Page 7 of I Kissed Shara Wheeler
She picks her way through the morning crowd to the physics lab, zeroing in on the one around whom every other football player seems to orbit. Smith Parker: Shara’s boyfriend, quarterback, victim of a tragic first-name last-name, last-name first-name situation.
She remembers the day Smith and Shara got together. Homecoming week junior year, when the entire school was consumed by the bizarre Southern ritual of paying a dollar for the student council to send your crush carnations. Chloe was forced to be Shara’s lab partner in AP Chem that year, and Shara had crossed out Chloe’s chemical formula to write her own—Chloe’s was right—when two dozen carnations were dumped all over their lab notes. Every single one was from Smith to Shara, and they’ve been a Willowgrove power couple ever since, which, honestly? Carnations aren’t even that nice of a flower.
As far as Chloe is concerned, Smith isn’t much better than the other football d-bags, all of whom she’s obligated to dislike on principle. When most of last year’s tuition went to stadium renovations and the cheerleading coach is teaching civics, Willowgrove’s priorities are pretty obvious. Every game Smith wins yanks more cash out of arts programs, the only place for students with actual talent.
Up close, Smith Parker is… not quite as huge as Chloe thought. He’s more tapered than bulky, more like a dancer than a football player. He’s one of the few athletes Chloe considers good-looking instead of thick-necked hot-ugly: high cheekbones, striking brown eyes with sharp inner corners and arched brows, dark brown skin that somehow remains clear during football season. He’s tall, even taller than Rory. Did he grow somehow since before prom? Has he always been this square-jawed and triangle-shaped? He’s like an SAT geometry problem.
“Smith,” she says. He doesn’t respond at first, still yelling down the hall at one of his teammates—and, really, football season ended four months ago, can they find another personality trait?—so she tries again. “Smith!”
When he finally looks, it occurs to her that Smith Parker may not even know who she is. He definitely at least knows her as that weird queer girl from LA with two lesbian moms, like everyone else does, but does he know who she is? Her reputation for leading the Quiz Bowl team with an iron fist could be meaningless to him. Has Shara told him that Chloe is her only rightful academic nemesis?
“What’s up?” Smith says. He glances beside her to Rory, who is retracting into his uniform sweatshirt, and does a little chin nod.
Chloe purses her lips. “Can we talk to you for a second?”
Smith looks over his shoulder to where Ace Torres is at the door to the physics lab, slapping palms with yet another football guy. It’s common knowledge at Willowgrove that first-hour senior physics is dumbed down and graded on an extreme curve to help student athletes keep their GPAs up.
“I really gotta get to class,” he says.
Chloe releases a hiss. “It’s Football Physics.”
“I know,” Smith says, “but—”
“And it’s the last month of school,” Chloe points out. “Nobody cares if anyone’s late, least of all you.”
“Look, I had a long weekend,” Smith says, turning to her. This time, she can see heaviness around his eyes. She wonders how he spent his Sunday—probably cow tipping with the boys or something. “Can y’all just—”
Rory blurts out, “I kissed Shara.”
Smith freezes. Rory freezes. Untipped cows on the edge of town freeze.
When Smith speaks again, his voice is low. “What?”
“I mean, uh,” Rory says. It’s almost funny, the way all his class-cutting, shoe-gazing edginess shrinks into nothing. Boys are so embarrassing. “She, uh—before she left, we, um—”
“He kissed Shara. And so did I,” Chloe says, stepping up like the Spartacus of people who have kissed Smith Parker’s girlfriend. “I mean, she kissed me, if we’re being specific. But I kissed her back.”
Smith stares at her face, then at Rory’s, then Chloe’s again.
“Y’all think this is funny?” he asks. “Because it’s not.”
“It’s a little funny,” Chloe notes.
“It’s not a joke,” Rory insists.
If Smith knows anything about Willowgrove’s lower social ranks, he should know that Chloe and Rory have never so much as shared eye contact in the hallway, much less a conspiracy to prank the quarterback. The entire ecosystem of Willowgrove depends on rigid divisions between each social stratum. Smith has to know she wouldn’t be upsetting the natural order if she didn’t absolutely have to.
A muscle in Smith’s jaw twitches.
“Well, that pretty much sucks to hear,” Smith says. “Why’re you telling me?”
“Because we need to talk,” Rory attempts. “All of us.”
Chloe takes a more direct approach. “Rory, show him the note.”
“What note?” Smith says.
Rory grumbles but swings his backpack around and unzips it. It’s covered in Thrasher patches and pretentious buttons and contains precisely zero schoolbooks.
