Expelled(35)

This means that I have to go to Matheson’s again; it’s ridiculous but necessary that I see Sasha face-to-face.

Sure enough, she rolls her eyes when she sees me walk in the door. “Seriously, creeper, are you trying to destroy my career in customer service?” she asks.

“I saw your manager outside on a smoke break,” I say, “and anyway, if you did get fired for some reason, I happen to know that the 7-Eleven is hiring.”

“Oh, great, thanks,” Sasha says. “I’ve always wanted to sell Big Gulps to pizza-faced twelve-year-olds and Labatts to creepy dudes in wifebeaters.”

“Sounds like fun, doesn’t it? I have to warn you, though, it’s a very competitive application process.”

“Okay, so don’t get me fired here, all right?”

I grab a pair of reading glasses from the display right near her register and put them on. “Now I’m in disguise,” I say, squinting at a suddenly huge, blurry Sasha-shaped blob. “I am a brand-new customer of your fine establishment. Do you give discounts to the visually challenged?”

“You’re acting super weird,” she says. “What’s up?”

“I actually have a really important question to ask you,” I say.

“Then go ahead and ask it,” she says.

“Will you go to the prom with me?”

She just stares at me.

“Well?” I say.

“You’re an idiot,” she says. “We’re expelled. We aren’t allowed to go to A Night in Paris, or whatever our stupid prom theme is this year.”

“Not the school prom,” I say, unable to suppress a grin. “The Convict Prom.”

“And what fresh hell is that?” Sasha asks.

“We’re going to have a prom at the Property,” I say. “All of us who were expelled, plus anyone else who isn’t too chickenshit to hang out with us. I’m talking music, lights, awkward, uncoordinated dancing—the whole shebang.”

“You’re insane,” she says.

“That is not the first time someone has said that to me lately,” I say. “So what do you think—are you in?”

And it seems like Sasha smiles for real now, though it’s hard to see through the Coke-bottle glasses. “Yeah, okay,” she says. “I’ll be there.”

“Remember to dress up,” I say. I remove the readers and the world snaps back into focus, just in time for me to catch her rolling her eyes at me again.

“Duh,” she says. “But if you wear a rental tux, I’m absolutely not dancing with you.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “No rented polyester. Now I have to go apologize to Jude and do a little party planning.”

“Streamers are on sale, you know,” she says. “Aisle 6.”

“Awesome. You be in charge of streamers. I’ll take care of everything else.”





33


On the night of the Convict Prom, every single chili pepper and cactus light in the gazebo is blazing in Technicolor. I found all of our old Christmas lights, too, and I wrapped a dozen strands of them around the railings of the deck. Their reflections in the water make the still surface look like it’s dotted with jewels.

Jude’s contribution to the decorations was every single rose from each of his mom’s prized rose bushes, which he cut and arranged in canning jars. (She’s not going to be happy about that.) And he’s wearing an actual tuxedo—a vintage Christian Dior, he claims, which he found at a church rummage sale for fifteen bucks.

“If only I had my tiger head, my outfit would be complete,” Jude says wistfully.

I decided to wear my dad’s suit, even though it’s big on me. My shirt’s open at the neck and I have no tie; I’m not even wearing dress shoes, just my Chucks.

It’s my dance, though, so I figure I can wear whatever the hell I want.

Felix and his camera are at the edge of the deck, waiting to film people as they arrive: a delinquent’s processional at a Convict Prom, aka the footage I plan to use during my documentary’s end credits.

If the people arrive, that is. I have no idea who, if anyone, is going to show up. I put Jude in charge of the invites because he promised he’d be able to work some of his old mascot charm. Maybe we’re still the town pariahs, and maybe we’re not. Only tonight will tell.

Parker, whom I wouldn’t have invited if I had a choice, shows up with a keg, and suddenly I like him a notch better than I had before. I brought the wine still left over from my dad’s wake, and we’ve set up a table with a bunch of potato chips, Doritos, and pretzels.

It’s 8 p.m., and the sky’s turning to lavender. We’ve got a jerry-rigged but decent sound system, festive lights, and alcohol.

But so far we’ve got no actual guests.

“Remember,” Jude says, patting my shoulder reassuringly, “people like to be fashionably late.”

But he, too, looks a little nervous about attendance. He crams a fistful of Cool Ranch Doritos into his mouth and says, as crumbs fall out, “But, man, we’ve got a lot of shit to consume if it’s just us here tonight.”

Parker says, “I’m going to get to work on that keg. You pussies want to join me?”

“Maybe later, bro,” I say, and he actually tries to give me a high five, but I dodge it.