Page 83 of How to Be Remy Cameron

I’m helplessly addicted to the shine in his eyes when he says that, as if it’s our word. No-Dating-Remy is a poser. “Yeah, somewhere,” I confirm.

One side of his mouth lifts. Then something passes over his face, like a reminder. “I can’t. I have to—” He pauses, frowning.

Eileen’s song fades. I wait in the odd hiccup of silence. “What?”

“It’s nothing.”

I doubt that. I nudge his foot, and he shakes his head. “I need to spend time with my dad. Thursday’s my parents’ anniversary—well, whatwastheir anniversary. My dad gets all quiet and standoffish. He pretends he’s good. But he’s not. That first year, he went to church, ate dinner alone. Then, around midnight, I heard him crying in the kitchen.”

Coach Park crying? It doesn’t compute. Coach Park is silent unless he’s talking to a swimmer. He’s an android, incapable of emotion.

“That’s ironic, right?” Ian laughs hollowly. “My mom used to dance alone in the same kitchen my dad cries in.”

We stare at each other. Nothing else exists: just me, searching for a way to comfort, and Ian, pretending he doesn’t need it.

He looks away first. “Anyway, I plan to crash on the couch with him and marathon sci-fi movies.”

It’s the sweetest, nerdiest thing ever. “Sounds like a good plan,” I say.

Ian bites on his lower lip; his dimple is fully exposed.

I stand to leave. I have homework and the Essay of Doom and I’m desperate for some Willow-Clover sofa time. I don’t get far.

“Hey,” Ian says, two fingers brushing my knuckles. “What about Saturday morning?”

On cue, my voice cracks. “Saturday morning?”

“Yes. Saturday.”

Everything inside Zombie is brushed tangerine by the sinking sun, everything including the small space between our hands where Ian’s fingers still hover. My skin itches for the warmth.

“Okay. Saturday,” I finally say.

And No-Dating-Remy spontaneously combusts.

20

Five minutes before six a.m.is an unreasonable hour for any teenager to be awake. But this is tradition. Our yawns are contagious. They start with Lucy, then Rio. I’m next. We’re this band of yawns and sighs and impatient exhales. We’re parked outside the Krispy Kreme, waiting for the hot light to illuminate the window.

“Why do we do this to ourselves?” I ask.

“Tradition,” Lucy mumbles, eyes closed, reclined in the passenger seat. A nearby street lamp’s amber glow brightens her almost-peaceful face.

“Because I’ve had a hard week,” says Rio from the backseat. She’s been rambling about homework and lab projects andThe Leafsince I picked her up twenty minutes ago, but nothing about the Mad Tagger. We haven’t returned to our talk about Ian being on the Suspect Wall. I’m still frustrated about it. I still can’t tell her why IthinkIan can’t be the Mad Tagger.

I yawn loudly. The driver’s seat is semi-reclined; my arms are folded behind my head. Last night was another marathon of working on the Essay of Doom.

Correction: I stared at a blank Word document, then Mrs. Scott’s list of potential colleges next to my newly-printed map of all the cool coffee shops around Emory’s campus and the list of Creative Writing workshops offered. I’ve circled all the ones I want to take in red marker.

I also stared at my latest message from Free:

Message from Free Williams

Is your favorite color purple? Momma’s was yellow. What are your other favorites? Food? Drink? Weather? Celeb crush??

Sent Nov 6 10:31 p.m.

My eyes danced for thirty minutes until tears blurred my vision. Everyone wants to know who I am. I don’t have an answer. Eventually, I got sucked into a YouTube vortex of bears swimming in pools and corny ’80s music videos. Seriously, what drugs were those bands on?

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