Expelled(11)

We go to the discount section, where everything’s a dollar or two. I pick out a sparkly pink notebook and a pair of the ugliest socks I’ve ever seen, which comes to three dollars for an excuse to talk to Sasha again.

I’d pay much more than that if I had to.

“Why are you getting that first-grade notebook and those tie-dyed burnout socks?” Jude wonders.

“Because they’re stupid and random, and they’ll make her laugh.” Pause. “I think.”

Jude looks mildly impressed. “Do I detect a hint of insight into pickup technique? How could this be? You’ve never been able to flirt with any girl, let alone the girl for whom the term ‘resting bitch face’ was coined.”

“First of all, that’s not nice, and second of all, I’m the one who said ‘Shit changes.’”

“And yet you continue to maintain that getting expelled doesn’t have an upside,” Jude says, shaking his head.

When we go stand in Sasha’s line, I can feel my pulse speeding up. Another checker waves us over to her empty lane, but we pretend not to see her.

I watch Sasha make small talk with the people in front of us, the way I used to watch her during lunch at school. She always sat in the back corner of the cafeteria, a stack of books next to her tray. When she was alone, her face would soften and take on a distant, almost wistful expression—like she went somewhere so far away from our insufferable high school that it wasn’t even on the same map.

If anyone approached her, she’d stiffen almost imperceptibly. She might smile and talk to them, or she might not. Not was more likely. But either way, the message was clear (to me at least): It’d be better for the both of us if you’d turn around and go back to your horsemeat sloppy joe, because I am reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, a masterwork whose towering literary achievement is beyond your puny adolescent comprehension.

The difference today is that Sasha’s on the clock, and being nice is part of the job. And while I can’t say she looks thrilled, she’s not beaming icy death rays at anyone, either.

I place my stupid pink notebook and my idiotic socks on the conveyor belt. As they slowly roll toward her, I feel like my heart’s right there on the belt with them. It’s already been shattered, it’s basically taped back together, and it’s worth, what, ten bucks? Twenty?

Whatever. She wouldn’t want it even if it were free.

And I can understand that, because sometimes I’d rather not have it, either.

Also: why did I pick out those socks?

I’m such an asshat.

Sasha grabs the items and quickly, automatically scans them, and then she looks up and notices us.

“Oh, hey,” she says. Her eyes seem to go suddenly cloudy. She touches her red apron, then drops her hand. She lifts her chin and straightens her shoulders. “Did you find everything you need today?” she asks. Her face is blank. She’s definitely not laughing.

I hadn’t thought past the selection of these dumb things. Now what’s the joke? What am I supposed to say? I bought the ugliest socks I’ve ever seen because I love you and I was hoping you’d think they were funny. I don’t think so.

“Yes, we did find everything, thank you!” Jude exclaims. “Don’t you just adore that notebook I picked out?” He flutters his lashes, hamming it up. “You know, I just cannot deny myself a sparkly accessory.”

Thank you, Jude, I think. Because now Sasha looks almost amused.

She says, “You should check out the sale on sun hats. There’s a gold one that’s nothing but sequins.”

“Thanks for the tip, babe,” he says and vanishes.

I know Jude wouldn’t be caught dead in a sparkly accessory or a sun hat of any kind, but he wants to give me a minute alone with Sasha, and I’m grateful.

“That’ll be three dollars,” she says to me.

I hand over three crumpled bills. “It’s kind of funny that Matheson’s has a convicted thief operating the cash register,” I say.

“Not convicted,” she corrects. “Accused and expelled. But, yeah, the irony is reasonably thick.”

“Does your boss know?”

“No, and she can’t find out, because I’m not working the dressing room ever again. People crap in there, Theo.”

“Seriously?”

She nods. “Poop’s been found in basically every corner of this store.”

Unconsciously I look down. The floor by my feet is polished and clean.

“I think you’re safe,” she says drily.

I can feel my cheeks getting hot. “For now,” I say, trying to make a joke of it. “But any second someone could run up here and drop a load on my shoes.”

A woman behind me in line clears her throat. She’s got a cart full of decorative throw pillows and Diet Coke two-liters that she’s obviously impatient to purchase.

“But what if your boss does find out?” I ask. “What if you get demoted for something you didn’t do? This whole situation is crazy and unfair. Don’t you want to fight it?”

“It seems a little late for that,” Sasha says.

“Yeah, I know it does. But when Palmieri accused me of posting the picture, I kept telling myself that I was innocent, which meant that everything would turn out okay. Didn’t you think that, too? Didn’t you trust that people would find out the truth? But then they didn’t. They didn’t even try.”