Page 31 of I Kissed Shara Wheeler
“She’s my friend,” Smith says. “And you’re not using ‘cap’ right.”
“Tell her to mind her business.”
“You were basically yelling,” Chloe points out. “I didn’t realize it was a secret.”
“They’re talking about the senior prank,” Smith tells her. “They want to steal the Bucky the Buck statue from the town square.”
“Dude,” Dixon yells. “The point of a prank is that it’s a secret!”
“You talked about it in front of Shara last week, and her dad’s literally the principal,” Smith says. He holds his hands up, letting out a laugh. “It’s no big deal, man. She’s chill.”
“That’s it?” Chloe says. “A statue?”
“It’s—we’re not just gonna steal it,” Dixon says. “We’re gonna bring it to school and leave it in the middle of the courtyard.”
“I mean, it’s fine,” Chloe says. She shrugs Smith’s jacket down to her elbows so she can rearrange her wet T-shirt. “You could do better though.”
Dixon laughs and sidles in next to her, putting an arm over her shoulders.
Chloe’s body goes stiff.
“I’m willing to let that slide due to the Rachel Rule,” Dixon says with an overly friendly smile.
“Bruh,” Smith says, suddenly looking panicked. The guys surrounding them are snickering. “Don’t.”
“What’s the Rachel Rule?” Chloe asks.
“It’s a rule the seniors made last year for Rachel Kennedy, who was a huge bitch but still got to come to parties because she had huge boobs,” Dixon says. He’s looking down now. At her chest, and her wet shirt. Her hands clench into fists at her sides—ever since she sprouted D-cups in tenth grade, a guy staring at her chest has never ended well. “So, as long as you keep wearing that, the Rachel Rule says you can stay.”
It’s impossible that the party stops, or that sirens start screaming in the distance, or that every drop of Chloe’s blood actually rushes to her face, but it feels like it.
She wrenches herself out from under Dixon’s arm.
“What did you say?”
“What?” he says. He looks around at his friends, who are laughing behind their hands. “You know that’s how everyone knows you, right? ‘Who’s Chloe Green?’ ‘Oh, she’s that girl from LA with the huge boobs.’”
All Chloe manages to say is, “Wow.”
“It’s a compliment! Look, before they came in, everyone just called you a lesbian, so I’d call this an upgrade. You should be proud of them!”
Smith steps in, touching Dixon on the shoulder. “Dixon, man, shut up.”
“Come on, she knows what she looks like! It’s a joke, man!”
“You’re being a jackass—”
“No, no, it’s okay,” Chloe says. “I do know what I look like. And one day, when Dixon’s fifty and his second wife has left him because he’s a balding middle school football coach with the personality of a frozen meatloaf, and his kids hate him because he’s never expressed an emotion that’s not impotent rage or horniness, he’s gonna look back on senior year of high school and realize that being prom king was the only thing he ever achieved in his life, and that at his absolute peak, before everything went to shit, that girl from LA with the huge boobs still wouldn’t have slept with him.”
She wraps the jacket around herself and storms out of the yard, snatching up her boots on the way. She throws open the gate and keeps going, away from Dixon and the other guys whooping after her like she’s the hired entertainment.
What was she even doing? Some popular kids were nice to her one time and she forgets everything she’s ever known about the Willowgrove food chain? She’s not Shara. These people mean nothing to her. The whole point of beating Shara is proving she can win in the way that matters. She always knew she’d never win the Willowgrove way.
Infuriatingly, embarrassed tears prick at the corners of her eyes.
“Chloe, wait up—”
Smith freaking Parker and his future-Heisman-winner speed.
