The Beginning of Everything(23)

The campus was pretty deserted, and Toby double-parked his van, straddling the principal’s and vice principal’s spots.

“Grab the filters,” he told me.

“Remind me why I just spent five bucks on coffee filters?”

“Because you have five bucks and I don’t?” Toby grinned. “Naw, it’s just part of what we do. I mean, we don’t want to be caught—we want to be noticed. So we watched Dead Poets Society in Mr. Moreno’s room and left behind a ton of whiteboard markers. We watched the Princess Bride in the library and donated a box of books. And tonight, we’re screening Rushmore in the teachers’ lounge. Hence the coffee filters.”

Toby stopped walking, waiting for the sheer awesomeness of the Floating Movie Theater to wash over me.

Instead, this is what I said: “We’re breaking into the teachers’ lounge?”

“More like ‘letting ourselves in,’” Toby assured me. “Come on.”

I planted my feet firmly at the edge of the parking lot.

“You better be damned sure we won’t get caught,” I warned. “Because I can’t exactly run if the cops show up.”

Toby started laughing. “Funny story,” he said. “Max Sheppard? Why, just the other week, he let me off on a warning for my busted taillight. Now let’s go.”



THE MOVIE HAD just started. Toby and I grabbed seats on the side, and I tried to follow along, but mostly, what I wound up following was Cassidy’s expression.

I suppose she didn’t think anyone was looking and had let her guard down, the way you do in an empty room. The way I did when I closed the blinds and stared up at the ceiling fan above my bed, equally fascinated and horrified by the thoughts racing through my brain.

She seemed so sad, even though the movie was a comedy and everyone else was laughing, as though she wasn’t paying attention to the film at all, but was haunted by images of something else. I’d never seen her like that, and it made me wonder about what Toby had said, how she’d disappeared without warning, and how no one had known what to make of it.

A couple of people stood up when the movie ended, but Luke insisted that we had to watch the credits. Surprisingly, they sat back down, looking thoroughly chastised; I hadn’t realized Luke carried that sort of power, but it made an odd sort of sense. I’d heard him referred to as the “king of the nerds,” and I had never understood why, but I could see it easily then.

“So what did you think?” Toby asked as we deposited our coffee filters on a table with everyone else’s loot.

“About the movie?”

“Obviously the movie is a classic and Napoleon Dynamite is a pale imitation of this far superior film,” Toby said wryly, “but no. About this: secret screenings, coded invitations, positive vandalism.”

“It’s awesome,” I said. And I meant it. I hadn’t known that people did things like this, especially in Eastwood. It was strange, realizing that these sorts of clandestine activities happened at a school I used to think I ran, that there were other things going on besides my old friends’ parties. “Why don’t more people know about it?”

“Because Evan McMillan would turn this into some obnoxious drinking game,” Luke said, joining us.

“Yeah, probably,” I admitted. “Beer funneling through coffee filters.”

We stood there in silence for a bit, Luke with this knowing look on his face, as though he was glad I’d finally seen what he could do.

“So Luke,” I said, breaking the silence, “how about screening One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest in the nurse’s office? I know it’d be a tight fit, but it would be sort of perfect.”

“Dude,” Toby said. “That would be epic.”

“I didn’t ask for your ideas, Faulkner,” Luke said coldly, drifting over to play host to a nearby group of juniors.

“He really doesn’t like me,” I noted.

“Nah, ’course he does,” Toby said unconvincingly. “You’re pals.”

I gave him a look.

“His girlfriend used to have the world’s biggest crush on you,” Toby admitted. “Probably still does.”

“Phoebe?”

“‘Oh Ezra, you’re like some sexy vampire,’” Toby mocked.

I winced, but I had to admit, he had a point.

“Hey there, sexy vampire,” someone said, tapping me on the shoulder.

Cassidy tucked her hair behind her ears and smiled as though that afternoon—and the past few hours—had never happened.

“Hi?” I said cautiously.

“How much do you love Bill Murray?” she asked, rambling about the movie we’d just sat through. “I adore him. If he popped the question, I’d Bill Murray him in a second.”

“Um,” I said, confused. Had I missed something? Last time I’d checked, Cassidy hated my guts, and I’d gotten the impression that we weren’t speaking to each other any time in the foreseeable future.

“Listen,” Cassidy said. “I could use a protégé, so tag, you’re it. I’m going to teach you everything I know about debate, and you’re going to win first place at the San Diego tournament.”

“I am?”