Expelled

Expelled by James Patterson




1


I honestly don’t know how I got here.

I understand, of course, that actions have consequences, and that bad actions have bad consequences (thank you, Principal Dekum, for that pearl of wisdom). But I’m still unclear on the chain of events that have landed me, Theo Foster—B+ student, school newspaper editor, bookish but essentially normal eleventh grader—at my own high school expulsion hearing.

I’m wearing a tie for the second time in my life, and my armpits are drenched with sweat. The room is hot, it smells like six different kinds of BO, and there’s a panel of Pinewood School District board members shooting eye-daggers at me like I’m some perp in a low-budget episode of Judge Judy.

The hearing officer—a small, round man in a too-tight suit—clears his throat. “We are now in executive session,” he announces, “and the matter at hand is the behavior of student Theodore James Foster. The Arlington High School administration recommends his expulsion for the remainder of the school year, for the offense of educational disruption. It will be up to the board to determine if this is appropriate disciplinary action.”

I can’t help it—I glance at the empty seat next to me.

“Are you expecting someone, Mr. Foster?” the hearing officer asks.

I’ve heard that some kids show up to expulsion hearings with lawyers. Probably, at the very least, they bring a pissed-off parent or two.

“My mom’s at work,” I say.

“And your father?” the hearing officer asks.

“I’m sure he’d love to be here,” I answer, and though I know I should stop there, I don’t. “The problem is that he’s dead, so I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

“Mr. Foster passed away ten months ago,” Mr. Palmieri, the assistant principal, informs the hearing officer.

I hate the euphemism pass away—it sounds like a square dance move from middle school gym class. Do-si-do your partner now, and pass away on down the row! Incidentally, I also hate dancing.

“Regrets,” the hearing officer offers in a monotone. “I will now ask the administration to read the charges and present information regarding the incident in question. A copy will be sent to Mrs. Foster for her signature.”

Palmieri pops right up, salivating at his moment in the spotlight. If I’d thought mentioning my dead father would get me a shred of sympathy from anyone in this room, I was wrong.

“Theo Foster is the creator of a secret Twitter account that has been the source of gossip, rumor, and innuendo,” Palmieri reads. “Although school administrators did not approve of his immature posts”—Objection, I feel like crying, mischaracterization!—“we did not pursue disciplinary action until he maliciously posted a photograph that permanently tarnished the reputation of a star athlete and our entire high school community.”

The board members nod grimly. They’d have to live underground not to know what Palmieri’s talking about. And though a couple of them do look grubby and subterrestrial, I’m pretty sure they live in houses and have access to the nightly news.

Then Palmieri pulls out Exhibit A: the picture I supposedly posted, which he’s blown up and mounted on poster board. It’s such an incredible photograph that I almost wish I had posted it—or, better yet, had been there when it happened.

The snap was taken at night about a week ago, in the grassy area between the school parking lot and the football field, right near the ARLINGTON HIGH SCHOOL, HOME OF THE FIGHTING TIGERS sign. In the foreground is Parker Harris, our star quarterback, drunk and shirtless. His chiseled pecs practically glow in the light of the flash. He’s got a bottle of Jack Daniels in his right hand and the bare breasts of an unidentified female in very close proximity to his left. The girl is mid-twirl, so her swinging hair covers her face (her identity, naturally, has been the source of relentless speculation). Behind the happy twosome, someone wearing the big tiger head of our school mascot is captured, midstream, peeing on something that looks a lot like Parker’s number 89 football jersey.

In other words, the picture is the platonic ideal of teen debauchery, and it’s still being talked about on every TV station in the state so aging anchors can use it as proof of a “recent but steep decline in adolescent morality and values.”

I can’t help it; a tiny smile flickers across my face. I never liked Parker Harris, and I’d pay good money to know who took the picture.

But I’d also like to kick the ass of whoever’s trying to make me take the fall for it.

Palmieri slaps the table in front of him. “This is no laughing matter, Mr. Foster,” he yells. “What is wrong with you?”

That, honestly, is a question that’d take several hours to answer.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I mumble.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

“I didn’t post the picture,” I say, earnestly now. “I know it’s my account, but I didn’t post it.”

Palmieri’s eyes narrow. “Does anyone else have the password to the account?”

“No, but it’s not that hard to figure out someone’s—”

“Do you have an enemy, Mr. Foster, who would post something to your account? Is that what you’re suggesting?”