Expelled(23)

Jude lets out an ear-piercing shriek of happiness, and Sasha gives a little leap of excitement, and we’re all clapping and hollering while Simon gets over his shock and starts to run. And that’s when Palmieri hears the racket we’re making from our hiding place. He tosses his popcorn on the concession stand counter and ducks under the bleachers to investigate. “Who’s there?” he calls.

For a split second, our eyes lock in the dimness. Sasha and Jude freeze. Then all three of us are running away from him, scrambling through the obstacle course of bleacher supports, empty popcorn cartons, and discarded Big Gulps.

Palmieri shouts, “Hey, you! Stop right there!” and Sasha cackles as she sprints beside me. She’s so fast she pulls ahead, but then she turns around, pausing for an instant, to flip our assistant principal off.

My breath is loud in my ears as we blast out from underneath the bleachers and instinctively scatter, as if fleeing punishment is second nature to us. My feet pound on the pavement of the parking lot. I don’t know where Sasha and Jude are now, but I hear loud breathing behind me.

Palmieri.

I speed up, my lungs burning. I’ve got four hundred yards before I’m off school property, and then Palmieri can’t touch me. I can’t look, but I know he’s right behind me, seconds from collaring me. I can practically smell his cologne.

I’m gasping for breath, and any second my lungs are going to explode. Just a few more yards. In a final burst of effort, I reach the sidewalk on the edge of school property, and in three more strides I’m in the middle of the road, and then suddenly I’m crashing through a stand of evergreens and collapsing in their cool darkness, my fall broken by a thick carpet of pine needles.

Flat on my back, I suck in air in heaving gasps. I can’t see Palmieri through the trees, and I have no idea where he is. I try to slow my breath so I can listen for him. Is he waiting for me out there?

For several minutes, nothing happens. Then for several more: silence. I can’t believe it—I’ve actually escaped. The adrenaline that was coursing through me slowly dissipates. My breathing’s finally returning to normal. I’m about to stand up and hazard a peek out into the street when a figure comes crashing through the branches.

I scramble to get up, desperate to run, but the figure tackles me and knocks all the air out of my lungs. “Gotcha!”

Sasha’s breath is warm in my ear, and her laughter sounds like bells.





21


My shirt clings to my sweaty back, my legs are Jell-O, and I feel more alive than I have in months. I let out a whoop of victory, and Jude claps me on the shoulder.

“That, my friend, was amazenards,” he says. “What do you think—better than amazeballs? I really hate that term.”

“Definitely not better,” I say, laughing.

“Amazenuts,” Jude says contemplatively. “Amazebollocks. Amazetestes?”

“Oh, my God, shut up,” Sasha begs.

The three of us are walking down the middle of an empty, lamplit street. My mom’s minivan abandoned at the scene of the crime. Our shadows on the asphalt are so tall that we look like giants. We feel like giants: we trespassed and we weren’t caught. We raced the AP and won.

“I can’t believe I thought going to a baseball game would be boring,” Sasha says. She’s drinking a bomber of Michelob Ultra she bummed off a guy coming out of the 7-Eleven. He was seventy-five if he was a day, and he wouldn’t give me and Jude one because we weren’t beautiful girls. He actually said that.

Not that I care. I’m iffy on alcohol since my date with Knob Creek, and anyway, walking next to Sasha, my hand sometimes brushing against hers… it’s almost more than I can handle already.

“I just wish you could have seen my mascot dances,” Jude says to her.

“Do one now,” I say, stopping in the street. “Right here.”

Jude shakes his head. “No, I have a different idea. Hang on.”

Then he darts away, down the alley between the sub shop and the empty storefront that used to be a record store.

“You gonna pee on someone else’s property for real this time?” I call.

Sasha elbows me. “When your friend furtively rushes down a dark alley, you don’t draw attention to him, genius. He probably does need to piss.”

“Look around—do you see anyone? Everybody’s in their living rooms, drooling in front of their sixty-four-inch TVs. If Palmieri can’t catch us, no one can,” I insist.

“Tell that to the police who want to slap him with indecent exposure,” Sasha replies.

Jude hisses from the darkness. “I’m not pissing!”

Sasha and I look at each other, shrug, and then duck down the alley in time to see Jude reach into his backpack and pull out a can of spray paint.

“Wait a second—” I say. “You’re not—”

Jude looks at me, eyes blazing and defiant. “Basquiat started his career as a graffiti artist. When I’m famous, this Dumpster will be worth millions.”

And with that very bold, very possibly deluded statement, Jude starts painting. Sasha and I watch, dumbstruck, as he draws a cartoonish, androgynous face with spiraling eyes and a star exploding behind it. He pulls out another can and draws slashes of red all around it. It’s violent and beautiful. I don’t know if it’s art, but it’s definitely not just petty vandalism.