Here is the thing about Facebook: Its power can be used for evil… but can also be used for good. So we harness its power and invite everyone to the Scream Out. We send e-mails and put flyers up around town. We’ve planned the Scream Out for Saturday, which is only two days away. That means turnout will be small. But, in a way, the fact that we don’t have much time is an advantage—there’s less time for the school to find out, and less time for us to come to our senses and back out.
Flatso’s mom works for the mayor’s office, so she gets us a permit for the town green. Eggy knows a bunch of musicians, and a local band called Flying Squirrel says we can borrow their microphones and speakers. Zitsy’s dad gets some carpenter friends to volunteer to build us a stage. Tebow even persuades the local bakery to donate a bunch of cookies. What else do you need to do to organize a bunch of people to get together and scream? I mean, I could pretty much do that in my living room with zero planning whatsoever.
On Saturday, Tebow shows up about an hour before the Scream Out to pick me up. He seems a little nervous as we drive downtown in his dad’s old car, but I’m not. Even if it’s just the Freakshow, I’m ready to scream and eat cookies.
There’s a light dusting of snow on the ground, but the air is warm, which has made the day misty and gray. It softens the edges of the buildings and trees beyond the car window and makes me feel as if I’m drifting through a cloud.
The traffic slows as we near downtown, and Tebow frowns as we inch forward. “Something’s going on,” he says. “There are a ton of cars.”
I lean forward to peer through the window. “A concert, or something?” I ask. “This is going to mess up the rally.”
“We should’ve checked the town calendar.” He turns down a side street, but cars are parked on either side. We end up parking six blocks away and walking toward the town green. I feel the sun slanting in toward us, and I wonder if some of the mist will burn off and the snow will melt.
As we get closer, we notice a lot of familiar faces on foot. “Hey, man,” Tommy Marinachi says.
“Where you headed?” Tebow asks, pounding Tommy’s fist and nodding at a couple of other guys from the football team.
“Scream Out,” Tommy replies, and my surprise hasn’t even had time to wear off before we turn a corner and come to the town green, which is thronged. I mean THRONGED. Yes—it’s so crowded that I need an SAT word to describe it.
Horns are blaring, and traffic is totally messed up, and I see Zitsy standing at the microphone, looking joyful. The crowd is even better than I had dreamed it—all the Nations are represented. It’s like the High School UN. Even the Haters are there.