The overhead lights were off, so the afternoon sun fell across the sanctuary in slashes through the tall, thin windows, and there Shara was, halfway illuminated in one. Even from the other side of the church, Chloe recognized her by her delicate quarter profile and the way her blond hair fanned behind her shoulders. She was by herself, her fingers resting on the spine of a hymnal in the next pew, and her head was bowed like she was praying.
Chloe left without her pen. She didn’t want to be alone in a room with Shara and God.
“I know you’re all very curious,” Principal Wheeler goes on. “When you care about someone, and they’re part of your community and your fellowship, it’s natural to worry about them. But it’s never okay to spread rumors, or to tell lies about another person. And if the Lord is calling someone to be somewhere else for a time, that’s nobody else’s business. All right?”
Chloe counts the rows quickly—it’s the same pew. The hymnal might be the same hymnal Shara touched that day.
Wasn’t it suspicious, actually, that Shara was in the sanctuary by herself? Praying in public is basically a competitive sport at Willowgrove—why would she be sneaking around to do it, unless she had something to hide?
Something like a little pink card?
They haven’t found any clues that point toward the sanctuary yet, but if they’re already hidden, and she can guess a place one might be, she can take a shortcut off the trail.
She slides the hymnal from the pew and shakes it upside-down—Emma Grace makes a face like she’s kicked a puppy named Jesus down a flight of stairs—but no card falls out.
“I want to remind y’all that here at Willowgrove we have a zero-tolerance policy for bullying, and bullying can come in many forms,” Wheeler says. “And one of them is gossip. So, if you’re going to spread a rumor about someone, think real hard about whether it’s really, really worth it. And then do the right thing.”
After an excruciatingly long pause, Wheeler leads the student body in prayer and then passes the mic to the guest speaker for an unnecessarily grisly lecture on the crucifixion. Smith shifts in his seat, pressing his fist into his chin. Chloe crosses her arms and wishes she were in the back row exchanging harrowed eye contact with Georgia instead of feeling Mackenzie’s bony elbow in her side.
Afterward, Smith grabs her arm before she can make a break for it.
“Ask Rory about the office,” Smith says. “He’s good at stuff like this.”
* * *
When the lunch bell rings, Chloe clears out of French before Georgia is done zipping her backpack and heads in the opposite direction of the choir room.
Willowgrove does have a cafeteria, but most students don’t actually use it. The high schoolers disperse into unofficial designated areas of campus for lunch: freshmen against the brick cafeteria exterior, sophomores on the steps of the sanctuary, juniors in the courtyard, and seniors with the prime real estate of the benches outside C Building.
She passes Smith, perched on the armrest of a bench, surrounded by the same people she was trapped between two hours ago during chapel. Mackenzie turns to Emma Grace and says something behind her hand, and they dissolve into laughter. Chloe glances at Smith, hoping for a lifeline of annoyance.
But Smith’s attention is on something in the distance, and she follows his line of sight to find exactly the person she’s looking for: Rory, pointedly avoiding the rest of the grade by situating himself inside the campus live oak. One good thing about the weird, jealous feud between Rory and Smith: As long as she can find one, she’ll find the other.
The live oak is massive and technically off-limits to students, since its lower branches are perfect for both easy climbing and filing a lawsuit when you break your arm. For what it’s worth, she thinks, Rory does look like a cool rule-breaker lounging up there on a bough.
He’s not alone either. There’s also Jake Stone, the infamous Stone the Stoner, and on the branch above Rory, there’s April Butcher, most often spotted cruising around the parking lot after school on a longboard like girls Chloe used to see at the Santa Monica Pier. The only indication that she cares about anything at all is the fact that she’s on the marching band’s drumline.
“Yo, Chlo,” Rory calls down to her as she approaches.
She squints up at him and the acoustic guitar in his lap. “How’d you get a guitar up there?”
“The tree provides,” April answers for him. She unwraps a Tootsie Roll pop and puts it in her mouth.
“I’m assuming you come bearing Shara news,” Rory says, plucking a melancholic chord.