I Kissed Shara Wheeler(54)

I already told you .

Chloe checks three times to make sure she’s read it right.

No postscript. No clue. No more confessions. Not even a direction to look next.

It’s the end of the trail. This is where it was always leading: nowhere.





FROM THE BURN PILE


Contents of one of Rory’s tapes, unspooled. Marked with a green sticker for “personal.”

Maybe I just want to be Smith.

Not like, the way most guys at Willowgrove wanna be him. I don’t want to be the quarterback or anything. It’s more like, looking over the fence at him and Shara and thinking about what Shara sees when she looks at him. The way he throws his head back when he laughs or how he carries himself like the human version of that “Lo-Fi Hip Hop Beats to Study To” thing on YouTube. The time he showed up at her door before school on a Wednesday morning with a Styrofoam box of pancakes because he wanted to bring her breakfast. I remember what it was like to see Smith up close like that.

So, I guess maybe I want to know what it’s like to be that. To look in the mirror every day and see someone who knows exactly where they fit in, to be able to want—I mean, have—a girl like Shara.

I don’t know. I don’t know what else to call it.





14


DAYS WITHOUT SHARA: STILL 22


Rory pulls up outside the gym ten minutes after Chloe texts the group chat. When Smith slides into the passenger seat, his lipstick has been wiped off, but the rest of his makeup is still there. Chloe watches from the back seat as Rory stares at him across the console.

“Don’t say anything,” Smith says, the glitter around his eyes shimmering in the dashboard light.

“I—I wasn’t going to,” Rory says. “I like it.”

He puts the car in drive without another word.

Chloe tells them about the elevator and the nail polish note and then sits silently and waits for their reaction. Maybe it’ll be a breakdown this time, or one of them will cry, or Rory will pull over to write the next great sad-boy anthem. Surely, if she’s at her wit’s undeniable end, they must be too.

Instead, Smith tips his head back and laughs.

“I don’t know what I expected,” Rory says, and then he’s laughing too.

“What about this is funny?” Chloe demands.

“The whole thing,” Smith says, shaking his head. “Like, I have to laugh.”

“But she—”

“Do you wanna go get some snacks?” Rory asks.

“Damn,” Smith says, “yeah, I do.”

“But—” Chloe starts.

“Chloe,” Smith says, “there’s nothing we can do about it tonight.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but then Rory is pulling into a gas station and she’s the only one left in the car, fuming in her ill-fitting suit.

She glares out the window as Smith and Rory elbow each other toward the glass doors, which are emblazoned with a giant, peeling picture of a 99-cent corn dog. Shara could be anywhere, and they’re getting corn dogs.

She sighs, opens her door, and yells, “Get some mustard!”



* * *



They drive, and they drive, out of town and up the hills until they reach a dirt road toward Lake Martin. The trees spread out and vanish into the dark the closer they get to the water, until the damp dusk opens all around them.

Rory parks on a cliff fringed with dense greenery and big, round rocks, and when he kills the headlights, Chloe can see over the edge into the distance, down to the sparkling water and the green and red dots of boat lights. The afternoon’s rain left the ground soft and damp, the mossy trees dripping with leftover rainwater. Everything out here is green, green, green.

They climb up onto the hood of the car, Rory in the middle, and Smith passes out warm foil packets of corn dogs. Rory opens his and takes a deep whiff.

“You ever notice that greasy gas station food is like, the greatest smell in the world?” he says.

“Disagree,” Chloe says. “The greatest smell in the world is when your mom brings home fresh cilantro from the grocery store and you stick your face in the bag and take the biggest huff of your life.”

Rory wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”

“Oh, you’re a cilantro hater,” Chloe says.

“He’s a hater in general,” Smith says. He glances over at Rory with a wink, like he’s making sure Rory knows it’s a joke. Chloe watches the moment bounce between them.

“Whatever,” Rory says. “What do you think the best smell is, then?”

Smith considers it, swallows a bite of corn dog, and confidently declares, “My mom’s chicken and gravy.”

“Oh, man,” Rory moans. “Chicken and gravy. I miss my dad’s. I haven’t had it since I saw him for Christmas.”

“You should come over next time my mom cooks it,” Smith says.

Rory misses the straw for his ICEE but gets it on the second try. “You know what else smells amazing? Sharpies. Like, a fresh one, when it’s juicy.”

Chloe lets out a laugh. “Did you just say juicy?”

“You gonna tell me a brand-new Sharpie isn’t juicy?”

“Orange juice,” Smith says. “That’s the best smell. Or like, your hands after you peel an orange.”