Expelled(48)

“That’s a pretty good sob story,” I say. “But you didn’t need to take me and Jude down with you when you went.”

“But the picture had to be posted—everybody had to see it—or else Higgins and my dad would’ve denied that anything ever happened. Fuck.” He puts his face in his hands.

“So why didn’t you put it on your Facebook page or something?” I demand.

“It had to look like someone else did it. It had to look like someone was out to get me. Because if I had an enemy, I couldn’t be accused of sabotaging myself, because I’d already tried that once, remember? This way it looked like I was the victim—not the perp.”

“So you picked me. And Jude and I are just your collateral damage,” I say quietly.

Parker looks at me. “The Jude thing—that was just a mistake. But, yeah. You were collateral damage.” He pauses. “What are you going to do now?”

I shrug. “I don’t—”

Suddenly he’s diving for the GoPro, trying to yank it out of my hand. I whip my arm out of reach, my finger clutched around the tiny camera, and I don’t even think. I’m up and running for my life.

Surprised, Parker stumbles, giving me a few seconds’ head start. But I needed more—I can already hear him breathing hard behind me. “Hold up,” he’s yelling. “I just want to see it—”

I will my legs to go faster, faster. My calves are on fire, and the air sears my lungs. I hit the corner and swing right, dodging a delivery truck that clips the curb and misses me by a foot. The guy honks. Parker shouts, “Theo, hold up!”

As I swing around the other side of the truck, which is rumbling to a stop, I see my opportunity. Parker will absolutely catch me—but only if I keep running. I pull up short, take a deep breath, and then launch myself into the open passenger side. The driver stares at me in shock.

“What the—”

“Shhh!” I hiss, my rib cage heaving.

I press myself against the cold metal wall as Parker comes shooting around the truck and pauses in confusion. Where’d I go? The street is empty except for a kid riding a tricycle and his grandma walking beside him.

“Shit,” Parker says. “Theo?”

Naturally I don’t answer. And then Parker just starts running again, as if he thinks he can still catch me.

I laugh out loud—I can’t believe it worked. I watch him get smaller and smaller, and then I step down out of the truck.

“Thanks,” I say to the driver. “You basically just saved my life.”

The driver shakes his head. “Kids,” he mutters. He spits out his open door. “Bunch of degenerates.”





46


I’m guzzling a Coke and wondering if somewhere there’s a tube of Bengay for my overextended hamstrings when the back door opens and Sasha slips into the kitchen.

“Hey,” she says softly, easing the door shut behind her.

She looks pale, like she hasn’t slept much lately. She’s wearing cutoffs, a Sleater-Kinney T-shirt, and a knitted scarf around her neck. Her tiny feet are bare.

“Hey,” I say back. I’m not jumping up and down with glee to see her, but after what just happened with Parker, I don’t have it in me to be mad at her anymore. She screwed up, sure, but at least she didn’t bring anyone else down with her.

“Can I sit?” she asks.

“Go for it,” I say.

We take chairs at opposite ends of the kitchen table. It’s quiet for a minute. I watch her, wondering what she’s here for, while she looks everywhere but at me: at the refrigerator covered in ancient photographs, the sink half full of dishes, and the microwave that turns frozen logs into the steaming burritos that keep me alive. Compared to her shiny marble and stainless steel kitchen, mine is something of a shithole—I realize that. But I’m not going to apologize for it.

Eventually Sasha looks me in the face. She unwinds the scarf from her neck, wads it up, and pushes it toward me. “This,” she says. “I made it for you.”

I suck in my breath. I remember the first night I went to her house and saw her knitting, and how it shocked me that the wild, brilliant Sasha Ellis made things out of knots and yarn.

“Is this my belated birthday present?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “Birthdays are lame—why celebrate the day you were forced into being? This is an apology scarf.”

It’s sitting on the table between us in a dark blue puddle. It looks very soft.

“My grandma used to make prayer shawls,” Sasha goes on. “With each stitch, she’d say a little prayer for the person she was making it for. This scarf is like that, except that I’m an atheist, so as I was knitting I was thinking that I was sorry I hurt you. Sorry that I lied to you.”

I offer her a half smile. “Well, you’re hardly the first person to lie to me. Or the last,” I say. “I talked to Parker—”

Sasha waves her hand through the air like his name is a gnat she can shoo away. “Can we not talk about him for a minute? I’m not done with my explanation,” she says. “I realize it’s ludicrous to give someone a scarf on an eighty-degree day.”

“It looks really nice.” But I still don’t pick it up. “It’s funny because you never struck me as the knitting type,” I say. “It seems like a kind of grandma thing to do.”