Page 84 of How to Be Remy Cameron

At 6:07 a.m., there’s still no hot light.

“I need this,” says Lucy. “Committees, anime club, presidential stuff, Brook. I need a break.”

“A break from Brook?”

“No. Well, yes. But not a bad break.”

“Any break from a relationship is a good break,” says Rio.

I roll my eyes. Rio doesn’t date, ever. It’s, like, her religion. The Church of Love is for the weak. On Valentine’s Day, she sacrifices giant teddy bears while blasting grunge-rock to appease her heartless god.

“One day, Rio, you’ll find The One,” I say affectionately.

“‘The One’ doesn’t exist. This isn’t a Kate Hudson movie,” says Rio. “We’re not all falling madly over a crush like you.”

“What?”

“Oh, come on, Rembrandt.” There’s a look in Lucy’s eyes that’s completely uncalled for. “We’ve seen it.”

“Seen what?”

Rio sighs impatiently.

“Dude,” Lucy punches my shoulder, “the way youlookat Ian.”

“Every day at lunch,” Rio adds.

“Ian?” My voice is Prince-levels of high. “I don’t—”

“You do,” interrupts Rio. “Constantly.”

“It’s kind of obvious,” Lucy says.

“Obvious to who?” I ask, eyes narrowed.

“Jayden, Chloe, Sara—”

“That’s bullshit.” Sara is like a shark; she can smell blood. If Sara Awad knew anything about Ian and me, she’d hold it over my head like a dog treat. Besides, I can totally appreciate the way Ian dresses or his nerdy glasses or a little dimple action without having a crush. It’s completely acceptable. “It’s not true. You have no proof to back-up these insidious accusations.”

Lucy snorts. “Insidious?”

“Shut up.”

“SAT Prep looks good on you, Rembrandt.”

I ignore her. “I’m not crushing. There’s no crush. Crushing is sixth grade.”

“And these are the gays of our lives,” Lucy says.

I hate them. I thumb through the playlists on my phone. I need POP ETC. But Lucy steals my phone and finds some random power-pop song.

“It’s not like this is the first time this has happened, Romeo. If there’s a cute boy, you fall over your feet—more than usual—while the rest of us cease to exist,” says Rio, a hint of something in her voice. I can’t name it. After another yawn, she adds, nonchalantly, “We don’t care.”

A balloon of guilt fills my lungs, because I am keeping secrets. Not the Ian thing—his sexuality isn’t mine to share.

But there’s Free—the fact that she exists.

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing, you know,” says Lucy. “You liking someone new.”

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