I Kissed Shara Wheeler(78)

Georgia shrugs. “Kind of.”

“I wasn’t mad at you,” Chloe says. “It’s just that … I’m kind of terrified of doing this without you. And I’m worried about you doing this without me. And I think sometimes when I’m scared it comes out like angry.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

Chloe winces. “Sorry. I need to work on that.”

“It’s okay,” Georgia says. “I mean, I’m scared too. But I love you, and we’re both gonna figure it out.”

“I love you too,” Chloe says.

It’s not easy for Chloe to say stuff like that. But everything’s easy with Georgia.

She picks her drink back up and says, “Now. Can I ask you something?”

Georgia nods.

“How and when did you start dating Summer Collins?”

Georgia covers her face with both hands.

“Oh my God.”

“The blushing!” Chloe gasps theatrically. “She’s gay, Your Honor!”

“You’re so embarrassing,” Georgia groans. “You remember in tenth grade, when I had to do that geometry project with her? I’ve had a crush on her since then. She was kind of like, the girl who made me realize I liked girls.”

“You never told me!”

“I feel like I did mention that she was pretty before, but that always inevitably became a conversation about how she was friends with Shara, and how Shara was the worst.”

Chloe winces again. “Okay. Fair. Continue.”

Georgia returns to her nachos, fighting a smile. “I never deleted her number after the project. I always hoped somehow she would like, feel me staring at her contact page and get a random urge to text me. And then we’d talk, and we’d fall in love and move to the mountains together and learn how to raise sheep or something.”

“And is that what happened?”

“No, what happened was that you started hanging around with Smith, and she texted to ask if I knew what was going on, and then we started talking, and it was great—like, really, really great—and we talked about our families and how much we didn’t want to leave them to go to college even though we have a lot of things we want to do, and we figured out we’re both going to Auburn … and then she asked if I wanted to get Sonic with her, and she bought me tater tots, and then … I kissed her.”

Chloe gasps. “You kissed her?”

Georgia’s grinning fully now. “I did.”

“Oh my God!” Chloe punches the air. “What did she do?”

“She was like, ‘What happens if I buy you a bacon cheeseburger?’”

“Ohhhh my Gooooood.”

She hears about how Summer is majoring in premed and likes banana milkshakes and fantasy novels, how Summer and Ace have finally made up, how Summer’s buying tickets to Hangout Fest because Paramore is playing and they both love beach camping and Hayley Williams, how Georgia is the first girl she’s ever kissed but she has a gay older sister and she’s known she was bi since last year. Chloe gets how they work together, actually, now that she thinks about it. Two smart girls who wear practical shoes and don’t really care about high school bullshit. They’re probably going to be the only people at Hangout to actually pack an appropriate amount of water.

“I have one question though,” Chloe says. “Isn’t Summer like … kinda Jesus-y?”

Georgia shrugs. “She goes to church with her family, yeah, but not in the Willowgrove way. She has her own deal.” She glances at Chloe. “Don’t be judgmental.”

“I’m not! But is … is that weird for you?”

“Not really? I mean, I grew up believing too. The last few years I wasn’t so sure, but … I know that Summer’s church is more into Jesus the brown socialist than the whole eternal damnation thing. And her parents have actually been really chill about her sister, so that’s cool.”

Chloe feels her eyebrows go up. “I didn’t know that variety of Christian existed in Alabama.”

“That’s because you’re not from here,” Georgia points out. “All you’ve ever known of Alabama is Willowgrove.”

“I—”

Well. It’s true. Willowgrove is the first time she’s been around Christianity, and so to her, that’s what faith is: judgmental, sanctimonious hypocrites hiding hate behind Bible verses, twenty-four-karat crucifix necklaces, and charismatic white pastors with all the horrible secrets that money can protect.

She’s never been to a church cookout or met a practicing Christian who was also gay. She’s never even stepped inside a church where she felt safe. Maybe if she had—maybe if her mom hadn’t been burned so bad that she never brought Chloe near Jesus until she absolutely had to—she’d feel different. At this point, she doesn’t know if she ever will.

But she also knows that Alabama is more than Willowgrove. And if that’s true, maybe faith can mean more than Willowgrove too.

Downstairs, the front door jingles open.

“Georgia?”

In a beam of afternoon sun stands Summer, still in her khaki uniform shorts and a softball T-shirt.

“Up here,” Georgia calls out, standing up to lean over the railing of the loft. “Hey, Summer.”