Plus, read an exclusive excerpt from her YA debut.
Casey McQuiston knows how to make us swoon.
WithI Kissed Shara Wheeler,McQuiston makes her YA debut.
St. Martin’s Publishing Group
Read the excerpt after the cover image below.
Usually when she has a thought like that, she means she’s spiritually on the brink.
It has to be an act, is the thing.
Obviously, Shara Wheeler is fine.
Shara Wheeler is not missing.
Chloe is going to prove it.
Because she’s the only one smart enough to see it.
Nottheperfect promno dates, no corsagesbutherperfect prom.
Chloe had been watching her all night, waiting for a chance to get her alone.
So, she does what anyone else in her position would do.
She shuts the door behind her and does a sweep of the first floor.
Shara’s not here.
But she’s definitelysomewhere.
Probably upstairs, in her room.
In the upstairs hallway, a half-open door reveals a bathroom that must be Shara’s.
Shara exclusively wears her shiny blond hair down.
That’s like, her thing.
She must put it up to wash her face at night.
Chloe pauses at the next door.
It’s slightly ajar and marked with a hand-painted pinkS.
A tank of goo to preserve her dewy complexion?
A professional hairstylist on retainer?
Who is she when, for once, nobody is looking?
Only one way to find out.
She kicks the door open, and
The room is empty.
Shara’s room is, of course, a nice, normal room.
Suspiciously plain, even.
Bed, dresser, nightstand, vanity, bookshelf-slash-desk combo, eggshell lamp with a silver chain.
Where’s the Glossier Gang now?
Nursing their prom hangovers, Chloe guesses.
Clearly, none of them are here looking for clues.
Why isn’t Shara here?
Chloe clenches her fists, steps inside, and starts with the desk.
If there’s no Shara to interrogate, maybe her room has some answers.
No incriminating diary pages crammed in the wastepaper basket, just the cardboard packaging for some lip gloss.
Jewelry box: nothing notable.
Closet: clothes, a carefully organized shoe rack, prom and homecoming dresses zipped inside tidy garment bags.
(Who usesgarment bags?)
Underwear drawer: half-empty, enough modest petal-soft things gone for a week or two.
Bed: over the tucked-in ivory quilt, a neatly folded Harvard T-shirt.
Chloe releases a hiss through her teeth.
She doubles back to the vanity, opening the drawer.
She recognizes its packaging from the wastepaper basket.
Chloe swears, drops to the carpet, and crawls under the desk.
