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“Earth to Remy Cameron.”

Let the record show that I’m not completely ignoring my best friend Rio. Yes, I spaced out for a bit. It was a defense mechanism to avoid suffering through her latest music obsession: punk-riot grrrl bands. They’re not bad, just not my favorite.

Also, she was droning on and on about one of my least favorite subjects: homecoming. Football games, tiaras and crowns, and school-mandated dances aren’t my jam. The pep rallies are usually kick-ass, though.

I’m busy staring at myself in the full-length mirror next to my desk. I turn left, then right. Okay, I’m not as hot as Chadwick Boseman, but that’s cool.

I have these large, blue-gray eyes. My dark, thick eyebrows contrast with my tawny-beige complexion. My best feature is probably my hair. It’s brownish, like earthy soil after a spring rain, simultaneously wavy and curly. For an entire summer, I had it cut in one of those close-to-the-scalp shadow fades, but that didn’t work well with my ears. They stick out like Dopey’s inSnow White, but I like them.

On my phone, Rio’s pixelated face has warped into something resembling annoyance. Or speculation.

“You’re not paying attention,” she says.

“Do you even care about this kind of stuff?”

Rio puts on her best affronted face. Seriously, there are no Outstanding Performance by a Best Friend awards in her future. But the slight sarcastic twist to her lips and how her spring-green eyes glint with mischief are the best. I laugh. This has always been us, since we were third-graders jumping off the swings at recess. We have an unmistakable bond that’s two-thirds humor and one-third arguing over meaningless things.

“I don’t care about homecoming,” Rio says. “But I care about laughing at the people whodocare.”

“Like Lucy?”

“Like Lucy.”

“It’s gonna be a big deal for her.”

“Blah, blah, blah, ‘as junior class president,’ and all that jazz.” Rio blows out a breath to sweep the longer bits of her amber hair off her face. “We should’ve never helped her with that damn campaign.”

“We’re her best friends.”

Rio puckers her lips. “Freaking promises made in third grade. What did we know back then?”

“A hell of a lot about friendships andAdventure Time, clearly.”

The screen goes fuzzy, freezing on Rio’s eye-roll. She snorts, then says, “But we’re older now. This is what adults do.”

“Worry about homecoming dances?”

“Bingo, Romeo!”

I force myself not to make a face at that awful nickname. Rio gave it to me in seventh grade when I had a crush on Elijah Burke. It’s not quite my most embarrassing moment. Elijah was definitely cute and, by ninth grade, definitely straight too. Picking crushes isn’t my strong point.

“You’re seventeen now,” she reminds me. The background music has softened but it’s still raucous and percussion-heavy, all the signs of indie-rock-gone-bad. “Time to make adult choices.”

“I am, by choosing to avoid social activities that require me to wear anything other than a comfortable sweater and skinny jeans.”

“Are you sure you’re gay?”

“Is that a real question? Do you remember freshman year?”

Yeah, no one will forget my freshman year: one of those priceless moments, a true MTV teen melodrama starring me, the guy who comes out in the middle of his student council election speech.

Go, Team Remy Cameron.

Rio’s on another rant about her crusade against all things homecoming. She’s anti-school-activities, which is so hilarious because she’s a “journalist” for the school’s trashy newspaper/blog hybrid,The Leaf. Truly unoriginal title aside, Rio’s content is at least decent.

Not that I make it a habit of readingTheLeaf. I’d rather listen to music. I don’t know, music takes me to a place books never did. I’m only slightly religious, but something about blasting indie-pop moves me spiritually. At least Rio and I both avoid mainstream music: true best-friend solidarity.