Page 70 of How to Be Remy Cameron

Brook steps toward Liam. I want to reach out just in case he decides to clock Liam. Lucy would lose her mind. And Brook could lose a potential scholarship.

“I’d like to believe my ma is a little more selective with her sperm donors,” Brook says with this tight smile, “so we’re definitely not bros. Not even close.”

Liampffts. “Yeah, whatever. Was just trying to get my dick sucked.” Then Liam storms off, flipping us both the middle finger.

I’m frozen, slumped against the wall like a puppet without a ventriloquist.

“Hey.” It takes me a second to realize Brook’s helping me stand straight, ruffling my curls. Now his smile is kind, as though he hadn’t been three seconds from ripping Liam’s face off. “He’s gone.”

“He’s gone,” I repeat, throat dry.

Brook’s eyes trace my face, as if he’s waiting for me to snap back to myself, as if hehopesI do.

It takes a minute. Then I greet Brook with a shaky laugh. “That was wild,” I say, instead of “I can’t believe that dick.” Rather than, “He only wanted me because I’m black. Because I have blue eyes. Because I was a fetish.” I don’t say any of that.

“Sorry that went down,” Brook says, rubbing the back of his neck.

I blink at him, confused. Does Brook think this ishisfault? That I was picked out of a house-filled with people because I’m black? Because Liam has a boner for things he’s never had? Because some people fetishize race and are complete assholes?

“Don’t apologize,” I say, almost angrily.

He frowns and doesn’t say anything else, as if we both comprehend. This is how it is. This is what it means to be black at Maplewood.

“Anyway, I’m here ‘cause there’s a certain someone waiting at the bottom of the steps for you,” Brook says. “He’s ready to leave. I guess you are too?”

When I nod, Brook exhales a happy sigh. “Good. My best friend is too spineless to say he wants to walk you home. Weird guy.”

“A good weird,” I say with way too much enthusiasm.

Brook says, “The best kind of weird.”

He pulls me under the wing of his arm, then waits a moment as if I’ll react negatively to someone touching me after what just happened. I almost do. Then my shoulders relax, and Brooks hauls me closer. He leads me toward the staircase while rambling about all his weekend date plans with Lucy.

I’m confident Brook won’t tell Ian about any of this—unspoken trust at its finest.

17

“We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?”

“Somewhere.”

We’re back to this again. Somewhere, somewhere, somewhere. To be honest, I love following Ian to Somewhere. Anywhere, really. He guides me with a shy expression and his hand wrapped around mine. Our fingers have found this natural home, interlocked, so our fingertips learn the surface of each other’s knuckles. Mine are a little rough; his are inexplicably soft. It all works.

We’re not too far from Ballard Hills; we’re close to Maplewood Middle School, but not. Near the spot where we first reconnected, while I was walking Clover and he was running and we were both lost-and-found. Yet, this feels like being in a completely different world. Trees tower over us. The sidewalk is covered in pine needles—autumn’s love letter to humanity, a mint-green pathway to Somewhere.

I don’t ask Ian about where we’re going. Instead, I ask about California, about his halmeoni. He sheds his inhibition as if it’s an extra layer of clothing in the summer. Ian misses the beach, but not the water. Ian loves the sunsets but hates the coconut scent of suntan lotion. Ian’s grandmother is Korean-Mexican. He inherited her love for spicy foods. Most Sundays, she cooks his favorite meal: buldak with nuringji—deep fried, bite-size barbequed chicken coated in a chili sauce, served with a thin crust of slightly brown, crunchy rice found at the bottom of the pot.

I tell him about my Dad’s French toast obsession and about Mom’s passion for pop culture. I don’t tell him about Dimi, and he never mentions any of his exes, and that works too. We exist in a space outside of reality and inside of our racing hearts. I don’t think I’ll ever leave.

Somewhere ends up being a clearing just behind the trees. It’s a place I’ve never been, or maybe I have, but never paid attention. Nothing hides the sky. It’s a navy canvas, marred only by stars flicked against its surface like white paint splatters. There’s not a single cloud.

“Somewhere.” Ian presents it as though it’s a gift, with his free hand stretched outward. And it is, wrapped with a lovely crescent-moon-bow smack in the middle of it.

Ivory light swims through my vision. My heart floats on a bed of unexpected emotions—happiness, nerves, and anticipation. For what? I have no idea. I don’t think I want to know.

“What do you see?” he asks, quietly.

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