Page 62 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“Hello, there.”

Our quiet moment is interrupted by Mom and Dad and Willow, who giggles from behind my legs.

I introduce Ian to my parents. They shake hands. Ian’s voice is clear but soft, as if his nerves are choking his larynx. Mom is chatty; Dad is corny. I’m mortified.

“And you must be Calvin, right?” Ian asks, peering around my legs at Willow.

Ian calling her Calvin draws Willow out from behind me. With a toothless grin and gleeful voice, she goes on and on about Ian’s hair. I’m more than a little proud of Willow’s costume: red-and-black-striped T-shirt, black jeans, hair just as spikey and gelled as Ian’s.

Mom mentions something about photos and I immediately intervene. “Right, so we’re just gonna go…” I motion toward the door.

Dad nods his approval and slings an arm around Mom’s shoulders to stop her protests. But Mom has this look in her eye. Ian and I are a little close. Our hands dangle in close proximity. It’s the perfect set-up for bad-motherly thoughts, as if she’s planning our wedding.

It’s definitely time to leave. I mumble, “Who’s ready for candy and fresh air?”

Willow runs to retrieve her ghost-painted candy bucket from the kitchen. Ian grabs his shoes, but not before Clover vigorously sniffs them. I sincerely hope she’s not plotting where to mark her next territory.

I escort Willow and Ian and my inch of dignity out the front door.

Ballard Hills is lit orangeby streetlights and gray-blue by the almost moonless sky. We cover most of the neighborhood—and a few adjacent ones—in under two hours. It’s a leisurely stroll, because Willow has short legs and I’m in no rush to lose Ian’s company. The streets aren’t super-crowded. Sporadic groups of pre-teens are followed by bored parents or older siblings. The occasional duo of teens smuggle eggs and toilet paper under their hoodies.

Everyone is really into Halloween around here. Pumpkins and cotton-ball ghosts are everywhere. But no one’s lawn is as decorated as Mr. Ivanov’s. Willow’s bucket is stuffed to the brim with candy. I carry it for her, pouring the excess into one of those reusable Publix grocery totes Mom packed in case of a candy emergency.

Willow’s a smash with the adults. Old-school costumes easily beat out all the princesses andTransformersand Disney knockoffs. Everyone slides her an extra piece of candy while raving over how in-character she is. Of course, she is. Willow wouldn’t have it any other way.

I get a ton of “And look at you, the perfect companion!” It cracks Ian up every single time. I’m not earning any extra cool points parading around as a tiger with my younger sister, but it’s not so bad. Willow’s happy; that’s enough.

But there’s also the occasional exchange with a nosy adult: “Oh, are you her babysitter?”

“No.”

“Tutor?”

“She’sseven.”

“Kids start young these days! My nephew Jake is studying French and—”

“I’m herbrother.”

That always triggers a brief odd look before they put on a tight smile and counterfeit cheery eyes. They pass over handfuls of candy, more than they gave the last trick-or-treater, as if that’s an apology or an easy way out of their closed-minded observations. Whatever. It’s all for my sister.

“We got so much!” screeches Willow.

We’re clearing Hopper Street, headed home. I’m the navigator. Ian’s humming ’80s songs. Between us, Willow marches, wide-eyed, already dreaming of the sugar overdose she’s about to experience after Mom investigates every piece of candy.

I used to hate the endless wait for Mom or Dad to inspect the candy. I mean, I get it now. People are messed up. But it was still hell on a seven-year-old dying for a mini-Reese’s cup and a pound of M&M’s.

“You killed it tonight, Willow,” I tell her.

She’s shaking her hips to whatever upbeat song Ian’s singing. He’s so damn off-key, but I can’t help snapping my fingers to the beat.

“Okay, favorite candy?” Ian asks.

“Gummy worms!” Willow shouts, without hesitation.

I laugh. The last time I gave her a bag, she ended up with rainbow teeth and tongue. Mom did not approve.

“Gross, Twinkle Toes.” I use my free hand to pat her softening hair. “Those come from the dirt!”

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