Expelled(38)

Sasha trains the camera on the two of us, and Felix wanders over to see what’s up.

“You were at that party,” I accuse him.

Jude blinks slowly at me. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. “And?” he says, a hint of challenge in his voice.

“So why didn’t you ever admit that to me? Why’d you let me think that someone stole the tiger head from the locker room?”

“This is good,” Felix says. “When the pack turns on itself.”

“Shut up,” Sasha hisses.

“You were wearing the tiger head that night!” I accuse him. “Why’d you lie?”

Jude stands up straighter. “Yeah, fine, I was,” he says. “I was there. The baseball team had just crushed Lincoln, fourteen to two, and I was suffering from an excess of school spirit, okay? The whole thing was totally spontaneous.”

“So you were drunk in your tiger head.”

“Guilty,” Jude says. “So what.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! What else do I not know? Was it you who pissed—”

Jude cuts me off with a slice of his hand. “First of all, Sherlock, there isn’t enough alcohol in the world to get me to whip out my junk in front of the jock brigade. And second of all, do you even remember the Picture? The pisser is wearing cargo shorts. I wouldn’t be caught dead in cargo shorts. Even if I did die and someone dressed my corpse in cargo shorts, I would come back from the afterlife to make a costume change! And I can’t even believe that you’d ever consider the possibility that—”

I interrupt him because I realize I don’t need him to say anything more. This is a repeat of our fight in his garage and I just got him to forgive me. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know. You’re right. It could never have been you. But—dude, why didn’t you tell me you partied with Parker Harris?”

“I have my arty reputation to keep up.” Jude doesn’t look at me when he says this.

“Are you guys, like, friends?”

“No, we’re not friends. Isn’t that obvious? We’ve merely been at social gatherings simultaneously. Like this one.”

“I don’t think anything’s obvious anymore,” I say. “And I don’t know why you had to keep anything a secret from me.” I can’t tell him that I’m hurt or even really explain why I am.

I look over at Parker. He’s by the snack table, laughing at Chip’s relentlessly terrible dancing. He looks happy—maybe happier than I’ve ever seen him. Like he just won the state championship football game and a lottery scratch-off. And once again I think about how unfair it is that the only one of us who’s actually guilty is also the only one who hasn’t actually suffered.

I motion Sasha and the camera to follow me as I walk right up to him and stop; my head comes almost to his shoulders. “You’d better hope no one posts a picture of this party, huh?”

It takes a minute for Parker to process what I’m talking about. Then he looks down at the beer bottle he’s holding and goes, “Yeah, I guess.”

“Of course, we’re filming everything,” I add. “So maybe something’ll find its way onto YouTube.”

He’s totally unfazed. “School year’s almost done, bro. Chase’ll keep me until then.”

This pisses me off. “You don’t care, do you? You’re untouchable. And what’s so crazy is that you don’t even give a shit that I’m supposedly the one who posted the picture.”

“But you said you didn’t,” Parker says.

“And you just believe me.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“You don’t know me! Maybe I’m a pathological liar. I don’t get it—if the whole world thinks that I got you expelled, how come you don’t?”

Parker says, “I don’t care who got me expelled. It’s worked out great for me.”

What I’d give to be big enough to throw a punch at his perfect cheekbones. “You’re digging that preppy asshole factory your dad sent you to, huh? You like those cravats?”

“Still don’t know what a cravat is,” Parker says, shrugging. “But listen, man, you got to loosen up. This is a party! It’s almost summer. Chill out! Have a fucking brew, yo. Let’s just be cool.” And then, unbelievably, he holds out his hand for me to shake. “Come on. Buds?”

I stare at it—the big pink paw that threw a record-breaking number of touchdowns last football season. That clutched the Jack Daniels in the infamous Picture. That once held Sasha’s slender fingers as they walked together down the halls.

“Shake his hand,” Sasha whispers.

I don’t want to do it, but I don’t want to cause a scene, either. I’m the host, aren’t I? I should try to be gracious. And so I reach out, and my palm meets Parker’s. When he grips my hand in his, my bones feel like matchsticks he could crush. But he doesn’t crush them. He gives me a big, friendly grin and then slaps me on the back with his other giant paw. “Thanks, bro,” he says. “Killer party.”





36


I know I’m supposed to let it go. But I just can’t. There are twenty people from my high school here—which means twenty potential interview subjects. There’s got to be someone here with a clue.