Expelled(9)

Despite Larry taking the term coffee jerk literally, Five Points is a nice place, with fast Wi-Fi and twenty-five-cent refills; you can caffeinate yourself to a dangerous degree for under three bucks. It was the place I came after school to tweet from @ArlingtonConfessions.

I always thought the secret account was fun, like a goofy public service: a place for kids to vent about school or spread (mostly) harmless gossip.

But it seems so stupid now.


Rumor has it TCT went home drunk enough last weekend to introduce self to own dad #oops #grounded



That was the last tweet I sent. The next post was the Picture, and after that the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan with truly stunning force.

Larry, who’s bussing a table next to me, tosses the Pinewood Register into my lap. It’s open to the Opinion page—which has my face emblazoned on it. My stomach gives a lurch as I pick up the paper.

Good Kids Gone Bad? the headline asks. Below it are blowups of our junior class photos: me, Jude, and Parker. Because none of us is really smiling, it looks like a row of mug shots.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, the columnist writes. But one racy picture was worth three expulsions. Was one night’s fun worth compromising entire futures?

I close up the paper. I can confidently say that the answer to that question is no.

Then Jenna Tucker and Lulu Trinh saunter into Five Points, mid-giggle. Until four days ago we were in government class together.

Jenna and Lulu are nice girls—second tier, socially speaking, like me and Jude—and now they’re standing by the pastry case, debating what baked good to split.

“Live it up, you guys,” I say glumly. “Get your own bear claw.”

Jenna turns around, sees me, and immediately looks surprised. “Hey, Theo,” she says after a tiny pause.

Lulu elbows her. She’s trying to look anywhere but at me.

“I’m sorry about… you know,” Jenna says, and then Lulu grabs her arm and spins her around so their backs are to me again.

“Expulsion isn’t contagious, Lulu,” I call. But she pretends like she doesn’t hear me.

This little interaction has made it perfectly clear: I’m no longer on the second tier. The only question now is how far down I’ve fallen.

I watch out the window as the two of them hurry to class, and a moment later I see Palmieri pulling up in his late model Mustang. It’s a pretty serious muscle car for an assistant principal, but—as everyone who’s ever spoken to him for more than thirty seconds knows—he was a champion wrestler in high school, and maybe the car helps him relive the glory days.

He climbs out of the Mustang with a take-out coffee and a grin. I don’t know why he looks so pumped, considering his school’s been in the news for ten days straight.

Some Arlington kids make fun of Palmieri for his shiny dress shirts and his irritating CrossFit habit of high-fiving people as they stand in line for the salad bar. I never had a problem with Palmieri, though—not until now. He could have been on my side during that hearing, when I was alone and defenseless. But instead he stood with the school board robots, and because of that, I’d really like to slash the tires of his ridiculous car.

I’m not going to do that, obviously, because I’m in enough trouble already. I’m just going to get some more coffee.

I dig a quarter out of my pants and go to put it into the refill cup. But suddenly Larry’s blocking my way, as big and imposing as a bear in flannel.

“Hey, Larry,” I say. “Did you hear the one about the guy who takes his pet octopus to—”

“No,” Larry says.

“Okay, well, they go to this bar, and the guy says—”

“No,” Larry says again.

He’s taking unfriendly to the next level here, but I can roll with it. I’ve got other jokes—and coffee money.

“So the funny thing about pandas is—”

Larry says, “Enough, kid.”

“What’s the matter?” I ask, confused now.

Larry’s lip curls in disgust. “Think about that girl. It’s terrible what you did with her picture.”

I sink down into the nearest chair. “Larry, I didn’t post—”

But Larry won’t let me finish a single sentence. “You’ve had enough coffee, kid,” he says. “So go on home now. And don’t bother coming back.”

I don’t have it in me to protest anymore. I’m banned from my high school and banned from Pinewood’s only decent coffee shop. Obviously I’m not even on the social ladder anymore. I’ve fallen into the bottomless pit beneath it.





9


“I think we have an enemy,” I say to Jude’s back.

We’re in his garage, and I’m watching him work on a giant canvas jumbled with figures and text and dripping paint. It reminds me a little of Jean-Michel Basquiat’s paintings.

Jude scribbles black paint across the surface, obscuring the face of a creature that may or may not be Alfie, the stuffed-animal humper. He doesn’t turn around. “I think you’re crazy,” he says.

“But how else do you explain what happened?” I demand. “I mean, somebody stole your tiger head from the locker room. And then whoever that was got so wasted he whipped his dick out in front of an iPhone. And that someone uploaded the picture to—”