Page 61 of I Kissed Shara Wheeler
“So… this isn’t even a clue to find the next note,” Smith says. “It’s a clue to find another clue to find the next note.”
“Come on, chin up,” Chloe says. “We gotta be almost there. I have a feeling she made this one harder because it’s the last one.”
“I don’t know how much more I want to know,” Smith says as Rory drops an overloaded tray on the table.
Chloe rolls her eyes and unwraps her quesadilla. “God, you guys are so boring. We’re putting together like, the psychological profile of someone who is either going to be the president of the United States or a full-on serial killer.”
Rory begins separating burritos and tacos from his pile of food and setting them down in front of Smith, who finally tears his attention away from the menu.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“I got you food.”
Smith raises his eyebrows. “What did you get me?”
“I don’t know,” Rory mumbles, “whatever you usually get.”
“You remembered?”
Rory scowls. “They don’t have the Grande Soft Taco anymore, so I got you two soft tacos and a side of nacho cheese. You just have to make it yourself. Or whatever.”
“Oh. Did you get—?”
“A spork?”
“Yeah.”
“Obviously.” Rory dedicates himself to picking apart his nachos.
“You want me to Venmo you?”
“It’s fine.”
“Oh,” Smith says. Rory looks up in time to watch Smith’s smile break out across his face. It’s really something to see, Smith’s smile. It comes out of nowhere and hits like an earthquake, absolute and devastating. “Thanks, man.”
“You’re welcome,” Rory says, blinking like he’s looking into the sun.
“Wow,” Chloe observes. “A friendship reforged.”
Rory’s scowl immediately returns. “Fuck off, Chloe.”
But Smith hums happily as he unwraps the first taco, and the curl of Rory’s lip softens.
Meanwhile, Chloe digs through Shara’s entire Instagram feed yet again for anything she might have missed. She doesn’t find any new leads, only small surprises that amount to nothing. An unfamiliar angle that exposes a birthmark on the top of Shara’s shoulder. A well-camouflaged line from a Mary Oliver poem in a caption. There’s this one photo of Shara sitting next to Summer on a pier, both wearing sunglasses and smiling wide, and when Chloe zooms in, she can see the faint outline of a book in the tan on Shara’s stomach, like she fell asleep reading in the sun. All pieces of the puzzle, but none that complete it.
She checks the Google Doc she sent to Shara’s burner a dozen times a day, but it never changes. Always Chloe’s same three words, awaiting Shara’s answer. The most recent editing date at the top of the page will sometimes change, but no words ever materialize.
Still, she’s gaining ground. She’s got all these clues, these secrets. She knows she’s closing in.
If Shara were an SAT question, she’d be one of those confusing logic puzzles. Critical reasoning with no obvious answers to rule out. Simple, straightforward words arranged in a strange, winding order, something to get lost inside until you realize you’re way behind on time and you’re going to have to bubble in C for the last four problems.
If Shara leaves town on the highway traveling west at sixty miles per hour, and Chloe spends the next three weeks chasing after her, at what speed will Shara be traveling when they collide?
Time never moves correctly during the last few weeks of school, but especially not at the end of senior year. They’re standing before the end of school uniforms and major works data sheets and asking permission to pee, and everything feels exhausted and giddy. The spiritual frequency of the entire senior class is two in the morning at IHOP after the spring musical’s last show.
It seems impossible that Shara was standing across a dance floor in her pink gown only a couple of weekends ago.
By the same messed-up laws of time, it feels like ages since she last saw Georgia outside of school when she drives to Belltower with Starbucks late Saturday afternoon, even though it’s only been a few days.
