“You, um,” she said, “you have to find the equation of directix first.”
“Are you sure?” Shara said. “Can you show me?”
Shara leaned over Chloe’s scratch sheet with her pencil, hair falling over her shoulder, and she followed Chloe’s suggestions until she started doing something backward and Chloe grabbed her wrist to stop her.
Her thumb pressed into the soft flesh on the inside of Shara’s wrist, just below the palm. She could feel Shara’s pulse racing.
Shara shook her off, but it was enough for Chloe to figure out what was going on. She was lying. She’d known since freshman year that Shara was a liar, but in a few weeks, she’d managed to forget.
Chloe looked up from the paper and said, “You already know how to do this, don’t you?”
When Shara met her eyes, their faces were inches apart. She didn’t flinch. “Do you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then show me.” Shara’s face was smooth and unreadable, except for the incremental raise of her left eyebrow, which said, prove it.
That’s what the popular kids at Willowgrove do: They pretend to be your friend for a chance to make you look stupid. She must have noticed what Chloe was struggling with and decided to rub it in her face.
Chloe snatched the paper out from under Shara’s hands and told her to figure it out herself, and that was the end of that.
Now, Chloe finishes straightening her collar and heads to the principal’s office.
She winks at the receptionist, Mrs. Bailey, as she signs in. Mrs. Bailey shakes her head in that familiar way, like, what a shame that such a brilliant student can’t also be a nice, polite, straight young lady.
What’s the point? They have Shara for that.
“Wheeler, man, you already know what’s up,” a gratingly familiar voice says from the short hall that connects the principal’s office to reception. “But hey, I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
Out strolls the poster boy for thick-necked, hot-ugly football players: prom king Dixon Wells. He flashes a flirtatious smile at Mrs. Bailey. Why are popular guys allowed to wander around during class like they’re friends with all the teachers?
“See you later, my lady love.”
“Oh, stop it, Dixon,” she says in a high-pitched voice that suggests she doesn’t want him to stop at all. She turns to Chloe and drops her voice an octave. “You can go on back, sweetie.”
Chloe takes her seat in Mr. Wheeler’s office, a small room with all the trappings of a Good Old Alabama Boy: mounted trout, wraparound Oakley sunglasses with camo Croakies on the bookshelf, photos of himself as a Willowgrove senior in his football uniform. He was quarterback of the Wolves’ first state champ team, and it’s still his proudest accomplishment twenty-five years later. That and telling teenagers they’re going to hell.
She knows the office well enough that if there’s anything out of place, anything that would point to where Shara’s gone or if she’s even gone at all, Chloe will spot it.
“Chloe Green,” a deep voice drawls.
Mr. Wheeler looks the same as usual, all chin and beach tan like he should be giving fishing tours on a fifty-foot yacht. He drops a pile of folders on his desk and takes a seat in his creaky leather chair.
“Mr. Wheeler,” Chloe says back.
“I was hoping to see you in here less now that you’ve almost graduated.”
“You know, I actually think I might miss our weekly meetings,” she says. “What can I help you with this time? Ready to finally update the English curriculum? I have a lot of ideas.”
He stares calmly back at her. Mouthing off at Wheeler isn’t even that fun because he never gets that angry, unlike Mrs. Sherman, who Chloe will probably send into cardiac arrest one day. Wheeler just looks tired.
“I’m glad you have a sense of humor.”
“Only got a few more weeks to use up the rest of my material.”
“You know,” Mr. Wheeler says, “people aren’t going to give you as many chances as I do out there in the real world. You should remember that.”
“Sure,” Chloe says. He’s said it nearly every time she’s been in here, but if she’s learned anything from her mom, it’s that the real world is where people who hate high school go to be happy. “So, what’s the infraction this time?”
“You already know,” he says. “Mrs. Sherman said you were practically showing off your nail polish to her.”
“I thought she might like it.”