Page 86 of I Kissed Shara Wheeler
“Hi, is Smith home?” Chloe asks, peering past the girl’s shoulder at the small living room with crosses on the wall and a floral sofa set. This must be Smith’s sister, Jas.
“Who are you?” she says without looking up.
“I’m Chloe. From school.”
Jas’s Mewtwo Final Smashes someone’s Piranha Plant. “Okay, Chloe From School. Smith didn’t say anything about a girl coming over.”
“Mind your business, Jas,” says a laughing voice, and then Smith is behind her, looking surprised in a sleeveless shirt and soft-looking gray shorts. She hasn’t noticed until now that his hair’s gotten a little longer.
He shoves the side of Jas’s head with one palm and says, “Go away. And don’t forget to plug that shit in when you’re done. I got MarioKart with Rory tonight.”
“You’re such an asshole,” she says back.
“Mom, Jas called me an asshole!” Smith yells.
“Jasmine Parker!”
“You suck,” Jas says, glaring, and then she disappears as Smith laughs into his fist.
“I’m gonna miss that girl next year,” Smith says.
“Is that why you texted me about MarioKart?” Chloe says. “Because of Rory?”
Smith shrugs. “I was gonna invite you.”
“You two can hang out on the weekend without a Chloe buffer,” Chloe points out.
“I know, it’s just… been a while,” Smith mumbles. “Anyway, what’s up? You look weird.”
Right. “Can we talk?”
Smith nods. “You wanna come in?”
Chloe leaves her shoes at the door and follows Smith through the living room and down a short hall lined with framed photos: Smith in his football uniform with the national championship trophy, Smith’s parents smiling on a cruise ship, his two youngest siblings in matching Easter outfits, Jas on stage with a microphone.
Smith’s room is at the end of the hall, the pull-up bar in the doorway effectively a nameplate declaring it his. It’s small and messy, but in a cozy way, not in the grimy way that Dixon’s room was messy. The walls are citrus yellow, and there’s an aloe plant on the dresser and final exam study guides scattered across the desk. A pile of books sits on the windowsill between a half-peeled orange and a scuffed football helmet, and the twin-size bed is covered in pillows. The Bluetooth speaker on the nightstand is playing Frank Ocean quietly. Half-hidden behind it, there’s a bottle of silver nail polish.
She’s barely been there for three seconds when a pretty middle-aged woman with Smith’s exact same eyes and curl pattern appears at the doorway.
“Smith,” she says, “who’s this?”
“This is Chloe, Mom,” Smith says. “She’s my friend from school. She was in the play with Ace.”
“Just a friend?”
“Yes, Mom,” Smith says, sounding mortified.
His mom nods, looking Chloe over. “There’s brisket in the kitchen,” she announces. She leaves with a point over her shoulder at Smith’s bedroom door, sing-songing, “Door stays open!”
“Sorry,” Smith says. “I’m not technically supposed to have girls in here, but they’re starting to give up now that I’m almost in college. Also, you should probably take her up on that brisket, my dad smoked it this morning and it’s amaz—”
“I saw Shara last night.”
Smith stops.
He doesn’t react at first, just looks at her for a long second like he’s trying to figure out if she’s joking. Then, satisfied that she isn’t, he pulls out the desk chair and sits on a pile of discarded hoodies.
“I figured out where she was, and I went by myself,” Chloe tells him. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I know I should have told you, but I was—I was so mad at her—”
