“Spoken like a true jock and a detective’s daughter,” teases Jayden.
Scowling, Chloe punches his shoulder.
“I dunno,” Lucy says, sitting up again. Her hair falls over one side of her face, but she pushes it back. “Brook likes it.”
Of course, he does. I barely hold down a laugh. Lucy and Brook are another of Maplewood’s premiere couples.
And, on cue, in walks the tallest, coolest, happiest dude ever. The electric-shock of fluorescent lighting in the cafeteria refuses to do this guy justice. Brooklyn Henry should be on the cover of Italian Vogue with his classic swimmer’s build, all broad shoulders and seriously narrow waistline. Defined muscles show under his clothes. He has large hands and toned legs and smooth, umber-brown skin.
Brook waves, then stares at Lucy. His smile is always half-cocked when he looks at her. It’s as if she’s the moon—no, as if Lucy’s a freaking gathering of stars at the edge of the universe.
Rio nudges me. “I think I’m gonna barf.”
“Me too.”
I don’t mean it. I like Brook. He’s a senior and swim team captain and cool with the entire planet. None of us were friends with him before the Lucy thing. I mean, yes, he and I had spoken, shared amicable nods in the halls, but nothing else. People automatically assumed we were friends, that we hung in the same church group or after-school programs. There was a mandatory connection in everyone’s minds. Two male black students at Maplewood? Of course, they’re best friends. Why does race automatically equate to instant bonding? Also, why does the same thing happen when it comes to sexuality, and religion, and age? Am I only meant to be friends with other black, gay, or seventeen-year-olds?
“Sup Awesome Squad,” says Brook.
Awesome Squad? Holy hell. If Lucy is the unofficial mom, Brook owns the dad role. His jokes and corniness teeter on the edge of unbearable.
I’m so blinded by Brook’s magical charm that I don’t notice the guy standing next to him until Brook says, “Everyone remembers Ian, right?”
A shaky hand waves, then out comes a voice that’s three-fourths unsure and one-fourth nasal and sweet. “Hello… Awesome Squad?”
I blink a few times, then stare. It’s hard not to.
It’s him. The boy from last night. The boy with the hazel eyes and unforgettable dimple and cute. The boy who might’ve starred last night in a brief, dizzying dream that my right hand vividly remembers.
“Ian!” squeals Chloe.
“The Parkster,” Jayden says, as if he’s one of those stoner skateboard kids. For the record, Jayden falls firmly into that Looks Sexy But Is So Lame category. He was born to be geektastic.
“Wow, welcome back.” Lucy sizes Ian up.
I do the same. Again, it’s impossible not to. Recognition finally kicks in. Ian Park. I vaguely remember him, except, the Ian Park I recall was nothing but round cheeks and long arms with a short torso and a horrible bowl-cut hairstyle that belonged on an eight-year-old, not a sixteen-year-old with a goofy smile.
Now, well… He’s different. Maybe it’s the black-rimmed glasses that slope down his narrow nose? Maybe it’s the hair, which is longer in the front, hanging down to his jawline. It’s almost the color of a moonless sky, but it has the reddish undertones of a total lunar eclipse.
My teeth hold my lower lip in a vice grip.
“How was Cali?” Jayden asks.
Ian mumbles something, bobbing his head.
“Didn’t you move to Irvine?” Chloe asks.
“Arcadia,” replies Ian.
“The asshole didn’t want to come back,” Brook says, laughing. He winds an arm around Ian’s long neck to tug him closer.
My eyes dart to the distinct shape of Ian’s Adam’s apple. The sharp curves of his collarbones peek from beneath a white T-shirt. The Dimple creases his right cheek when his mouth quirks. And then those eyes find me.
“Yeah, so, I’m Remy. I mean, sure, you remember me.” Does he though?
Heat spreads like an infection under my skin but my mouth is on autopilot. “Or maybe you don’t? Because we weren’t friends.” My ears catch fire. “I mean, we weren’t enemies. We just—you know, you’re a year older and I’m like… I wasn’t cool enough. But now I’m so effing cool. Mad cool. They redefined cool when I came around and…”
Out of nowhere, my voice fails. No, it squeaks like the hero dying in a video game. My throat tightens around every vowel and oxygen has stopped reaching my brain. “So, yeah, I’m Remy Cameron.” I try to sit taller, but embarrassment takes me down like a freaking bowling pin. “President of GSA and absolute lame.”
Painfully awkward seconds pass. Our table is silent. It’s as if the entire cafeteria is holding their breath.
Ian stares, eyes glazed.
“Uh…” My beanie is shoved in my locker. I’m not allowed to wear it during school. I feel every imperfect curl as my trembling hand runs over my hair. “Has anyone tried the fresh soft pretzels today?”
“Have you? You probably need something to replace the foot currently occupying your mouth,” whispers Rio.
I want to kick her under the table.
Pinkish flush has taken permanent residence in my cheeks. I hate that it’s so visible. My light skin makes it impossible to hide physical mortification.
“Uh, no,” Brook says, a thick eyebrow raised. “Thanks for the recommendation, though.”
“Sure.”
Choked laughter echoes. I don’t have to raise my eyes to know it’s Sara and the Liu twins—assholes, all of them. Tomorrow, I’m creating a Google sign-up sheet for new lunch companions.
Brook shoots me one more “what’s up with you” look before falling into a conversation with Lucy. A cacophony finally fills the cafeteria again—trays dropping and bantering and a table of choir geeks singing an old Whitney Houston song. A brush of warmth, like the fingertips of a sunrise, skims my back and I start.
It’s Ian.
He leans down close enough to whisper, “I remember you, Remy Cameron.” A mini-grin parts his lips. Then he’s nudging in next to Brook.
I slump in my chair. Okay, good is vibrating against my jaw but it never makes it out of my mouth. It stays there, buzzing against my teeth. And I slowly start to drown in all the discussions happening around me.
Pretending the last five minutes never happened isn’t an option. Right?
4
Ms. Amos is talking. Actual English words are coming out of her mouth, but she might as well be speaking a brand-new alien language. I can’t string together vowels and vocabulary and sentences, which is a shame because AP Lit is my favorite class of the day.