Expelled(17)

“We’re all in this together,” Sasha insists. “Every single one of us.”

Jude nods emphatically and Parker grunts in what is possibly assent.

Although obviously I’d like it better if Parker took a hike, I say, “Okay, great. Can we start filming?”

Felix nods, fiddling with a knob on his mixer, and Jude says, “Exterior, pond, midafternoon,” like he’s reading off a screenplay that exists only in his head.

Felix glances up at him. “That’d work—a nice wide-angle shot of the water and the trees,” he agrees. “And we could have voiceovers, which’d be you guys.”

“Right. We’ll want to say who we are and why we’re making this movie,” I say.

“In a world,” Jude says, sounding exactly like that guy who does all the movie trailer voiceovers, “where justice is a four-letter word, four brave teenagers rise up to—”

“Shut your muffin hole, Tigger,” Parker says, and surprisingly, Jude does.

Felix says to Sasha, “You can just go ahead and start talking. Tell us who you are. Say whatever pops into your head.”

The sun, glinting on the water, throws diamonds of light onto Sasha’s face. She gives her profile to the camera, which is Felix’s iPhone 7. Everyone waits, still and silent.

“My name is Sasha Aline Ellis, and I’m seventeen,” she begins. “A Scorpio, if anyone cares. A pescatarian. An ex–Girl Scout. A failed flutist. A former equestrian.” She smiles fleetingly before her face goes expressionless again. “I guess I used to be a lot of things that I’m not anymore,” she says. “I moved here when I was thirteen, and I’m still waiting to move away again. Sartre says that hell is other people, right? Well, he should have seen this place. It’s like next-level torture. Nothing but PTA moms, soccer dads, and middle-manager zombies, devoid of imagination or soul and malicious toward anyone who does have it.”

Ouch, I think, but Sasha’s not even done yet.

“News flash: we live in a Podunk trash heap, populated by small-minded, TV-drugged villagers obsessed with finger-pointing and judgment,” she goes on. “They’re too lazy to actually investigate crimes, so they just pin them on whoever’s convenient. But we’re not all guilty, and we’re going to prove it.” She turns head-on to the camera and says, “How was that?”

“She’s definitely not Switzerland,” Jude says to me.

“That was amazing,” I tell her. “Though you might want to consider being a little more diplomatic toward the PTA moms and the middle managers.”

“In that case, you might have to write me a script,” Sasha says. “Extemporaneous speech brings out my natural bitterness.” Then she bats her eyelashes at me, but sarcastically. I didn’t know a person could do that.

“We’ll work on it,” I say.

She tries to hand the mic to Parker, who looks at it like it’s a cockroach, and so she clips it to his shirt. Then Felix poses him on the end of the dock, gazing poetically out at the water. He really is almost obscenely good-looking, which I resent him for.

“Tell us who you are now,” Felix says. “Again, just say whatever pops into your head.”

Parker sighs. “Fine. My name is Parker Harris. I’m a junior. I hold the state record for passing touchdowns and passing yards in regular season play. I can run a hundred-yard dash in eleven seconds and rep 210 on the bench press forty-five times. My clean and jerk PR is 340.”

I’m about to suggest that he cut the stats, but Felix apparently does it for me; he whispers something to Parker, who grunts again and then goes on. “My dad started me playing flag football when I was six. I got the shit kicked out of me regularly by nine-year-olds. Our team was the Volcanoes, and we totally blew. But I started weight lifting when I was twelve…”

My mind wanders as Parker continues to drone on about his athletic prowess. “Are you as bored as I am?” I whisper to Jude.

Jude says, “He’s far from a scintillating orator, but he’s a very credible romantic lead.”

“This is a documentary, remember?” I say, annoyed. “There is no romantic lead.”

Jude gives me the side-eye. It says Whatever, Romeo.





16


I know I said there’s no such thing as miracles. But today, when everyone else leaves the Property, Sasha stays behind. As the cars pull away, she walks to the end of the narrow dock and kicks off her sandals. Barefoot, her hair blowing loose around her shoulders, she stares intently at the water.

She was laughing, almost giddy, when we finished up the introductions, but as Felix packed up his equipment, her mood seemed to darken. She didn’t even wave good-bye to Parker.

I watch her now, wondering what’s going through that wild, baffling mind of hers. I start to take a few steps toward her, but then I stop myself. Maybe she wants to be left alone.

I take a deep breath and look around. Evening’s the prettiest part of the day out here. The pond is like blue glass, and the breeze rustles the tips of cattails as the sun starts to lower itself toward the horizon. It’s just so damn peaceful. Not that I can relax, though, because of Sasha. What does she want? Why did she stay?

Then Sasha turns around, as if she’s heard my thoughts. “I don’t want to go home.”