Page 82 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“I’m not running for homecoming prince!” I shout. Brook’s already halfway down the hall.

“Positive thoughts, little dude!”

“I’m positive your girlfriend is destined for a freak accident!”

Mrs. Kowalski, the freshman English teacher, peeks her head out of her classroom, and gives me the stink-eye.

Brook howls. “My weirdo best friend wouldn’t approve of such nocturnal activities.”

My mouth clicks shut; my eyes must be wide, blue moons. Then I remember the poster.

“Traitor!”

Ian raises an eyebrow as he sits down across from me. He’s on a break. Casually, he passes me a ceramic mug of steaming green stuff. I sniff curiously. It’s not poisoned. Or, it could be, but not with anything I can detect.

“Matcha,” he says.

“You’re deflecting,” I say. “This is a trap.”

“It’s matcha.”

I sip while squinting at him. It’s not bad. It’s odd, like all green things, but not terrible. I refuse to tell him this. He owes me answers. And kisses. In no particular order.

It’s torture to look at him today: The way his hair peeks out of his beanie. Glasses slipping down his nose. Black apron contrasting with his loose red sweater. Stupid hoop earring and fingers snapping along to something rhythmic with synthesizers. Obviously, Trixie has given Ian control of Zombie’s playlist again.

“You let Lucy corrupt you into ruining my life,” I accuse.

“It was a paid gig.”

“Paid with what?”

Ian’s mouth upturns. “A supersized bag of candy corn.”

I groan, then sip more green stuff. “She’s playing dirty.”

“You didn’t like it?”

I pretend the disappointment in his voice and the wounded look on his face don’t exist. This is a war. Ian’s sided with the enemy; casualties are expected.

“It’s nice,” I force out. “Okay, it’s sick-as-eff. You’re crazy talented.” Defenses are crumbling. The heat level in my cheeks has reached radioactive levels.

“Cool,” he whispers.

“Cool.”

“I mean, thanks.”

“You’re not welcome.”

Our laughter is a harmony only dulled by the guy on the speakers singing about a woman named Eileen. Some girls wearing matching Georgia State sweatshirts join in, crooning into the straws of their iced coffees. This is what makes Zombie great. It’s the aura; even Trixie’s behind the bar dancing. Maybe it’s the music or the way Ian’s Adam’s apple bobs when I catch him staring at me, but I’m feeling good—brave.

“Hey.” I wait until our eyes meet. “Do you wanna hang out Thursday, after school?”

“Hang out?”

“Go somewhere.”

“Somewhere?”

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