Expelled(32)

“Do you know the poet Mary Oliver?” she asks.

I shake my head. I’m an uncultured hick compared to Sasha Ellis, and we both know it.

“Listen to this,” she says.


“You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.”



Sasha’s voice cracks when she says the word family, and she cuts off abruptly.

“Wow,” I say, “that’s really good.”

There’s a pause, and to lighten the mood, I ask, “So you memorized the whole thing, huh? That’s not impressive.”

I smirk at her, but Sasha won’t look me in the eye.

I put my hand over her hand. “Are you okay? Wait—I know you’re not okay. You hate that word. But if you didn’t hate that word, could you apply it to yourself?”

She smiles. “That’s a funny question.”

“I mean it, though. Are you all right?”

“I don’t know,” she says.

Her voice sounds so small. And when I look over at her, I see a single tear running down her pale cheek.

“Hey,” I say, “what’s wrong?”

Fiercely, she wipes it away. “Don’t ask. I can’t talk about it.”

Uncertain of what else to do, I fold my fingers around hers. She doesn’t say anything, but she lets me keep them there.





30


“Do you think there’s something weird going on with Sasha?” I ask Jude’s back.

We’re in his garage again—which is now his full-time studio since it’s too full of canvases and stretcher bars to accommodate a car. I’m perched on a stool, and he’s standing in front of a large rectangular canvas that’s half covered in swirling color.

“Sasha Ellis, as a conversation topic, is getting a little stale,” Jude says, adding a blue flourish to an abstract shape. “No offense.”

“I just feel like there’s something she’s not telling me.”

“She’s a complicated girl, and there’re probably a million things she’s not telling you. But do you want to know my hypothesis?”

“Sure.”

“She’s still got feelings for Parker.”

I feel like I’ve been sucker punched. “What are you talking about?”

“She’s against him on an aesthetic and political level, because he’s such an unparalleled bro. On the other hand, he’s hot, and he’s a Superman type, which is hard to resist.”

“First of all, just because he’s a handsome jock doesn’t make him a hero. And second of all, what does she need a Superman type for?”

“Have you ever seen a Hollywood movie? All girls want to be rescued.”

“That’s completely and totally sexist.”

Jude shrugs. “Hey, I wouldn’t mind being rescued by a big handsome hulk, either.”

“Rescued from what?” I ask.

“I don’t know, everything. Can you sit still? I’m trying to paint you into this picture.”

“Is that weird bug-eyed thing supposed to be me?”

“Don’t you see the likeness?”

“Not really,” I say.

Jude squints, points his paintbrush at it. “Yeah, you’re right. You’re not nearly as handsome.”

“You’re hilarious,” I say. “And you’re wrong about Sasha.”

He shrugs again. “Only time will tell.” He dips a brush into a smear of bright azure oil paint. “God, I love Phthalo Blue,” he sighs as he turns his attention to the canvas again.

And the thing is, Jude really is good at what he does. He’s probably going to get a scholarship to RISD, and pretty soon he’ll be represented by a fancy Chelsea gallery, and the next thing you know, I’ll see a picture of him in Artforum, drinking champagne next to Jackson Pollock.

Well, not actually Jackson Pollock, because he’s been dead for sixty years, but you get the idea.

Meanwhile, what do I have to offer the world? A few decent articles in the school newspaper and a documentary film that is so far a complete and utter failure? I’ve conducted interviews of three POIs, I’ve got tons of footage to go over, and I’m no closer to figuring out who posted the infamous picture.

Things just aren’t looking that good for me.

I grab Jude’s phone, turn on the video, and flip the camera setting so I’m staring right into the lens for a video selfie. “What am I going to do?” I ask it—as if it could possibly have an answer.