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He finally moves, but not to his car. He steps into my space. He’s taller than I am, barely. I’ve been here before. With Dimi. With a guy at someone’s sweet sixteen birthday party when I was fourteen and newly out of the closet and clueless about kissing a boy. I can handle this kind of awkward. He’s right there. His breath is minty from his gum. His lips are wet from the quick brush of his tongue between breaths. I’m just waiting for him to ask…

But the kiss doesn’t happen. Ian backs away, wide-eyed, shoulders tight. His shoes scuff on the pavement. A hint of lingering courage hooks the corners of his mouth up.

I’m not disappointed. I want to kiss Ian, to make him a permanent entry in my short list of kisses. But I’m also not going to be that guy who forces Ian out of the closet to his peers in the bus I can hear rattling up the road. Coming out should be organic, not a life or death situation.

I’m okay with an almost kiss. I’m also okay with Ian stealing my phone to program his number into my contacts. And I’m okay with the warm pressure of his fingertips against my knuckles for seven seconds too long after he hands my phone back.

I’m okay with all the above.

12

Who am I? I’m RemyCameron. I’m president of the GSA, an older brother, a best friend. I’m black, gay, and adopted. But none of these labels define me.

I am…

My fingers hover over the keyboard on my laptop. My headphones pump out POP ETC, dulling the noise in my brain. Beams of sunlight from the window dance across my knuckles, catch on my phone screen, reflect a rainbow across my vision. I’m close to full-blown Code Orange mode. Three crinkled Reese’s wrappers lay by my elbow, soon to be joined by a fourth, then a fifth. The cursor on the screen doesn’t move.

“Shit.”Delete, delete, delete.

Why am I struggling? I’ve written papers before and poems and song lyrics. Before high school, that’s all I ever did—write, write, write. It’s how I got my feelings out. On the page, I felt alive.

Why is this so hard? Maybe it’s because I know what this essay means for my final grade? Because I don’t want Mrs. Scott to be right? Also, to get into Emory, I need recommendation letters. I’m positive Mr. Riley will write me one. Some of my other teachers too. But Ms. Amos is the goal. A respected former lecturer at Emory? There’s no way they’d reject me with a letter from her. All I have to do is write a freaking essay about who I am.

I know who I am.I do.

My fingers pound the keys, a loud, uneven tapping like the opening of an EDM song gone wrong. I scowl.

Who am I?

I’m Remy Cameron, world’s biggest underachiever, with zero clues about who he is. I’m destined to fail this class and never get into Emory. Thanks for the opportunity!

The End.

“And that’s how my high school career goes down in a blaze of glory,” I whisper.

Clover’s head pops up from the pile of blankets on my bed where she’s been napping. It’s a lazy, quiet Saturday. I can’t hear Willow, though I know she’s somewhere playing with action figures or constructing a kingdom from used cereal boxes. Mom’s doing wedding things; Dad’s doing lawn things.

My phone lights up—Rio’s on FaceTime.

“My life is a disaster,” I say instantly.

“That’s old news,” Rio says. “It’s a gay-saster.”

“That was horrible.”

“Gay-tastrophe.”

“You’re not even trying today.” I sigh.

“You’re right.” Damp hair that’s starting to curl hangs in front of her face like a jungle of red vines. She scoops it away, her skin pinkened as if she’s just showered. “How goes the Essay of Doom?”

Lucy and Rio tried several titles—my favorite being Category Seven Graduation Killer Essay, but they thought it was a mouthful—before settling on the Essay of Doom. I’m still not sure why. Maybe it’s because Rio’s parents are huge Indiana Jones junkies and Lucy has a secret thing for Harrison Ford, which is kind of gross.

“I remembered to put my name and date on it.”

“That’s more than deserving of a passing grade!” Rio says, rolling her eyes.

“Tell Ms. Amos that.”