my skin. I want to ask his permission first. I want him to say yes with his eyes, mouth, his whole damn face.

“Yeah.” He exhales and sags. “Word vomit.”

---