Page 52 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“Maybe this is just my thinking spot?”

Brook shoots me a doubtful look. “Little dude,” he starts, shaking his head, “Even Silver is too fly for these losers.”

It’s true. Silver tries to hide in the shadows of the trees to smoke. None of the coaches ever see him, and that’s not a compliment to his covert skills; it’s just their obliviousness to anything not green, black, or white.

Silver’s the quietly observant type. He’s too cool for anyone, me included. The students have a running bet that he’ll be that guy who drops out, becomes a famous actor, and destroys all evidence he attended Maplewood High. Good for him.

Brook nudges me again. “So, what’s up with you?”

“What’s up withme?” I try—and fail—to ignore the unearthly high-pitch of my voice on that last word.

“This isn’t you.” He waves a hand around my face. “Where’s the super-social, livewire I’ve seen the past two years? He’s missing.”

“Have you filed a report with Lieutenant Parker yet?”

“Nope.”

“You should.” I shove a hand into my untamed curls. “But if you’re gonna turn me into one of those social media Missing Persons posts, please only use photos from the fourth-grade Christmas pageant.”

“Why?”

“Because I was the lead elf and looked damn good in candy-cane socks and green Converse!”

Brook’s laugh booms, scaring a few birds. Mine is quieter, but the unraveling knots in the pit of my stomach feel good—nauseating, but good.

“There he is.”

I try to duck away when Brook goes to scrub my curls, but he wrestles me, and my halfhearted fight dies.

The unspoken trust between Brook and I started long before Lucy and his extreme make-out sessions, before he invaded our lunch table with his husky voice and video game obsessions. Circa freshman year, we didn’t know each other, but that first moment of eye contact, the head-nod in the hallway said it all. It’s the same kindred connection I have with Janelle Peterson and the same one Brook shares with Charles Barnett.

That connection is how the four of us were the first to find Imani Donaldson, a freshman, the Monday after her brother was shot and killed in a misunderstanding at a club downtown the second week of school. We were the only five black students at Maplewood, huddled in a corner, comforting one of our own. The silent “we’re in this together” exists like plasma in our blood. When I came out, Brook didn’t blink an eye. He saw me in the hallways, shrunken and nervous, and walked right up to me for a fist bump and a “you’ve got this” that was said with his eyes before he walked on.

“What’s the story, little dude?”

Before I can answer—and I still don’t have anything acceptable to say that won’t sound as though I’m utterlylostright now—he adds, “And this is me asking. Lucy didn’t put me up to anything.”

“That makes it sound like she did.”

“She didn’t.”

I believe him.Unspoken trust. “Nothing big.” Everything feels big right now. My cold fingers curl tightly around my phone. The strains of some indie pop song beats through my earbuds. I want to curl into the melody, let the lyrics ink across my skin—any means of escape.

I angle my body in Brook’s direction. “Who’s your favorite music artist?”

He gives me a long look before he replies, “Childish Gambino,” as if my out-of-nowhere question doesn’t faze him. That’s the thing about Brook—he’s so easy-going. He’s not overly-curious. He’s just walking the tracks of life, never worried about the train slamming into him.

“Janelle Monae is dope too,” he says, smiling. “But my favorite is Sugarland.”

I blink at him a few times. “What in the actual eff?Sugarland?” There goes my voice again, all screechy and abnormal.

“Sugarland.”

“You’re kidding.”

“What?” Brook isn’t the least bit self-conscious about this confession.

“Nothing.”

---