Page 88 of How to Be Remy Cameron

Today, it’s the latter, so after school Lucy and I sit at one the few outdoor tables at Zombie. She’s studying fashion magazines. I’m scowling at my laptop screen. The Essay of Doom glares back at me. I have five hundred words written. Only ten of them are any good. Then again, two of the ten are my name, so I’m not sure that counts.

“Orchid or coral?”

I blink at her. Lucy’s head is bowed. Her hair is piled messily on top of her head, surprisingly kept in place by four highlighters.

“Which color?”

I flinch. “What?”

“I’m trying to find the perfect color for my dress.”

Her dress. Right. It’s hard to forget homecoming is around the corner. Everyone’s talking about what to wear. Advertisements are plastered everywhere, including the VOTE 4 REMY poster taped to Zombie’s big, scenic window: rainbow and unicorn and my big manga-style eyes for every caffeine addict to mock.

Our drinks are sweating next to each other on the table. The sun’s gradually descending. Dying light softens Lucy’s features. She’s glowing.

“Gold,” I say. “Definitely gold.”

She sweeps fallen strands of dark hair from her face. “Is that your gay-best-friend stamp of approval?”

I roll my eyes. She’s only teasing. But it’s been in my head lately: the GSA, the Ford Turner comments, the homecoming campaign posters.

Is this who I am? Am I too gay? Is that a thing? My brain’s a mess. I set a new record getting ready for school this morning: forty-five minutes. I kept staring at the clothes in my closet: pastel this, neon that; pink and yellow and bright; so much gay and gay and gayer. Every shirt, every pair of jeans screamed, “Hey, look at me and my attention-needy self! I’m a rainbow! I’m a stereotype!”

I decided on a pair of black skinnies—of course—and matching pair of Nike Air Force 1 low-tops and a plain collared shirt Aunt Sandra bought for my last birthday. Black, obviously. Today, I just wanted to be average. No stereotypes. No declarations. Except, on cue, everyone noticed.

“Did someone sell you some bad product? Have you gone emo?” Alex and Zac asked.

Totally.

“You don’t look like yourself,” Jayden said.

Perfect! I don’t feel like Remy Cameron right now.

“Who are you?” Sara asked.

I don’t know.

“You’re still helping me shop, right?” Lucy asks.

I cock my head. “You don’t want to go with your mom?”

“Nah.” Lucy sips her macchiato. It’s no longer an Instagram-worthy aesthetic masterpiece. “She’ll be too busy with work.”

She casually leaves out the part where her mom probably can’t afford anything new either. Paying rent and buying groceries and school supplies for four girls doesn’t leave much money for homecoming dresses. I think Lucy’s mom’s secretly saving for a prom dress, anyway. But none of that bothers Lucy. She’s happy using the money she gets from tutoring neighbors’ kids to hit up a thrift store for something to wear.

That’s Lucy—our rock, our foundation. All the things that make our table of friends cool extend from Lucy. I’m in awe of her. If I’m honest, I’ve always been in awe of her. I just don’t say it out loud enough. Maybe that makes me a coward or a bad friend.

“Yeah, I’m still down,” I say, my lips curved into a half-smile. We’ll make a day of dresses and fitting-room selfies and pizza afterward. As much as I’m dreading homecoming, I’m looking forward to this.

“Thanks,” whispers Lucy. Her eyes crinkle and her cheeks lift.

Sunlight reflects off my laptop screen. I haven’t typed a new word in thirty minutes. The Essay of Doom is taunting me. “Hey.”

Lucy barely lifts her eyes from dress-browsing. “What’s up?”

A planet-sized lump clogs my throat. I scratch my eyebrow. “Do you think you know who you are?”

“Who I am?”

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