Page 6 of How to Be Remy Cameron

I pause to hover over Willow. She’s sitting on her knees to lean over the table and read the Sunday comics. Of course, Willow’s definition of “reading” is just a bunch of mumbling and tracing her index finger over the art. It’s very serious business.

Sunday comics are Willow’s life, along with Bert, her stuffed Batman doll she’s carried around since she was a tot learning to walk. No judgment here. I still have a corner of the blanket my grandma quilted for me as an infant. It’s tucked into a drawer in my room though. I’m sentimental, but I’m also a junior in high school.

I kiss the top of Willow’s strawberry blonde crown before flopping into the chair next to her. “Mondays are the worst.”

“Doctors have found that the reason so many people hate Mondays is because they try too hard to change themselves over the weekend, creating mental and emotional confusion.” Over her mug, Mom winks.

“What doctors, Mom? The ones on primetime medical dramas?”

“No.” Mom raises a sharp eyebrow. “The ones that say sarcastic teenage boys are more likely to have their phones cut off by Tuesday for being unforgivably rude before their parents have had their proper caffeine fix.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t have one of those teenage boys, right?”

“It is, Remy.” She looks at me, her eyes as brown as hickory wood. “At least you’ll be the coolest-dressed kid on a Monday.”

I smile at my long, knobby fingers. Mom has never had a problem pointing out my awesome fashion sense, even before I came out. Maybe she knew? Was it my obsession with bright colors and cardigans? I doubt it. It might’ve been my mild crush on Nick Robinson. Very mild. But, let’s just say I didn’t seeJurassic Worldfour times for the dinosaurs.

Thing is, my mom didn’t make a big deal about those things. Neither did my dad. Coming out to my parents was tough and scary and kind of a tear-fest. An entire month of losing sleep over what they would think. How they’d react. And if their adopted, black son would just become an afterthought now that, guess what, he’s gay too!

But it was nothing like that.Nothing. I can’t explain what it was about my mom’s gentle expression and my dad’s fingers combing through my curls and the taste of those first few tears on my lips, but I’d relive that moment over and over just to hear again, “Okay, so what’s the big deal?” from my mom in a choked, crying-laugh.

“And how long did this outfit take to put together?” Mom asks.

I shrug nonchalantly. I don’t tell her I planned it out Wednesday of last week. Some secrets should be kept. “Guess.”

“Too long,” Mom says, half amused.

“Yep!”

Today, I’m sporting a loose, black-and-white-striped T-shirt under a thin, purple hoodie with faded olive skinnies and a pair of bright-white Vans. Later, I’ll tug a beanie over my messy, short curls. For a first day back to school, I’m killing it.

Mondays can bite me.

“If you’re trying to look casually-sharp, mission accomplished.”

Her compliment leaves me kind of dizzy. I cuff my hands over Willow’s ears. “You’re a badass, Mom.”

“Thanks, honey,” replies Mom. “But I’d appreciate it if, next time, you covered your dad’s ears instead. He’s at that impressionable age.”

“Hey!” Dad yells.

“The truth hurts, babe.”

“So does a life without my killer French toast.”

I chuckle as I lower my hands from Willow’s ears, careful not to disrupt the messy buns on either side of her head. She’s got this whole Princess Leia obsession lately. I approve.

“Don’t listen to her, kiddo,” Dad says. He dishes out plates of French toast accompanied by burnt bacon and runny eggs. Emperor of breakfasts might’ve been a stretch. Dad flops into the chair next to Mom. “She’s still not over Zack Morris. Hashtag Man Crush Mondays.”

“Dad, no.”

“What?”

“You’re not allowed to hashtag anything. Ever.”

Dad’s laugh is a cross between a bear and a Disney character. It’s loud, but silly and contagious.

I scrunch my nose. “And Zack who?”

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