Page 51 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“Sorry, my dad works in computers.” I point at my temple, “I’m a walking databank of useless tech knowledge and vocab.”

“We create things. What we create changes something in someone else, Mr. Cameron. Who you are isn’t found in one single space.”

I bite my lip.

She cocks her head. “Why is this essay so important?”

“I need to pass this class.”

“Not that I should divulge this kind of information, but according to my records, you’re doing quite well,” Ms. Amos says, smirking—that you-already-know-this smirk.

“Also, I need this essay for…” I pause, chest tight. “…college. I want to go to Emory College of Arts and Science.”

“What a lovely place.”

“There’s an admissions essay…”

She nods knowingly. “Emory is very selective.” She sounds eerily like Mrs. Scott. Then she adds, “But you’re still a junior, Mr. Cameron. You have time. This essay isn’t about you impressing Emory. It’s not about being perfect.”

I can’t tell her the reason I need to be perfect is to impressher, not just for a recommendation letter, but because Ms. Amos, with her love for poetry and great authors and the way she lights up about where she comes from and where she’s going, has something I admire, something I want for myself. I can’t tell her that when I admire and respect someone, I try a million times harder to impress them.

I finally say, “Okay.”

I’m an old computer, trying to recycle new information and turn it into a solution. I don’t tell her that the other reason I need to ace this essay is because I refuse to be what Mrs. Scott expects me to be.

But who do I expect myself to be?

* * *

This is the last placeI should be after school. The bleachers near the large green lawn where the soccer team practices used to be my second home. I’m huddled with my knees close to my chest. My thin, pink waffle sweater barely keeps the bite of mid-October breeze from my skin. The sleeves are pulled over my knuckles. I can feel the bleacher’s cool steel through my jeans. The afternoon air tastes of sap from the neighboring pine trees, a burst of allspice, and a hint of tart Granny Smith apples.

My earbuds pump music into my bloodstream. I try not to think about Facebook, about logging onto my messages to reread the one from Free.

Do you remember her?

The photo plays like grainy footage in my brain: those eyes, that curly afro. Part of me feels as if Ishouldremember her. She looks almost like me.

Every time I start to type a reply, I wonder if Free sees the three ellipses appear, then disappear. Has she thought about asking me again?

I unlock my screen, check the time. Mom and Willow are having a mommy-daughter Cinnabon date. Lucy’s off being Ultra Class President. The last I heard from Rio, it was Mad Tagger this, Mad Tagger that.

I watch the soccer team. A dozen boys run around in tiny shorts, knocking soccer balls into the net—sweat and sticky athletic tops and Gatorade. And then there’s Dimi.

I spent exactly ninety-nine-point-too-much percent of my time in these bleachers watching Dimi.

Under the lazy sun slumped against an ageing blue sky, his strong jaw and square shoulders look good. His brown hair sits flat against his head. He’s talking to Hugh and Malcolm. They playfully jab each other’s shoulders. When Dimi and I were together, I’d lean against the fence and talk to Malcolm between practice drills. He’d tell me about the girls he was into but was too shy to ask out. I was “in” with this crowd.

Not anymore. Most of these guys barely look me in the eye when we pass in the hallways. As if I’m the one who did something wrong. That’s the thing, Dimi was my world for months and months. Then I was nothing. An ex-boyfriend.

To some of the jock-assholes: “Dimi’s ex-girlfriend.” That guy who used to be with Dimitar Antov. I wonder, is that who I am? Am I who I fall in love with?

“Haven’t you earned an upgrade from this crowd yet?”

Brook bounds up the bleachers toward me. His bony elbow nudges me. He has this infectious grin—huge and eye-scrunching with rows of perfectly white teeth. It’s a nice juxtaposition to the popped collar of his letterman jacket and the humongous headphones hugging his jaw.

“Yeah.” I sigh. “No. I dunno.”

“Come on, little dude.” Brook always calls me that. He’s only a year older than me and a few inches taller. But I never complain. Secretly, I think it fits.

---