Page 61 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“It’s nothing.”

“Bet I can find it on Facebook if I—”

“We went as Franklin and Sally from thePeanutscomic strip!”

That’s all it takes. Ian cracks up, and I wither under intense embarrassment. This night really was a trap, a trap for one Remy Cameron.

“That’s so perfect,” he says.

“Yeah. Well,” I mumble, shoving down the “and so are you” that’s raging up my throat. “Anyway,whoare you supposed to be?”

Ian squares his shoulders; his chin is smugly cocked. It’s kind of hot. I’m so screwed.

“Spike Spiegel,” he replies.

“I’m sorry, a what?”

His shoulders deflate. This time, I’m the one holding in a chuckle. Ian mutters, “The main character fromCowboy Bebop?”

“Is that porn?”

“No!” Ian’s face wrinkles. “Spike Spiegel!”

“Never heard of him.”

“It’s from an anime,” he tries to explain. “Spike is this cool-but-uncool bounty hunter. Super cocky. People love to hate him.”

“Okay.”

“Seriously, you’ve never heard of him?”

I shrug. “Is this one of those cosplay things? Practicing for Dragon Con next year?”

“Exactly, Tigger.”

“I’m not—” I stop, mid-breath, when a playful smile inches across Ian’s mouth. Touché. Something suspiciously tingly crawls down my chest, right into my organs, and it’s going to takeyearsfor me to forget that sensation. Ian licks his lips and that feeling sinks lower. These jeans can only hide so much.

“That doesn’t sound like trick-or-treaters at the door, honey!” Mom singsongs.

My plan—because this is not aschemeand I have nothing to hide, thanks Mom—did not include introducing Ian to my parents. I love them. I love Willow. I’ve had plenty of friends over before. Even Dimi’s been here. All those visits have included old photos of chubby-baby Remy and video documentaries of past birthdays and one too many reminders of the time I upchucked a colorful stream of melted cotton candy after riding a mini-rollercoaster at Six Flags Over Georgia. But this feels different. I can’t figure out how, but maybe Ian’s different from Lucy or Rio, different from Dimi, which, he can’t be, right?

Ian’s not even in the Boyfriend category. Or Casual Hook-Up category.

“Is that a friend of yours?”

“Uh, yeah?”

I can hear Mom approaching, Willow too. This is happening.

Like an adult, I suck it up. I open the door farther and step back, my best invitation for Ian to enter the Cameron House of Baby Photo Embarrassment.

Ian removes his shoes before crossing the threshold. I stare, eyebrows lifted.

“It’s a habit. We take our shoes off at my house,” he says.

“Oh. Cool,” I say.

He steps inside. We linger, standing in a void where our eyes meet and our breaths synch, and I almost feel as though every one of our cells is moving to the same rhythm. I almost think this might be more than a crush.

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