Page 97 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“Yeah, sorry. That was whack.”

“It kinda was.”

“My bad,” says Free. She tilts her head. “I guess I’m a little jealous sometimes.”

“Of what?”

“Gee, I don’t know, little bro.” Her lips pucker. “Maybe it’s the whole ‘our momma gave you up for adoption because she took one good look at our lives and thought you’d be better off’ thing? Maybe she was right?”

“She wasn’t,” I mumble. “My life isn’t so great.”

“Shut up.” She chucks a pizza crust at me. “It is.”

“It’s not.” I sigh. “I’m one of five black kids at school. My freshman year, I was the token gay kid until others finally came out. I’ve been the token everything. I’m like a dragon in a city of unicorns.”

“Wow. That’s a visual.”

“It’s not so great.”

“Just because things suck in this one moment doesn’t mean they’ll always be shitty. It doesn’t mean they’ve always been shitty.” She sips ginger ale from a mason jar—another cool quirk about this place. “It’s temporary. Shit’s not that serious.”

I rub my temples. It is that serious, isn’t it? It feels that way. In fact, it feels as if I’m the only one who sees how epic all this is. Because, a month ago, I was Remy Cameron. Now I’m Remy Cameron—insert six different labels to describe me.

Our silence hangs. Free orders another pizza. I don’t complain. Her choices suck—spinach, jalapeños, and pineapples—but I’ll survive. A headband holds back her forest of curls. Her shirt says, “Moody Judy,” and gold hoop earrings match all eight of her rings.

My half-sister defines cool. I want her to hang with Willow. I want her toknowWillow, so I ask, “Are you sure you don’t want to meet them someday? My family?”

It’s bizarre to ask.My family, as if Free isn’t family too.

“Remy—”

“It’s just that…” I bite my thumbnail. “…you said you wanted to find me because you wanted to know the little brother you never got to meet, because Ruby took that from you. And I get that—to have a missing piece. But you found me, and they’re part of me. I’m not asking you to fall in love with them, though that’d be pretty cool.”

Free purses her lips.

“I’m asking you to know me. And toknow meis to know who helped me get to where I am.”

“Bro.” She sighs. “Don’t you get that that’s part of the problem? Our mother made sure you couldget somewherewhile I’ve had to do it alone. Just me.”

“But it doesn’t have to be that way. Not anymore.”

She leans back, studying me.

“You don’t have to,” I whisper, “but it’d be cool if you’d at least gave it a shot. Gave me a shot.”

Free smirks—that Ruby smirk—and says, “Are you sure you want to go to Emory? You’d have a pretty good career as a lawyer.”

A halfhearted version of her smirk tugs at my mouth. “That might be my only option unless prayer gets me a passing grade in AP Lit.”

Free laughs so hard the bored waitperson behind the register turns to squint at us. Then I ask Free if she’s religious, what she believes in. She tells me about Ruby and her issues with organized religion. After Ruby died, Free found friends that prayed with her and took her to church. Now, she finds solace believing insomething.

I like that. Tension melts away from my muscles, my bones. I feel loose. So, I talk. I tell Free about coming out, about Dimi. I babble about the Essay of Doom for ten minutes: my questions, my uncertainty, everything.

“Do you actually believe all these things define you?” she asks.

I shrug. Or, I try to, but suddenly my shoulders are too heavy again.

Free says, “You think because you like corny indie music and live in the ‘burbs, you’re not black enough? Because you have dope-ass taste in clothes, you’re too gay? Because you’re adopted, you don’t think you know yourself? You date an asshole and that defines you?”

---