Page 67 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“I needed to get out,” I finally say.

“It had nothing to do with Ian Park?”

By the fridge, something drops and shatters. Andrew barges in, parting the sea of seniors blocking the keg. He shouts, “Mom’s teacups!” clearly having a mini-heart attack.

I turn to Lucy. “Just a lot on my mind. Didn’t want to stay at home and turn emo.”

“Remy Cameron, Emo Kid? I’ve seen that version.”

“It’s not pretty.”

She almost chokes on beer. “It’s not.”

Something in Lucy’s glazed eyes tells me she understands. I don’t have to explain the way, sometimes, it feels as if the walls are closing in, and the air is so damn thin. She gets what it means to be a high school junior trying to survive the semester.

“I still think you’re deflecting,” she says, tipping her nearly empty cup to her lips.

“I’m not.”

“I call bullshit.”

“I’m calling your mother and informing her your vocabulary has been reduced from the PSAT drill words you’ve been working on every weekend to basic, Adult Swim lingo.”

I give Lucy extra credit. She’s able to side-eye me, sip beer, and flip me off all at once.

“I need some fresh air,” she says.

Ah, yeah. “Fresh air” is code for “cigarette break.”

Lucy doesn’t invite me to join. She never does. Secondhand smoke and I aren’t friends. She downs the remains of her beer, then carelessly places the cup on the counter behind us. Something wistful passes over her eyes, as if for a millisecond she wants me to come along, as if she doesn’t want to be alone. But it disappears.

“See you soon?”

I nod at her. She vanishes into a crowd of people exiting the back door.

Alex or Zac plays more EDM tracks. Fantastic. All this party needs is a drunken round of Twister and some kid vomiting in the bushes, and we’ll have reached Netflix-levels of teen parody.

A guy wearing a child’s size Gryffindor T-shirt and scarf bumps into me. Pink liquid spills from his cup onto my shoe. Un-freaking-believable.

I glare at him. I don’t recognize him from my year or even Maplewood’s halls. His lips are puckered. A galaxy of freckles is spread across his face. His hair is on fire—whether dye or naturally, I can’t tell.

“Who’re you supposed to be?” he asks.

“Hobbes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Hobbes, the tiger?”

“Jesus Christ Superstar, what is that?”

“I’m Tigger,” I say, deadpan, and he snaps his fingers excitedly.

“Winnie-the-Poohis my Patronus, my dude!”

“I bet,” I sigh, then scoot around him before I lose more braincells talking to this guy.

My options for a new conversation partner are limited. I know a lot of people at the party by face, but not on a real level. I have my circle of friends. And then there are all the Maplewood students who nod and wave at me during school: the ones that know me as Remy, the Gay One, Lucy’s Best Friend, The GSA Club President, Rio’s Sidekick, and, my favorite, the Openly Gay One Who Used to Get It On with Dimi, the Hot Soccer Player. All these labels make me think about the Essay of Doom, and that kills my buzz. My sober buzz.

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