Page 98 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“I mean—”

She holds up a finger. “Yes, these things are apartof you, but they don’tdefineyou. Don’t letthemdefine who you are. Know your history, Remy. Know the struggles. Know the victories. Understand why people marched and protested and fought for you. Martin Luther King Jr. existed for a reason. Stonewall happened for a reason. NWA saying ‘Fuck the Police’ was a statement. For us.”

Her hand covers mine on the table. I hadn’t realized it was shaking.

Free’s speaks gently: “I love thoughtful hip-hop with messages about who we are, who we’ve been, who wewill be. But I can jam to folk-singer-songwriters, too, and still be black. Still be me.” Her fingers squeeze mine. “There’s no such thing as ‘black enough.’ You can’t be ‘too gay.’ Adopted doesn’t mean you’re not whole. There’s just you. And that’s pretty dope.”

New pizzas come out. A family of eight crams into a corner booth. This girl outside sings showtunes. But we’re in a bubble.

I blink hard until my eyelashes unstick. I breathe, shallowly at first, then clearer. “Am I anything like her?” I ask.

Something in Free’s smile changes. She’s in an alternate universe where smiles are sad. “I don’t know. Maybe? You love hard, I can tell. She did too.”

“Why’d she give up?” It’s not the first time I’ve wondered. It’s the first time I wanted to know, though.

“Easy answer: the alcohol.” Free watches the bubbles in her ginger ale. “Long answer: She loved him too hard. He left, and then she didn’t want anything. Or, she did. She wanted something better for you. And then nothing. She wasn’t my momma; she was a shell.”

Across the table, Free’s eyes shine. Maybe it’s the lighting. Maybe it’s something else.

“They say you can’t die from a broken heart, but Ruby did.” Free looks away, smiling that alternate-universe smile. “A broken heart and alcohol and painkillers. Ironic, right?”

We’re quiet. So very quiet. We’re giving each other space—me to absorb and Free to release.

“Maybe you are like her,” says Free. I turn my hand over to cup hers. “Maybe the better parts?”

“The best parts,” I say.

“The parts that refuse to use men or anyone as a reason to breathe. As a purpose to live. The parts that don’t let any one thing give him validation.”

I absorb that. Then I grin, sad but hopeful. “Hey.” I nudge her foot under the table the way Lucy would, the way Rio does when I’m spaced out and need direction. “What do you do for the holidays now that… you know.”

Free leans back. Springy curls brush her shoulders. “Mom’s been dead since freshman year of college. I’ve managed. I’ve got friends. I house-hop and go bowling. I’m good.”

“Maybe you could, I don’t know, add another house to your plans?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll think about it?” I squeak. Pizza and vocal disruptions of the puberty kind—my favorite kind of afternoon.

Free rolls her eyes. “It’s being considered.” She orders another ginger ale. “I haven’t had any family to want me around during the holidays in forever. Not even my dad.”

I think about that for a moment. About what Free’s said about Ruby’s e-mails. “She never told them, did she? She never told my parents you existed?”

A small tremble moves across Free’s mouth. She shakes her head. “It’s not that I don’t want to meet your family, little bro. It’s that, after she died, part of me wished I was given that same opportunity. That they should’ve known I was there.”

“But they didn’t.”

She shakes her head again. “It’s messed up, right? For me to think that way?”

“No.” I squeeze her hand. “But our future family therapy sessions are going to be wild.”

“Damn right.” She giggles, then pushes the pizza aside with her free hand. Leaning on the table with her chin on her knuckles, she says, “Okay, tell me about this boy.”

24

When I was nine-years-old, mydad brought paint buckets and brushes and sheets into my bedroom. “We’re going to do something cool,” he said, beaming. “Cooler than watching TV.” I didn’t believe him. Cooler thancartoons? No way. He wanted to paint my ceiling, which was way more complicated than HGTV made it seem. It was a lot of work, but it was also the most adult thing I’d ever done. I painted swirls and zigzags. My dad held me in place.

The result: a mural. The sea and clouds and stars intertwined. Full moon yellows and ocean blues and minty green. I love this mural. I love lying under it, on my bedroom floor, after a bad day, listening to music, letting Clover rest her head on my stomach. Under a hurricane of colors, I’m at peace.

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