“It’s cool; nothing to see here,” I say to each car. “Just a kick-ass hunting dog claiming her territory.”
In the distance, a rabid Japanese Chin yips from behind a fence.
I chuckle. “That’s right, Fido, this land officially belongs to Clover Cameron. Shit somewhere else.”
Clover harrumphs, signaling her finish. She starts our walk again while I blindly flip a one-finger salute to the other dog. Clover stops for a whiff of a bush—a potential, new kingdom to claim. I wait patiently, jamming to my music.
And then there he is.
His dark hair is tugged into a small topknot. A few strands have fallen to cut across his round jaw. His skin is flushed and shiny; his breaths are uneven. Silver light glints from a single hoop earring in his left ear. His eyes are on the brownish-side of hazel and hypnotic, even at this hour. He’s wearing yellow running shoes, no socks, and a half-zipped, thin, gray hoodie. I dig it. I dig him too; at least, my lower half does.
My heart is sprinting toward my throat. I want to fix my hair and check for leftover pizza sauce on my face.
He looks familiar. I can’t put a finger on where from.
Our eyes meet. I stop breathing. He smiles, a dimple leaves a comma-shaped dent in his cheek.
Honesty moment: Dimples are irresistible to anyone who doesn’t have them. It’s not a thing; it’s a fact. I’m a proven statistic.
He eases past Clover and me, because my feet and heart and deer-in-headlights face are frozen. Then he says, “Cute.”
It’s one very basic word but it rotates in my head for seconds—cute, cute, cute. I want to say something back. Something cool, memorable. But the thing is, flirting is another weakness of mine. I’m only good at flirting via text. Never in person.
My head turns in his direction. A bloom of pink crawls across his face.
“Dog,” he corrects. He couldn’t have been talking about me. Not when I look like a Desperately Single Gay Teen in an American Eagle ad for Pride month. “I meant cute dog,” he says, stumbling. His Adam’s apple does a funky dance as he swallows. “Cute dog and… Okay. Have a nice night!”
Then he’s jogging away, leaving behind unsaid words and an unforgettable smile and cute.
Clover barks. Or she’s been barking, but I can’t move. Not yet. I need a few seconds to clear this boy out of my head. He can’t stay.
After Dimi and the Summer of Emo-Music Hell, I decided that it was time to just be Remy, single and focused and chill-as-eff. No more trips to Boyfriend Land for me.
“Not happening,” I say to Clover—and myself.
Clover doesn’t give me any crap about whatever just happened. She’s too cool. My dad named Clover. “Because you’ll be lucky if your mom lets you keep her.” It’s true; my mom isn’t high on animals—small, big, or friendly.
It took a very convincing speech and three hours of pleading until she caved. We officially adopted Clover from a pet shelter into the Cameron clan on a Wednesday when I was nine. She became the young, willing-to-dive-into-danger Jimmy Olsen to my Superman—or maybe the other way around? As far as importance, Clover might top Rio and Lucy on the friendship chain, not that I’ll ever tell them that.
The sidewalk leading away from the school is cracked and bright gray under halogen street lights. Part of it is covered by a trail of pine needles. But one clear stretch of asphalt stands out in electric green and blue. Fresh graffiti edges up against the soles of my shoes: an intricate maze of arrows and squares, one long stream of artistic chaos.
“Sick,” I whisper.
Clover sniffs at it, unimpressed. It’s a war of colors and shapes, but I can’t dissect its meaning. Unique but unfocused, it’s definitely not the work of the Mad Tagger, a somewhat infamous artist in the community. It’s just a lookalike, maybe a homage.
I step over it. It’ll be gone in a day or two. That’s one thing about Ballard Hills: Rule-breaking is only permitted when it’s fun and whimsical and Better Homes and Gardens-friendly.
2
We’re barely through the back door and into the kitchen before Clover is whining. I unclick her leash. She trots off. First comes a casual stop at her food bowl. She sniffs vigorously for two-point-five seconds in hopes Mom generously left her table scraps to enjoy. No such luck.
Mom isn’t as lenient as Dad about spoiling Clover.
Clover scampers out of the kitchen, no doubt to find her favorite playmate, my little sister, Willow.
“Well, this was fun!”
I can’t blame Clover for wanting to hang with Willow. By far, she’s the coolest seven-year-old I know, not that I make a habit of planning Lego playdates with other seven-year-olds.
My phone chimes. It’s a new Facebook notification. I can’t believe my mom makes me keep a Facebook page. I rarely use it. It’s mostly for my aunts and uncles on Mom’s side to feel as if they’re part of my life. Okay, I might sneak on there to read all the cheesy, lame, and artificially sweet birthday messages people post on my wall. Seriously, what is it about birthdays that makes people you haven’t spoken to in years suddenly remember you exist?
There’s a new friend request. “Free Williams?”
I don’t recognize the name or the profile photo, which is a young, black woman with a dark cloud of loose curls covering everything except her smile. It’s one of those snarky ones that makes you want to laugh with the person. Her mouth is stained by a wine-colored lipstick. She has bright white teeth.
We have zero mutual friends. Most of her information is private. The bare minimum facts—student at Agnes Scott College, her birthday, last high school—are displayed. She’s an anomaly. Yet, after I stare too long, something simultaneously like a warmth and a chill spreads through my blood. She seemed vaguely familiar to me. Maybe she knows me from a GSA event. Maybe it’s a mistake. Either way, I swipe away the notification.
After hanging up Clover’s leash and toeing off my shoes by the backdoor, I slide across the kitchen’s hardwood floor toward the fridge. The walk has built a gnarly craving. Ice cream cake.
Birthdays are a huge deal in our house. We each have strict guidelines to ensure our special day is ten levels of awesome. My number one rule: ice cream cake only. Not that there is anything wrong with a thick layer of sweet icing on a sheet cake from Publix, but ice cream cake is my favorite. It always has been. Actual scrapbooks dedicated to three-year-old Remy Cameron’s face smothered in melting vanilla ice cream cake exist.
Inside the freezer, in all its boxed-glory, is my birthday cake from Cold Stone Creamery: layers of strawberry ice cream and red velvet cake and graham cracker crumble. My fingers tingle as I reach for it.