Page 57 of How to Be Remy Cameron

I hate that giddiness in her tone.

“Remy Cameron, you want to go to the dance!”

I clutch a pillow over my face and scream.

Rio softens the music to say, “I’ll totally be your D.D.”

Designated Date. Rio’s nailed this role flawlessly before—and after—I came out. For every school dance, weekend house party, or group movie date where everyone else was straight and I was—fashionably and miserably—single. She even owns a mandatory dress for such occasions. It’s bluer than the afternoon sky with white skull silhouettes stamped across the fabric and a slight ruffle to the hem. Rio is a mythological god in that dress.

I grin at my socks. “Nah, I’m good.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Good.” Her focus hasn’t left the wall. “We have a pact about this, remember?”

I do. I sit up so my elbows support me. “Okay. What’s the deal?” I watch her pace in front of the wall. Her mouth is scrunched, and she looks ready to either punch something or yell, maybe both. “Give me the tea.”

“There was another incident,” says Rio, not commenting on my casual usage of gay lingo. That’s not like her. “Wednesday. The library doors were tagged with ‘This way to freedom or the best nap you’ve never had.’ Kind of lazy.”

“Extremely lazy.” It’s half as bad as that Mad Tagger imitator outside of Maplewood Middle. Willow could’ve come up with a better message. “When did it happen?”

“After school. Soccer coach saw it when practice was over.”

Wednesday. The same day I just happened to be sitting in the bleachers, watching the team—and Dimi. The same day Silver was hiding—badly—by the trees. The same day Brook stopped to talk.

“That’s, uh, interesting.”

I’m trying hard not to put clues together. Not to think about Brook leaving to catch the Marta before practice ended or Silver finishing his cigarette, then following the fencing all the way to the school’s backdoors.

Brook can’t be the Mad Tagger. Hecan’t. Rio’s right: he’s squeaky-clean and borderline perfect and the soft embodiment of school spirit. He’s got this big future ahead of him—all these expectations. Plus, Lucy would kill him. Not hypothetically, but full-on, top story on the evening news, Lifetime docuseries on how she did it, kill him. Rio and I would provide the alibi. I like Brook; he’s über-cool, butthis is Lucy. She let me cry on her bedroom floor in yoga pants with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s after the whole Dimi-broke-me thing.

“Andrew’s annual Halloween party is this weekend,” I say.

“Are you going?”

“Nope.” I sigh at the ceiling, not out of disappointment, though. I’m looking forward to wreaking havoc on Ballard Hills with Willow. “Are you?”

“Nope.” Rio sighs too. “I’m actively boycotting that massive pile of social diarrhea.”

“Why?”

“Just because I’m popular-by-association thanks to the Junior Class President and the leader of the New Americana Gay-Straight Alliance…” I groan loudly, but only at the Halsey reference. “…that doesn’t mean I actually enjoy going to all the patriarchal functions intended to get the dude-bros at our school drunk and laid.”

When she looks over her shoulder at me, I mouth “Wow” with wide eyes.

“I have other interests,” she says. “I have integrity.” TheMean Girlsposter hung over Rio’s desk politely disagrees. “Anyway, that’s not why you’re here.” Everything about Rio’s posture is accusing—the hands on her hips, squinted eyes, puckered lips.

I fake astonishment for six-point-two seconds, but I know I can’t get away with this kind of bad acting when it comes to Rio Maguire, junior detective. Maybe it’s because, as journalists, her parents are always looking for an angle. Maybe she’s just super-intuitive. Or maybe a decade of friendship has made my poker face weak.

“I…” The words don’t come.

I think I have an older sister. And, by the way, she found me on Facebook and I’m generally losing my shit every time she messages me.

“My essay for AP Lit is killing me.”

Yeah, I chickened out. All those thoughts about Free that pinwheel in my head never make it to my throat. I just can’t tell Rio. I can’t admit that I’ve repeatedly searched Free’s Facebook feed and stalked her Instagram. I’ve seen a dozen different photos of that same woman—my mother, but a little older, frailer, with dead eyes and less volume to her smile. Free has the same eyes, the nose, the wide grin, so many characteristics that are just like… Me.

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