Expelled(37)

Jude plays the gracious host, flitting from person to person and offering them drinks and snacks. Felix switches the music to something with a deeper, funkier beat while Sasha perches near him on the railing, filming everyone with one of his little cameras. Jenna and her Dorsey start dancing, and pretty soon they’re trying to get other people to come join them.

I have to say, it feels like a real party. But is that what I wanted—just another party? Or do I want a night that gives me answers? A night that tells me what went wrong and where I stand and what the future might hold for me?

A few of Parker’s football bros roll up in a Hummer (“Alert, alert, douchemobile incoming,” Jere7my mutters), accompanied by a trio of girls from the tennis team in matching strapless dresses. A station wagon ejects a handful of freshmen, who look around with big, wide eyes as if they can’t believe they’ve managed to ascend to these dizzying social heights.

Jude makes one of his mother’s roses into a boutonniere for Chip Hoffman’s lapel, and Chip—a starting linebacker—gives him a high five so enthusiastic it nearly knocks Jude over. And while I wouldn’t say that I’m being greeted like a long-lost friend or anything, at least no one’s looking at me like delinquency is a disease they can catch.

“Who’s the host with the most?” Jude says, watching Chip join a mini dance circle near the keg. “That’s a rhetorical question. It’s you, Theo Foster! Look at all these people! They’re having a blast! Long live the Convict Prom!”

I tap my Solo cup against his. I know I’m supposed to relax and enjoy myself, but I really just want to ask them all about the Picture: who they think took it and who was behind our expulsion. Would they believe us now if we said we were innocent? Or do they just no longer care who did what?

I crook my finger at Sasha, summoning her and the camera. She slides off the railing and takes small, awkward steps toward me. She wobbles, reaches out, and grabs my shoulder. “What was I thinking, wearing stilettos?” she mutters. “They’re nothing but an oppressive symbol of traditional heteronormative femininity.”

“What?”

“These shoes suck,” she says. She bends down, slips off the pair of gold high heels, and then sighs in relief. “There. Much better.”

She seems suddenly tiny, and I resist the urge to put my arm around her shoulder protectively. Sasha Ellis doesn’t need my protection.

“I want you to help me film Chip,” I say.

“Doing his white boy dab?” she asks skeptically. “That could be some good blackmail material, I guess.” She grins at me. “Or maybe we’re making a dance movie now? Against my better judgment, I did love Step Up 2: The Streets.”

“I haven’t seen it, but no need to explain your references to me,” I say. “Anyway, dope, I want to interview him. I want to ask him about the infamous Parker party,” I say.

She pokes me in the chest. “I admire your dedication to this film project. But call me dope again on pain of death, Foster.”

I hold up my hands—I surrender!—and together we walk over to Chip. He turns toward us, his eyes already cloudy with beer or maybe a few too many concussions on the football field.

“Hey, Chip,” I say. “Good to see you, uh, bro. How’s it going?”

Chip grunts a word that sounds like “good.”

“Awesome. Great. I hope you like those jalape?o Cheetos—pretty spicy, huh? But I gotta ask you something. How does this party compare to the one in the Arlington end zone?” I ask.

“Huh?” he says.

“You know—the party that got Parker expelled. Remember the story that was all over Channel 6? About the picture with the whiskey and the breasts? You were there that night, weren’t you?”

He nods. “Yeah, dude, that was a rager.”

“Yeah, it looked like it. Hey, do you happen to know who was wearing the tiger head that night?” I ask casually.

“Besides Tigger? Who knows?” He shakes his big bearlike head. “I was tore up that night, bro. I did six J?ger shots and woke up under the bleachers.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Sasha mutters from behind the camera.

Chip shrugs. “Wasn’t the first time.”

“What do you mean ‘besides Tigger’?” I demand.

“I mean your boy Jude got the tiger head out.”

“Jude was with you?” I say.

“Okay, you’re kinda dense for a nerd. Like I said, Tigger was there. Tigger got the tiger head. Tigger put it on his own head.”

But this can’t mean…“Did someone wear it after he did? Did he, like, loan it to anyone?” I ask.

Chip rolls his eyes. “I have no idea. I told you—the J?ger knocked me out cold.”

Sasha brings the camera down. “In that case, Mr. Hoffman, thank you for your assistance. Please continue your pathetic attempts at dancing.” She dismisses him with a wave of her hand and then turns to me. “I guess we better go talk to your boy,” she says.





35


My head’s spinning, and it’s not from the beer. I push my way through the crowd until I find Jude leaning against the side of the gazebo. His tux jacket is still on, but he’s taken off his shirt. With his hairless chest, black bow tie, and carefully styled hair, he looks like an underfed Chippendale dancer.