She steps into the doorway and leans down to recover her shoe from the lawn.
Although … maybe this is where she needs to be. Know thy enemy, et cetera. Four years of looking at Shara from the outside hasn’t gotten her anywhere, but this could be her chance to climb into Shara’s skin for a night and see her from the inside.
“Shara absolute nightmare Wheeler,” she sighs to herself.
She pulls off her other boot, squares her shoulders, and walks barefoot into the party.
FROM THE BURN PILE
Passed notes between Benjy Carter and Ace Torres Written on the back of a page from the Phantom script yo do you think Chloe hates me?:（
I think you need to be worrying about that note at the end of “Point of No Return”
TRUE TRUE do you think Truman will let me wear my lucky socks on stage they help me sing better
not historically accurate but I do think he would say yes if you asked
NIIIIICE
7
DAYS SINCE SHARA LEFT: STILL 6
DAYS UNTIL GRADUATION: STILL 37
Upside-down margaritas, apparently, is the name of a party game with no winners and a very basic set of rules. Dixon stands at one end of the yard while a football bro pours tequila and margarita mixer directly into his mouth, and then two more football bros grab him by his outstretched arms and throw him across the yard.
“That’s it?” Chloe asks Summer as Dixon goes careening head over ass into a pile of pool inflatables. “That’s not a game. That’s a concussion.”
“It’s usually more of a face-first impact than blunt force to the head,” Summer points out from beside her. She has really nice dimples, Chloe notices, and little silvery charms sparkle in her braids. “I wasn’t joking about losing teeth. You should ask Tanner to take his fake ones out for you. It’s his favorite party trick.”
Chloe stares at Tanner, the guy holding the margarita mix. “The crash zone is a new addition, then?”
“At least they’re not driving out to cow pastures to do it anymore,” Summer says. She leaves to refill her drink, and Smith sidles into the space she leaves behind.
“Where’d you find it?” he asks, voice low.
“Does it matter?” Chloe says.
Smith sighs. “I guess not. What does it say?”
“I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”
Smith takes a second with that. Then he releases a low chuckle and shakes his head.
“Okay,” he says, “tell me later.”
She nods, and Smith waves over another two cups of Coke for them, and the party rolls on.
Chloe watches jocks fly across the yard and lowerclassmen play ping-pong on the outdoor kitchen island and wonders how Shara fits into it all. Does she sit primly on the edge of the jacuzzi like Emma Grace Baker, her silver cross necklace dipping down between her bikini cleavage? Does she swing her hips to the beat with Mackenzie Harris and the other dance team girls? Does she elbow in with the guys like Summer?
Maybe she does what Chloe’s doing—trying not to think about homework and instead, letting the noise and the sugar high and Smith’s warm presence at her side convince her that she could learn to enjoy this.
Ace’s turn for upside-down margaritas comes right as somebody switches the playlist from SoundCloud rap to The Killers, and she watches Smith watch him fly across the yard, missing the inflatables entirely. Ace staggers to his feet with sod stuck to his bare chest and margarita mixer dripping down his chin, and Smith laughs so hard, he almost chokes on his pizza. This is Smith unguarded, she realizes—she never even considered he might have his guard up around her.
Ace bounds over, slinging his arm around Smith’s shoulders and wiping his face on Smith’s shirt.
“Man, I love this song!” Ace announces, shaking his shoulders in gratitude to the playlist. “You know what’s funny? By the end of the song, he never says if he’s jealous of the guy or the girl.”
Chloe arches an eyebrow at him. “I’m surprised you know it.”
“Chloe,” Ace says, smirking, “everyone knows ‘Mr. Brightside.’”
She stares at him and Smith. They’re being so nice to her. Like, suspiciously nice. She wonders if this is that sneaky type of shittiness, the mocking, popular-kid fakery. But it’s impossible to look at Ace’s big dumb cabana-boy-at-Margaritaville face and Smith’s wide, pretty smile and see bad intentions.
“You’re up,” Smith tells her.
“No,” she says. “No way. I don’t drink.”