Page 74 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“Don’t be,” she says, leaning back. “I guess that’s new for you? Someone mentioning your real dad?”

“I have a real dad,” I hiss. That’s new, too, the frustration. “Sorry. It’s just, I have—”

“Parents? A family?” That curvy smile returns. “Yeah, I’ve seen pictures. Your… that guy who knocked up our mother was quite the self-absorbed jerk, anyway.”

“I don’t know anything about him.”About you, rests on my tongue.

“You wouldn’t want to know him.”

That stings. It also ignites this curious flame in my ribcage. What’s he like? Are parts of me like him? Do we share more than physical features and a connection with a dead woman? I force myself to chug the rest of my coffee, struggling to breathe.

“That was a truly shitty thing to say,” Free comments. “My bad.”

“It’s okay,” I say, though it’s not. I’m caught in this warped reality where I have a sister and an unpopular father and a dead mother. It’s as if I’m six years old again, accepting the reality that I’m a Cameron legally, but not by birth. My hands shake under the table.

“Let’s try again. I’m Free.” She wiggles her fingers in a casual wave. This girl is all chilled energy. She’s jazz in the summer; a cup of hot cider in December. “Free Williams. I’m your—”

“Sister,” I say, quietly; not ashamed, just quiet.

“Half-sister,” she corrects.

“Oh.”

“Different dads, obviously.” Free pushes curls away from her cheeks. “Our mom and my dad dated in high school. It didn’t work after she got pregnant with me. She didn’t love him. He didn’t love her. No biggie.”

She says it as if it doesn’t hurt, as if it truly is no biggie. I can’t imagine Mom and Dad “not working.” Then again, I didn’t imagine having a half-sister, but here I am.

“So, Remy.” She says my name with a curl to her lips; not teasing, just amused.

“Remy Cameron.” My voice still squeaks. “Rembrandt.”

“I still can’t believe she named you that.” Her laugh is fond, like a lost memory returning.

“It’s not the best name to avoid being teased about.” A giggle squeezes through my tight throat.

“Who’re you telling? Try growing up Frida!”

“Frida?”

“Like the—”

“The painter,” I interrupt, then my face heats when she smirks.

“Mom had a thing for the arts. She loved painters.” Morning light tickles through the door and grazes her heart-shaped face. Something tender but haunted moves in her eyes. “That’s all she ever wanted: to be an artist. To have one finished piece hung in a museum or art gallery.”

“Really?”

“It never happened, though. Too many distractions.”

“Distractions?”

“Yep. Being a single mother. Raising a wild child like myself. Work. That…man.” The last word comes out sharp. A slow-build of venom pollutes my blood. I hope I’m nothing like…that man. Nothing at all.

“She’d say, ‘Frida Williams, be somebody. Make the world remember you.’ And I’d look her dead in the eye and tell her I already was somebody. I washer somebody.” Free’s fingers toy with the collar of her sweatshirt. It’s been cut to shreds, then put back together with safety pins. The Agnes Scott emblem is mangled but familiar.

“What happened?” I ask, too quick, too urgent.

I want to swallow the words. Seventeen years of life, life without birth parents or a half-sister, invade my core and infect my cells and curiosity stands atop Mount Who Are You, glaring victoriously at me.

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