Page 48 of How to Be Remy Cameron

Uncle D’s hand squeezes my shoulder, then he says, “None of this is easy, Remy.”

“Is it ever?”

“Sometimes.”

“How do I know who I am if I don’t know who I was?” I don’t know if that question is for Uncle D or myself, but it’s out in the open, sitting between us like Clover.

“Remy.” Uncle D’s voice is careful, protective. This is Uncle D, who sat outside my middle school for hours when he heard a few students were giving me hell for being different, for being the black kid with blue eyes that liked to wear his pink “Girls Are Awesome” T-shirt once a week.

“One essay doesn’t define you,” he finally says. “It doesn’t.”

But what does?I want to ask. Those three words take up so much space in my chest, I don’t know how to shove them out. I lower my head.

Uncle D’s hand rests on the back of my neck; his thumb rests behind my left ear. It’s so familiar. When I came out to him, for the longest time, we sat in silence, and he let me cry. He let me breathe. Then Uncle D grabbed a book from my desk and read to me. I don’t remember what the book was about or who wrote it. I only remember Uncle D’s thick accent wrapping around the words. He held me the way Grandpa did. I remember his melodic voice and my shaky breaths.

“Talk to your dad, Remy,” he whispers now. “He can—just talk to him.” His voice trails off as if to guard a secret, like an answer to my question that he can’t give.

The back door swings open, and there’s Dad, grinning. “It’s game time, boys!”

Uncle D turns to look at my dad. I do too. He’s proudly wearing a red sweatshirt with a giant “G” stamped in the middle: University of Georgia, Dad’s alma mater. He’s one of those diehard UGA fans; he never misses a game of any kind. I swear Dad bleeds black and Bulldog red. It took him a while to accept that I wanted to attend Emory instead of UGA. I think he was hoping I’d carry on the legacy of Cameron men there. But I never planned to. UGA was nowhere on my radar.

I catch Dad’s eyes, his expression. There’s a little, but noticeable, twitch to his mouth, something that releases softness like a stray pencil mark on a clean sheet of paper. I can’t quite put a finger on it until Dad’s eyes dance between me and Uncle D.

Dad and I have always been close, same tastes in food, same sense of humor. But my relationship with Uncle D is different. Dad loves me, but Uncle Dgetsme. It’s hard to explain. Harder to observe my dad watching us with this small ripple in his kind features, this barely noticeable jolt of jealousy. I don’t think Dad knows it’s there, not consciously. I wonder if Uncle D sees it too. Dad blinks a few times, then exhales. And it’s gone.

“Okay, okay.” Uncle D stands, dusting off his jeans. “Let the suffering begin.”

Dad blanches, then smirks. “Come on D, say it.”

“I’m not saying it.”

“Bro, you have to!”

Sighing, Uncle D mumbles, “Gooooo Dawgs.”

“There you go. Also, the French toast is done.”

Uncle D’s smile is renewed. “You should’ve led with that, Max!” They hook their arms around each other. Uncle D is taller, but Dad’s bulkier. Their voices echo in the kitchen as they step inside.

I wait a few seconds. I’m not anxious to watch another football game or listen to Aunt Sandra’s choir-worthy rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” My phone chirps. It’s probably Rio or Lucy. Or it could be Ian messaging me via Facebook.

Nope. I’m determined not to get my hopes up—or any part of my body—about Ian Park.

I punch in my passcode and find a Facebook notification. It’s a message from Free Williams. I almost forgot I accepted her friend request. And I still have no clue who she is. We have zero mutual friends; no common interests, and no geographical connection besides Atlanta.

But there’s her message: an old, discolored Polaroid photo of a woman cradling an infant. She has deep-brown skin, an afro, a round jaw. She’s looking down. In her arms, is a baby with fawn complexion and Dopey ears.

Tiny curls.

Very blue eyes.

Underneath is another message: “Do you remember her?”

13

“That’s enough Tennessee Williams forthe day,” Ms. Amos announces.

A choir of relieved sighs breaks out around the classroom. Paperbacks shut; students shuffle at their desks. I remain slumped, ready to brain myself on my desk. It’s not that Tennessee Williams isn’tinteresting; I’m simply not interested.

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