No,” Tebow says suddenly, putting up a hand to block the next speaker. Flatso is still holding the microphone, like she can’t decide whether to hand it over.
It’s Bloom.
“Why not?” he demands.
Brainzilla folds her arms across her chest. “You aren’t welcome here.”
I hear a murmur from the crowd, and my stomach goes funny. Bloom is glowering, his eyes shifting and snakelike, and I’m amazed that I ever thought he was handsome.
But he’s here, at the rally. And isn’t the point of the rally that we’re giving everyone a chance to speak?
“Zilla,” I murmur, “come on.”
She shoots me a warning look, like she knows what I’m going to say. But I say it anyway. “He deserves a chance. Everyone deserves a chance.”
Brainzilla throws her hands in the air. “Fine,” she snaps. Then she draws a deep breath in and says, “Okay.” A little more softly, like she really means it.
I nod at Flatso, who hands over the mic, and Bloom steps to the center of the stage. He clears his throat. “Listen, I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he says, and I’m once again back in my balloon, floating and happy. We did it! We really did it! We have reached Marty Bloom!
He looks back over his shoulder and catches my eye. Then he smiles, and turns back to the crowd. “I’m sorry you’re all such a bunch of losers.
“Look at you!” Marty shouts. “Blubbering and telling us your pathetic secrets! God—keep it to yourselves! All this blahblah just makes me want to punch you! And these guys”—he jerks his thumb back at the Freakshow—“they’re the worst! I mean, Maggie is insane. She was in a mental institution—remember that part of the story? She’s probably heading back there after this is all over! Right?”
He stands there a moment, like he expects a response. But the crowd is completely silent. Nobody speaks. Nobody moves.
Finally, I step forward. I touch Bloom’s shoulder, and he turns to look at me, smiling a hideous smile. I want to hit him. I want to claw at him. I want to scream. I want to say something brilliant and witty and devastating. But, in the end, I say the only thing I can think of.
“Boo,” I say.
Bloom laughs. “What?”
“Boo!” Eggy shouts. “Boooooooo!”
“Cut it out, loser,” Marty says, but, suddenly, the entire crowd is booing and hissing, and shouting for Bloom to get off the stage. He tries to say something else, but I can’t hear him—the crowd is too loud. Someone actually throws a shoe at his head. Flatso and Tebow don’t need any encouragement—they escort him from the stage.