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I stayed up all night. Started from scratch. I wrote from the heart. My heart. Because that’s what writing is—your heart. It’s not what will impress others. What sounds trendy or cool. It’s what already exists in you. Your truth. What others take from it is just a bonus.

I thought about who peoplethinkI am. I thought about the boy I see in the mirror, who receives strange looks for wearing pink T-shirts or fitted sweaters. My brain focused on the boy who wants to attend a college that sees him for more than his sexuality or skin color. There are so many labels I wear—voluntarily and by force.

I said, “Fuck it” to every little piece of Remy Cameron that doesn’t fit a pretty little mold. The Remy scared of his past. The Remy that was anything but a Cameron, an older brother, a best friend, and a boy who loves to dance around his bedroom to POP ETC. I’m not a few checkmarks on some administrator’s diversity checklist. I put it all in my essay—without the colorful language Mrs. Scott isn’t fond of.

“I can tell you tried, Remy,” Ms. Amos says, her tone genuine. “I can tell you worked really hard on this.” She holds up the paper.

“But it wasn’t enough.” I frown.

She shakes her head. “Do you feel it was enough? This is you, on paper. Right? Do you feel good enough?”

“I—” My eyes lower. My heart growls like the center of a thunderstorm. Then I say, “I am good enough. I’m me, and that’s good enough” with my chin lifted.

Ms. Amos claps. “Exactly. You’re good enough.”

“I am?” On cue, my voice cracks.

“Yes!” She hops down. “The purpose of this essay wasn’t for me to judge whether any of you know yourself. It was to open a door. To start a conversation. For some, writing something so introspective and personal injects confidence. It reminds them that, like all great heroes of literature, they’ve overcome monsters and heartbreak and family indifference. They’ve fought all the odds stacked against them. Discovery is in the journey, not the destination.”

“And the others?” I mean the Ford Turners. The Andrew Cowens.

She sighs. “The others see this as an opportunity to get a better grade. To write what theythinksounds good. They wear their masks to look like heroes in their own story, but they’ve yet to truly see the truth. And so, they’ll continue pretending.”

“How can you tell the difference?”

She points at her chest. Her heart. “Instinct. A little thing called teacher’s intuition. Also, I’ve met my own challenges. Tragedies. I’ve asked myself this question for decades. Over and over.”

“Have you found an answer?”

“Yes and no.” I make a face. “Are we really looking for the answer, Remy, or are we proud to know wecanask the question?”

That “we” thing again. But Ms. Amos doesn’t use it in a patronizing way. She doesn’t use it like other adults. It’s sincere. It’s comforting.

“Your essay wasn’t perfect,” says Ms. Amos, serious, “but it’s a start. A beginning.”

I play with the zipper of my red hoodie, the one I love, the one I wore while walking Clover and seeing Ian for the first time.

“A beginning to what?”

“The journey to asking yourself the right questions,” she says. “To rejecting the labels and accepting it’s not all in your control, but what is in your power—it’s beautiful. It’s magical. It’s yours. Don’t let others take that from you.”

I think about my family—my true family. My friends. About Ian. Then I think about Ruby—the woman who gave me a gift. I don’t know her as a mother, but I know her as selfless, as someone who took what little power she had and did something amazing with it.

Ms. Amos is still holding the essay as I stand, grab my backpack.

The Essay of Doom.

No—the Essay of Me. Sincerely, Remy Cameron.

“Enjoy your Thanksgiving break, Mr. Cameron,” Ms. Amos says, eyes twinkling. “I look forward to us working on something similar to this next year.”

“Next year?” I choke out.All that and I still failed?

“Yes. You want to go to Emory, correct?”

I nod.

“Then we’ll have to perfect this little essay of yours for admissions.” She turns to her desk, then stops. “Until then, just be Remy.”