Page 85 of How to Be Remy Cameron

Rio snorts. “It would. Infatuated Remy is the worst.”

“He kinda is.”

“He,” I say through my teeth, “is right here.”

“Remember the Elijah thing?” Rio continues as if I’m a ghost.

“Remember the Calvin Ingraham thing?”

In the rearview mirror, I can see my cheeks have reached neutron star levels of bright—just like the neon red “HOT NOW” sign that’s finally illuminating Krispy Kreme’s storefront.

I hop out of the driver’s seat. “I’m getting a dozen.” Rio does this happy shoulder-shimmy dance until I say, loudly, “For me!”

Lucy and Rio respond with twin middle fingers. It’s all the confirmation I need that we’re okay.

I can keep some secrets.

21

No one should spend aSaturday morning at school for any reason—unless that reason involves Ian Park. We’re outside Maplewood’s aquatic center. Ian’s fumbling with a set of keys and the chain lock on the side entrance. I yawn. It’s too early.

An overnight rain has left a thin reef of fog and mist around campus. The sun is a pale glow behind lumpy gray clouds. It’s chilly outside, enough that I’m wearing a sweater for reasons other than fashion choice.

“This is Somewhere?” I ask.

Over his shoulder, Ian says, “Somewhere new.” Ian and his infinite amounts of Somewhere.

“But it’s not new,” I say around another yawn. “I’ve been here.”

“Not with me.”

Good point. But a Saturday morning breaking into school property will land us in a Somewhere called jail. I’d love to explain that to Mrs. Scott while she shreds that list of dream colleges for me. The door snicks open. Ian smiles roguishly. I don’t bother to ask how he has a set of keys to the aquatic center. Perks of being the head coach’s son, I guess. The swim team is away for a meet. It’s just Ian, me, and the pool.

Scratch that—this is the best reason to spend a Saturday morning at school. Ian doesn’t bother turning on the overhead halogens. The lights at the bottom of the pool splash teal and aqua and turquoise against the walls and the tiles framing the water. The air’s warm but damp. It smells of chlorine and possibility. Everything is quiet, except the whispering music coming from Ian’s phone, propped on a diving board.

Tiny ripples disrupt the water’s perfect blue surface. We’re dipping nothing but our toes in. Our shoes are piled by the ladder to the high board. My sweater’s in the bleachers. Ian’s cardigan is near the door. We’re two boys in jeans and geeky graphic T-shirts, nervous, but calmed by the water.

Simple Minds is playing. I’m learning his music. I’m learning the little curves of his mouth that launch that dimple.

“This is kind of cool,” I say to interrupt the quiet. I hate the way my voice echoes.

“Is it?”

I shove him gently. “You know it is.”

“I used to hate this place. The water, the smell, the stupid drenched towels piled in the locker room that my dad would tell me to pick up.” He wrinkles his nose. “I used to think this is all my dad was. And this,” his arms spread out, hands shaking, “is what made my mom leave.”

“It’s not the reason?” I ask, soft and unsure.

Ian sighs. “No.”

His arms to drop to his sides. I give him a look—a question with my eyes.Can I hold your hand?He nods slowly, and I grab his hand.

“My mom didn’t love being away from her family. She didn’t love this place,” he whispers. Blue hues dance across his nose, his sad eyes. “She loves me, but I don’t think she loved him anymore.”

We stand quietly again. The song changes: “Alone” by some band named Heart. Another Max Cameron instant-like. I’m not into it but it’s bearable because I’m with Ian, with his shy smile and hand tucked in mine.

“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “Word vomit.” The coiled tightness of his jaw says he needed to talk about his parents, his mom.

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