Willow rambles excitedly.
Chin propped on my knuckles, I watch. Dad’s energy carries a different kind of charge when it comes to Willow: a Ferris wheel’s lights against a blue-black blanket of night’s sky, neon signs hung in dimly lit restaurants.
The differences between Willow and I are slight. We both laugh as though helium fills our lungs. We love cartoons when we’re sick. Mom swears the only time we didn’t cry as infants is when she’d sing to us. And photo evidence proves Dad had no clue how to put a onesie on either of us or how to brush our hair so it didn’t stick up the wrong way.
But Willow has Mom’s strawberry blonde hair. Dad’s wide, earnest eyes. Her smile is a charming mix of theirs. I don’t have any of that. Denim-blue eyes, light-brown skin, and thick eyebrows don’t match my parents’ features.
I stand. “I’m gonna take Clover for a walk.”
Clover’s so smart. One word and she’s scampering into the kitchen, tail wagging. She’s an adorable manipulator.
“Kind of early, isn’t it?”
I shrug. “Maybe she’s taking me for a walk.”
“Maybe, kiddo.”
“Maybe.”
Dad returns to fawning over Willow and her wild stories about beating some snotty-nosed boy at a swinging contest during recess.
I click on Clover’s leash. She leads me out the door.
Lilac skies greet us, stretching toward infinity with pinkish clouds swimming lazily. Early evening heat curls around me. Pinprick beads of sweat tickle my hairline. Ballard Hills is easing into a peaceful hideaway of minivans and sedans finding their homes in driveways.
Clover waddles like the queen of the neighborhood.
“Have you come to greet your loyal subjects?” I say to her.
Clover ignores me when a red car zooms by.
Before Willow, it was just me, loud, anxious, adopted Remy Cameron. Doctors told my mom she couldn’t have children. I don’t know the medical term, maybe because I never asked, but whatever it was meant my parents found me. I didn’t need to know why my mom couldn’t have children, not after I was seven, when they explained what adoption meant. Maybe that’s because I had so many other questions: Why did that lady give us a funny look at the grocery store? Why do kids at school say I’m not yours? Why do I color pictures of us with different crayons?
Then, unexpectedly, my sister came along. No one explained that to me. Willow was a freaking, right-from-the-Bible phenomenon. My parents had their very own miracle, and I felt like a bookmark, a placeholder. It was a sad, heavy thought for a ten-year-old. But then I’d catch Dad smiling at me over a plate of French toast. Mom would ruffle my hair with one hand while cradling Willow. I’d always get the first gift at Christmas because, according to Dad, “You’re the firstborn, so you go first.”
Firstborn. I’m their first child. I don’t know, but my smile is always cheek-achingly big at that thought.
Clover takes us down the usual route to Maplewood Middle, where she does her business; over the freshly clean sidewalk where the Mad Tagger imitator’s work has disappeared; around the corner, as if she’s chasing the slowly setting sun. It’s my favorite time of day—when the neighborhood is my own personal Narnia fenced by towering trees and rows of pastel homes. And my mind settles.
I feel normal again.
I feel like Remy Cameron.
5
“He struck again!”
I’m at my locker switching books between classes when Rio walks up, all rosy cheeks and owlish eyes. I hum nonchalantly at her. I can tell she’s about to burst with whatever gossip has her bouncing from foot to foot, but I stall. My fingers hover over a pack of Reese’s peanut butter cups. Snacks are a must to survive third period.
Finally, I turn to her. “Who?”
“The Mad Tagger, duh!”
Today, Rio’s theatrics are Tony-worthy.
I nudge my locker closed, then lean against it. “What makes you think it’s a ‘he’?”
“Poor penmanship.”
“That’s gender-profiling and a little rank, don’t you think?” I ask, my left eyebrow arched. “You have a second-grader’s penmanship.”
“That’s irrelevant evidence.” Her dismissive hand flaps in front of my face.
“Evidence?” With my teeth, I tear into the orange Reese’s wrapper that’s preventing me from enjoying a mouthful of epicness. “What is this, Law and Order: Maplewood High?”
“This is a criminal case.”
“Your outfit is a criminal case.” Slowly, I size her up. “What’re you wearing?”
Rio’s jacket has rose patterns spewed all over it. Underneath, she’s wearing a cream blouse with a crooked red bowtie. It fails to go well with her high-waisted jeans and a pair of red flats that look right out of a high school production of the Wizard of Oz.
“It’s called fashion.” Rio rolls her eyes.
“It’s called my dead grandmother’s living room couch.”
“Let’s keep it real.” Rio pokes a thick finger into my shoulder. It hurts. Unfortunately, I’m more bone than muscle. She says, “You’re not exactly Mr. Trendsetter Maplewood High.”
A scandalized noise escapes my throat.
“How many times have you worn that shirt this month?”
I wrinkle my nose at her.
Full disclosure: This is my favorite shirt. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my baseball tee, with its red sleeves and WE ARE EVERYWHERE printed across my chest in rainbow lettering. It’s cool as eff. Yes, I might’ve worn it last Wednesday, probably the Monday before that, and enough times during the summer that my mom hid it from me so she could wash it. Now it’s soft and slightly faded and still mega-queer.
“Shut up,” I say with no heat.
Before Rio’s painfully obvious retort breaks her pursed lips, the bell rings.
Jayden runs by. Even in a rush, his chestnut hair stands perfectly still in a cool pompadour. “Head ups!” he yells over his shoulder, “Sara is looking for you. Serious business.”
I sag against my locker. If it involves Sara Awad, it’s either about a social event or Lucy.
Rio nudges me with her hip. “Yuck. You stink of popularity.”
“You do too.”
“Only by association, my little social pixie.”
We follow the flow of bodies to the east wing. It’s not overcrowded today, but the hallways reek of cheap deodorant and perfume that’s supposed to smell like jasmine but reminds me of drugstore candles.