“Morning, coconut,” her mama calls out from a lawn chair. The garage door is open to the boiling morning, and her mama is sipping sweet tea in bikini bottoms and Chloe’s T-shirt from a fourth-grade field trip to the San Diego Zoo, cropped under the boobs. “You missed breakfast. We made pancakes.”
Chloe nods at the Bluetooth speaker at her feet, which is playing Pavarotti. “Rigoletto, act two?”
“Act one,” she replies with a wink. Pavarotti always reminds Chloe of being a kid, swanning around the apartment in one of her mom’s performance gowns like a contessa. “You feeling better? After last night?”
At first, she wonders how on earth her mama knows about Shara, before she remembers her meltdown in the kitchen. It’s been a long twenty-four hours. A long month, really.
“Yeah,” Chloe says. “I’m fine. Right now everything is … a lot.”
Her mom, who has been banging around the undercarriage of her truck with a wrench, rolls out and looks up at Chloe from her creeper.
“Yeah,” she says, wiping sweat off her brow and leaving behind a streak of grease. “Willowgrove gets to you sometimes.”
Chloe frowns, shoulders tensing automatically. “That’s not what it is.”
“You sure? I got all morning if you wanna talk,” her mom says, sitting up. “I lived through it, remember?”
“I’m fine,” she says again, looking for an out. “I—I gotta go study though. Gonna meet up with some people from bio. Okay?”
“Okay, but come home for dinner!” her mama calls as she heads for her car. “I finally figured out fried green tomatoes! Finals-week feast!”
“Okay,” Chloe agrees, avoiding her mom’s eyes before she asks any more questions. Thank God she left her backpack in her car last night. Clean getaway.
She’s restless all the way to Smith’s house, jiggling her toes on the gas pedal and speeding through the yellows. She has to make this quick—she really does have to study—but she’s also wired on seven hundred different emotions, none of which she’s particularly eager to express to anyone.
When the front door opens, the person behind it is a tall girl Chloe hasn’t seen before. She’s holding a Switch and appears to be in the middle of a heated Smash battle.
“Hi, is Smith home?” Chloe asks, peering past the girl’s shoulder at the small living room with crosses on the wall and a floral sofa set. This must be Smith’s sister, Jas.
“Who are you?” she says without looking up.
“I’m Chloe. From school.”
Jas’s Mewtwo Final Smashes someone’s Piranha Plant. “Okay, Chloe From School. Smith didn’t say anything about a girl coming over.”
“Mind your business, Jas,” says a laughing voice, and then Smith is behind her, looking surprised in a sleeveless shirt and soft-looking gray shorts. She hasn’t noticed until now that his hair’s gotten a little longer.
He shoves the side of Jas’s head with one palm and says, “Go away. And don’t forget to plug that shit in when you’re done. I got MarioKart with Rory tonight.”
“You’re such an asshole,” she says back.
“Mom, Jas called me an asshole!” Smith yells.
“Jasmine Parker!”
“You suck,” Jas says, glaring, and then she disappears as Smith laughs into his fist.
“I’m gonna miss that girl next year,” Smith says.
“Is that why you texted me about MarioKart?” Chloe says. “Because of Rory?”
Smith shrugs. “I was gonna invite you.”
“You two can hang out on the weekend without a Chloe buffer,” Chloe points out.
“I know, it’s just … been a while,” Smith mumbles. “Anyway, what’s up? You look weird.”
Right. “Can we talk?”
Smith nods. “You wanna come in?”
Chloe leaves her shoes at the door and follows Smith through the living room and down a short hall lined with framed photos: Smith in his football uniform with the national championship trophy, Smith’s parents smiling on a cruise ship, his two youngest siblings in matching Easter outfits, Jas on stage with a microphone.
Smith’s room is at the end of the hall, the pull-up bar in the doorway effectively a nameplate declaring it his. It’s small and messy, but in a cozy way, not in the grimy way that Dixon’s room was messy. The walls are citrus yellow, and there’s an aloe plant on the dresser and final exam study guides scattered across the desk. A pile of books sits on the windowsill between a half-peeled orange and a scuffed football helmet, and the twin-size bed is covered in pillows. The Bluetooth speaker on the nightstand is playing Frank Ocean quietly. Half-hidden behind it, there’s a bottle of silver nail polish.