Expelled(43)

And there she is, bright and alive and small enough to hold in my hand. The camera is focused on her pale, lovely face—and in the background I can see myself, blurry, stalking away in fury. Sasha turns around and watches me go.

“Shit,” she says. And then she doesn’t say anything for a while. Doesn’t even look at the camera. But Jude keeps filming, and eventually she looks up and starts to talk. “Look, everybody has secrets,” she says. “We wouldn’t be ourselves if we said, out loud, everything that we thought. We’d barely even be people—we’d be boundaryless amalgams of boring, basic desires with a dash or two of average, utterly familiar fears.” She pauses. Gives a flicker of an embarrassed half smile. “Okay, maybe that sounds a little pretentious. I think what I’m trying to say is that it’s our secrets that make us who we are, just as much as our hopes and our dreams do.”

At this point Jere7my can be heard muttering skeptically offscreen. Sasha ignores him and goes on. “So I think secrets can be a good thing. And maybe they’re only not good when they weigh on you—when you feel like your life depends on keeping them. I didn’t feel bad for stealing the money. When the fact that I’d taken it was a secret between me and the anonymous world, it didn’t bother me at all. But when it became a secret between me and you and Theo, then it started to weigh on me. Not the theft—the lie. So I decided to tell, even though it would risk our friendship. Even though I was safe, because you dopes never would’ve figured it out.”

There’s another grunting sound off camera, and Sasha raises one eyebrow. “Really, Jude?” she says. “You had your suspicions?”

I can hear Jude say softly, “Yeah,” and Sasha smiles at him.

“I’m impressed,” she says.

“It’s not that I’m so smart,” Jude says. “It’s just that, statistically speaking, most people who are convicted of a crime are actually guilty of it.”

Sasha cocks her head. “Cite your source,” she says.

“Whatever,” Jude says, “I always knew you were crazy.”

Sasha smiles again. Then her face goes serious. “God, I thought admitting it would make me feel better. But I feel the same. Or actually, no, I feel worse. I hurt Theo, and I never wanted to do that.”

“Maybe you should tell another secret,” Jude says. “Maybe one wasn’t enough, and there’s something still weighing on you.”

Sasha’s eyes go bright with tears. She presses her lips together and shakes her head back and forth. “That’s all I have,” she whispers.

Then the video stops. I put down the phone. And I know in my heart that she’s lying.





41


What am I supposed to do now? It’s not like I can just call Sasha up and tell her that everything’s okay, because it seems pretty clear to me that everything isn’t. Not with me, and not with her.

Anyway, she hates that word. Okay.

I press Play again and listen to her voice, tinny and small through the phone speaker.

We wouldn’t be ourselves if we said, out loud, everything that we thought.

It’s crazy, but in a way, I barely even know Sasha Ellis. But then that fact seems crazy in a totally different way. We’ve spent a lot of time together since that birthday I got to spend in an expulsion hearing—shouldn’t those hours add up to something?

But maybe it’s impossible to really know anyone—even your friend, your crush, or your own dead father.

I sit down at my desk. I can see the letter my dad wrote me, sandwiched between the spines of two of my favorite books, just the edge of it sticking out. I touch it like I’m expecting it to burn me.

When it doesn’t, I slide it out. I take a deep breath. I don’t think I’m strong enough to read this.

But I guess I’m going to do it anyway.


My dear Theo,

This isn’t a letter I ever thought I would have to write. But here I am, on my tenth draft no less. I hope this time I do it right, because it’s very late and I am losing strength.

Being your father was the greatest joy of my life. That is what you must always remember.

When you were born colicky, I held you as you cried all night.

When you learned to walk, son, you took your first steps toward me.

When you were six, I taught you how to throw a fastball, because that’s what dads are supposed to do, right? Well, you quickly broke my nose with one.

When you were eight, I woke you every summer morning before dawn so we could fish as the sun rose over our pond.

When you were twelve and we both got pneumonia, we watched movies side by side on the couch until, on day four, our DVD player spontaneously combusted. I think it objected to having to play DIE HARD for the tenth time.

When you were fifteen, you were suddenly taller than me.

When you were sixteen, you saw that I was sick. And looking you in the eye as I told you what that sickness meant was a pain deeper than I had ever experienced.

There are only so many tomorrows—that’s true for all of us, whether we want to admit it or not.

Being your father was the greatest joy of my life.

I don’t mind dying, Theo. What I do mind—what shatters me—is leaving you and your mother.

But nothing’s working right anymore, and it is only getting worse.