Page 58 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“The Essay of Doom?”

“That’s the one!”

“What’re you struggling with?”

That I keep thinking about bringing up Free to my parents. But every time I get close, my jaw locks up.

I can’t just ask, “Hey, Mom and Dad, did you know I have a sister? Did you know she existed? By the way, it’s cool if you knew, but what the fuck?”

Rio’s staring at me, head cocked.

I swallow, feel the saliva trying to maneuver around the gigantic lump in my throat. “All of it?”

“All of it?” Rio repeats.

I tug out my phone. On my Cloud, I have last night’s draft saved. I read it out loud to her:

“I have tried to write this essay five different times and have come to the same conclusion after each failure: I’m an enigma.

I’m a 500-piece puzzle with only 472 pieces and the picture on the cover of the box is too faded to recognize.

I’m a book with pages from other books and chapters that start but never finish, a plot too chaotic to absorb.

I’m Remy Cameron.

Unfortunately, I have no idea what that means anymore.”

“It’s a start,” says Rio, pulling her hair into a ponytail. “And you do know yourself.”

“I do?”

“Duh!” She smirks, walking right up to the bed. “You constantly walk around like you own every little thing about you. You’re so damn confident it’s annoying.”

“I’m not.” My protest is as halfhearted as her ponytail.

“Yeah, you are. You’ve been that way since you came out.”

I bite my thumbnail. Here’s the thing: Just because I came out at fourteen doesn’t mean I’m one-hundred-percent secure in myself all the time. Coming out doesn’t equal indisputable confidence. It means that, for those precious seconds it takes to identify yourself to someone else, you’re brave. It doesn’t last.

“I’m just borrowing my ego from you,” I say.

“Plagiarizing is more like it.”

Our laughs are in synch. Mine is a little watery, but Rio doesn’t make any noise about it. She pokes my nose, and I swat her away.

“It’s not that serious, Remy.”

“But it is!”

“To who?”

“Emory. Mrs. Scott. My parents.”

“I doubt your sweet-as-apple-pie parents give a flying eff about a damn essay,” says Rio.

“I disagree.”

“Obviously.” Rio shakes her head. “At least your parents are around to talk about these things.” A thin layer of hurt blooms in Rio’s voice.

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