Page 65 of How to Be Remy Cameron

“And Remy,” calls Mom, a warning in her tone.

“I know, I know. No alcohol. No drugs.” She’s given the same speech since I was fourteen.

“That.” There’s fondness in her voice. “But, also, if you’re not home by curfew, I make no guarantees I won’t demolish your bounty of Reese’s from tonight.”

I shut my eyes and inhale deeply. This is torture. But I know she’s not lying. Mom and I share a peanut butter addiction. When I open my eyes, Ian’s still leaning against the door, still staring at me.

“So.”

“So?”

Back to square one. Both of us hesitant and twitchy and nervous.

“Party?” Ian offers. He’s already slipped back into his shoes.

I want to think of something great to say, something funny, a way to tell him I’d give anything to keep this night going. But I don’t have to. Ian’s hand is extended toward mine. With a choked voice, he asks, “Can I hold your hand?”

I guess that’s the Universe’s stamp of approval.

16

The Cowen’s house is threeneighborhoods over from mine. There are distinct differences between Ballard Hills and this gated community. Here are newly-built brick houses with long driveways. Everything is brown and gray and modern. Every car is a sleek, new model; every hedge is trimmed by the gods’ hands. Inside is furniture meant for looking, not touching.

Andrew’s kitchen is a fifty-car pile-up, also known as half-drunk high schoolers on a Friday night. I’m in the middle of it. It’s not so bad; I’m shoulder-to-shoulder with Lucy. The tips of her hair are dyed dark green like Ian’s. She’s dressed as a character from the only anime I’ll ever recognize:Sailor Moon. She’s Sailor Pluto.

Even in the overcrowded kitchen, where people shout and laugh, I can hear the music. It’s so loud, it vibrates under my feet: techno, hip-hop, corny pop, then EDM. I assume the DJ is one of the Liu twins.

“This is wild,” I yell to Lucy.

She sips a room-temperature beer she’s been nursing for twenty minutes. Everyone has a red plastic cup filled with something foamy or colorful. Carly Johansson spills into the room, giggling. She has a thing for Fireball Whisky. I have a thing for not dying, so I typically avoid her. I’ve stuck to off-brand lemon-lime soda since arriving.

Fun fact: I’m cool with being the sober one at these things. Like, what’s the big deal with getting hammered? I’m just as sociable clear-headed as all the other people chugging beers and sneaking shots from the Cowen’s bourbon collection.

“This is gross.” Lucy makes a face.

“You can stop.”

“I could.” Lucy swallows more of her drink. “But then I’d be like you.”

“A beast at Scrabble?”

“An oversized kid dressed as Tigger.”

“Hobbes.”

“Who?”

I shake my head. “Never mind. Keep drinking.”

“Oh, I plan to.” Lucy salutes me with her plastic cup. I respond with an equally cheery middle-finger. Why am I here again?

Ian. I’ve been spectacular at ignoring the fact that Brook snatched him away the moment we crossed the Cowen’s threshold. That’s only because Brook is dressed as Barack Obama: spray-painted gray hair and freshly-pressed suit and sunglasses. Also, it’s not as if Ian doesn’t have his own set of friends—mainly Brook’s swim buddies—to hang around.

It doesn’t bother me one bit. I haven’t spent the past five minutes daydreaming about messing up Ian’s over-styled green hair with my fingers, kissing his chapped lips, learning the words to all of Ian’s favorite ’80s songs just to impress him. That’s stalker-level creepiness.

I’m cool with my current activity: People-watching. A semi-circle of sophomores is passing around something that definitely isn’t a cigarette. They inhale, choke, giggle, then pass. Girls gossip by the fridge. A freshman yells about a frantic game of Beirut in the basement. Something inappropriate is happening near the pantry. Something very inappropriate is probably happening in the Cowen’s master bedroom.

Joslyn, Andrew’s older sister, is in charge. She’s done a decent job of frightening kids off the front lawn to keep the cops away. But her main concern is this muscle-head with a mohawk, dressed in an Atlanta Falcons jersey, sipping a Corona.