Page 79 of How to Be Remy Cameron

We hover by the door. New and departing customers maneuver around us. I kind of shuffle and she sort of smiles. It’s not a goodbye.

“Next time,” Free starts with that smirk, Ruby’s smirk. “Don’t wait so long to message.”

“Next time?” I wish I was confident enough for it to not be a question.

“Yeah. Next time. I haven’t told you everything yet.” She hasn’t. It frightens me. I’m intrigued, but I’m more afraid than curious. “Cool meeting you, Rembrandt.”

“You too.”

“Wow. I have a pretty awesome gay younger brother.”

“Half-brother,” I tease.

When she leaves, I hold on to the words crammed into my mouth. I might have a pretty awesome nonconforming older half-sister.

19

Monday morning, Lucy stops meat my locker before my fourth period anatomy class. I haven’t seen her all weekend. Between the ninth draft of the Essay of Doom and Mr. Riley organizing the GSA club’s Sunday bowling outing—some of the members had plans on Halloween and a few of the younger ones wanted a daytime event instead of facing curfew dilemmas—I only managed to FaceTime Lucy to help decide on an outfit for her Saturday afternoon date with Brook.

“Two words,” she says, leaning against her locker with a grin. “Homecoming. Prince.”

“I agree.” I shoulder my locker closed. “No one says no to ‘Purple Rain.’ Ever.” Yawning, I shove my book into my backpack. “Are you putting together a playlist for the dance?”

“Huh? No.” Lucy huffs. She looks nice today: striped shirt, dark jeans cuffed at the ankles, red Vans to match her necktie. “Sara’s in charge of music.”

Obviously. Sara’s too controlling to trust anyone with major tasks, even Lucy.

“You need to run for homecoming prince.”

Both my eyebrows shoot up. “Me? No.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not happening, Lucia.” I shake my head and edge around her.

“Itishappening, Rembrandt.” She beams. Honestly, she looks as if she’s possessed by the school-spirit demon.

I bet Aunt Sandra could pray it out of her. “You’re bananas,” I say, walking away.

The warning bell rings. I take longer strides. Mr. Khorram is a pretty laid-back teacher. Anatomy isn’t an easy course, but he plays Pink Floyd while we study and prefers Q & A sessions to lecturing during lessons. I’m more anxious about getting a good seat than avoiding Lucy, though, the latter deserves extra emphasis, especially when Lucy catches up to me.

“You’d make a great prince. People love you!”

“They tolerate me,” I mumble.

“You’re popular.”

“People find me affable and ethical and are content with my attentive manner,” I argue. I’ve used just enough SAT Prep vocabulary to stun her silent—briefly.

“It’ll be no contest,” she says. “Who’s more loved than you?”

“Jayden, Evan Coles, Armin Darvish, AlexorZac.” I list each guy on my fingers. “Silver—”

“Are you effin’ kidding me? Silver?”

Mr. Khorram peeks at us from behind a stack of papers when we walk in. Sunlight glints off his bald head and softens his cheeks. I wave shyly. Lucy carries on.

“You’re a front-runner, trust me.”

---