Expelled(54)

Parker clenches and unclenches his fingers while Jude and I wait nervously. Finally, he says, “Okay. Fuck it. I’m ready.”

“What about Sasha?” Jude asks me.

I’ve been scanning the parking lot, the streets, and the sidewalk for the last ten minutes and there’s been no sign of her. “I guess she misses the final scene,” I say.

From inside the gymnasium comes the shriek of microphone feedback and then a reluctant hush as the assembly begins.

“Go time,” I say.

Right then, the emergency doors bang open to reveal Jere7my, grinning maniacally as he motions us inside. Felix hovers right behind him, his camera trained on us.

Palmieri stands at the podium, already spouting some BS about what a great school year it was and how next year is going to be even better. And suddenly I’m almost bowled over by nostalgia, of all ridiculous things: for how this giant room smells—like old wood and dry dust and new sneakers—for how the sounds bounce around beneath the high white ceiling, amplifying and distorting themselves, and for all the people inside it, chattering and laughing like nothing bad’s ever going to happen to them.

I think: I used to belong here.

Then Parker elbows me in the ribs and I snap back to reality. “Go time,” he whispers.

Together we stride across the floor, heading right for the assistant principal. The kids in the bleachers see us and start whispering, and Palmieri tells them to be quiet. When they don’t—when instead they get louder—he turns around.

He sees us, and his face twists into an expression of rage. He’s pointing his gnarled wrestler’s finger at us and shaking it, yelling something I can’t understand in the din. We keep on walking until we’re standing right in front of him. Then Parker hip-checks Palmieri, sending him reeling sideways, and steps behind the podium.

“Hey, guys, what’s up? I’m back to make a special announcement,” he says into the microphone, but everyone’s still going crazy and they won’t shut up. Parker holds up his hands for silence, though, and pretty quickly the room quiets. “Before I say my piece,” he goes on, “first I want to introduce someone you all know—someone you haven’t seen for a little while because he got kicked out, too. Everyone, please give a warm welcome to Theo Foster.”

Palmieri reaches out and catches my sleeve, but I shake him off. “Hi, everybody,” I say, leaning toward the mic. No one claps or anything, but they don’t start booing, either.

Palmieri’s grabbing at my elbow now, but Parker pulls him away. “Let the man speak,” I hear him say.

I clear my throat as I scan the crowd. I can’t read their faces, and I have no idea how they’re going to react to what comes next.

“I know a lot of you have seen me walking around with a camera, and I’ve talked to some of you,” I say. “I asked you to help me figure out who posted the picture that got me expelled. But none of you could help. Eventually I figured out the answer myself, and I confronted the guy who did it.”

Standing beside me, Parker gives a little wave.

“Parker Harris has admitted that he posted the picture to my Twitter feed,” I go on. “Parker? I think you have something to say.” I hand him the mic.

Parker takes a deep breath. “Guilty,” he says.

A rumbling murmur starts to build in the crowd, but Parker manages to quiet them again. Maybe it’s the force of his alpha personality or maybe they’re actually interested in the truth. As far as I can tell, that’s not usually part of our high school curriculum.

“I didn’t post the picture to hurt Theo,” he tells the crowd. “I did it because Coach Higgins…” Parker pauses. Swallows. Grips the mic like he might be trying to strangle it. “Because Coach Higgins gave me juice.” He looks around the huge room. “Steroids,” he clarifies.

For one single second, you can, as the saying goes, hear a teeny, tiny pin drop. And then the entire room erupts. Palmieri shoves me to the side and makes a grab for the mic. Parker yanks it away, though, so he and I are the only ones who can hear Palmieri’s desperate plea. “Everyone, please return to your classrooms. Teachers, will you please escort your students—”

But Parker isn’t done. “Greatness doesn’t come cheap! That’s what Higgins used to tell us. And he’s right. You’ve got to work hard to be good, and you’ve got to give it all to be great. But you know what? I did the burpees. I did the one-armed knuckle push-ups. I ran suicide sprints until I puked, okay? But I didn’t want to stick needles in my ass anymore. So I bugged out.”

By now the room’s gone nuts. People are shouting, texting, and taking pictures. Nobody needs to bother with a secret Twitter account this time around, that’s for sure.

“Anyway,” Parker says. “I thought you all should know the truth. Peace out.” Then he does a freaking mic drop, turns, and walks away.

Palmieri stands there, dumbfounded, as Parker slams open the emergency exit doors.

Following right behind him, with Jude close at my heels, I can see a news van already pulling into the parking lot. That was crazy fast.

I shoot Parker a look, and he nods. Jude goes, “On your mark…”

We’ve had enough of cameras.

Without another word, Parker breaks left, and Jude and I rocket right, clean as a football trick play. No one follows us. We’re breathless, we’re sprinting, we’re free.