The Truth About Alice (18 page)

Brandon put his hand on my shoulder. My pads were off and I was naked from the waist up. My body ached like it always does after a game, but I can still remember now how good it felt to have Brandon's grip on my shoulder. Like a steady weight. Like a small hug.

“Look, man, it isn't anything. Don't let this mess with you, man,” he whispered, right into my ear. “You and me, we're gonna take this team to state by senior year. I'm not kidding around, man. We're gonna do it and you know it. Now shake this off, buddy.”

Of course, we never got the chance to. Take the team to state, I mean. But that's the moment I try to think about when I think about Brandon Fitzsimmons. Not those last, stupid, crazy moments in the truck or my lies about him and Alice. I try to think about his whisper in my ear. He could be a jerk sometimes, I admit it. But he could also be a real friend. He was my best friend, and I'm so sorry he's gone. I wish like hell that he was still around.

Kurt

As I explained to Alice about the night on the rooftop with Brandon so many months ago, I could tell she wasn't reacting well. I could see how quickly the warm, friendly moment we'd just shared was leaving us. First of all, she kept bringing her eyebrows together in a frown. Second, she finished the can of Lone Star too quickly and stood up to get another one before I was halfway done with the story. Third, when I finally finished illustrating—in halting, nervous words—the fact that Brandon had admitted to me that the entire event at Elaine's party had been a lie and I had known this all along, all throughout our young friendship, Alice Franklin exhaled and then said softly, almost as if she were about to laugh at something that wasn't funny at all: “Are you kidding me?”

I said nothing. I simply swallowed and nodded. It was over. I knew that right then.

“Wow,” Alice said, her expression darting between wounded and angry, “is there anyone in this crappy town that I can trust for more than five seconds?”

I wanted to tell her there had never been a time she couldn't trust me and there never would be. It ached that she couldn't see that. But confusion rested on Alice's face; it was the same expression I had seen when she worked out a difficult math problem. She rubbed her thumb up and down the side of the can of Lone Star. Finally, she spoke.

“So you're saying you had information that could have, like, cleared my name and you didn't…” her voice trailed off. She broke eye contact with me and stared blankly at the kitchen table. “Not that it would have mattered, I guess.” That last part came out sounding as if she'd forgotten I was even sitting there. Detached. Almost cold.

“Alice, I just could never figure out the right time to tell you,” I said, surprised that I had the courage to keep trying to explain myself. And somewhat frustrated that I even needed to—that she couldn't see just a sliver of my side of the story. “I wanted to tell you, but at the same time, we barely knew each other when I started helping you with math. And then as we grew closer, I wasn't sure how to approach you about it. I almost did, that night I gave you your Christmas present. And the day we had grilled cheese sandwiches at my house. And about a dozen times in between.”

“And you didn't because why?” Her voice was almost a whisper.

“Because the longer time went on without me saying anything, the stupider it seemed that I'd never said anything at all,” I explained. “And I was afraid
this
might happen.” At the word
this
, I motioned with my hand at the space between us. I could feel it widening by the moment.

“Well I guess it is happening,” Alice said, and I crumpled inside as I saw her eyes grow glassy with tears.

My heart was collapsing.

“Alice, if you want, I'll put it out there. I'll put it online. I'll take out ads in the paper. I'll hang banners from the front of the school.”

“And what are they going to say, ‘Alice Franklin Is Not a Slut'?” She squeezed her eyes shut to keep back the tears and then opened them and looked right at me. Then, in a voice she might have used in her past, she said, “Besides, who would believe
you
?” A huff escaped from her lips and she crossed her arms in front of her. And then she laughed a little. A cutting, mocking laugh.

The laugh was what hurt the most.

I attempted to ignore the sting of it and the obvious implication that the
you
Alice was referring to—that, of course, would be
me
—was nothing more than parasitic scum. But it was impossible. I tried to tell myself that Alice's words were coming from a place of hurt, but I was angry with her. I wanted to shrug off how I felt, but I couldn't.

Because for the first time ever when it came to Alice, I felt something I hadn't felt before.

Used.

“How can you say that to me?” I heard myself asking, voice quaking. “How? How could you ever question that I don't feel terrible about this? That I wouldn't do anything for you? After all these months? After everything?”

Alice just sat there at the kitchen table with the chipped yellow Formica and the two cans of Lone Star beer in front of her. She wouldn't look at me. She wouldn't acknowledge me at all. All she did was roll her eyes.

I reached for my bag and my car keys.

“Alice,” I said, taking a deep breath, “I know that you, of all people, recognize that life isn't fair. That life can be cruel, arbitrary even. So maybe it's wrong for me to ask you to recognize the unfairness of this situation. Because this isn't fair, the way you're treating me right now. This isn't right.”

In a sharp voice she snapped, “Why don't you get out?”

“I was already leaving,” I told her.

And I did.

Elaine

Misty has been doing my hair since I was in fifth grade, and she's only ever screwed up once. And that was technically my fault since I told her to give me bangs and I look absurd with bangs. Anyway, Misty's been doing my hair since I cared about having my hair done, so when I needed it done for the last dance of the year, of course I booked her early. And of course I expected to have to sit around at the salon because Misty is always running at least thirty minutes behind.

What I didn't expect when I showed up on the Saturday of the dance was Alice Franklin sitting in the waiting area of the Curl Up and Dye, flipping through some ancient copy of
Teen Vogue
.

I don't know why. I mean, Alice still had hair after everything that happened. She still needed to get it cut, obviously. But all I could think of when I walked in was, okay, this is random and awkward.

She looked up when she heard the jangle of the bells hanging off the door handle and then looked back down at the
Teen Vogue
super fast like she was oblivious to my presence. But her cheeks reddened a little, and she was doing that thing where you act like you're reading but you're so clearly not. I could hear Misty in the back room, chatting away with somebody. There wasn't anyone at the front desk. It was just me and Alice. I picked up a copy of
Cosmo
and started turning pages.

After about two minutes I just couldn't stand the silence anymore. Frankly, it was too weird. Maybe it was all the chemicals Misty uses. Maybe it was the fact that I'd already read that issue of
Cosmo
which I was holding in my hands. But all of a sudden, I was talking to Alice Franklin. For the very first time since my party almost a year ago.

“Do you have a one o'clock?” I asked.

Alice brought her gaze up over the top of the
Teen Vogue
and I know I saw her eyebrows jump up a bit like she was surprised I'd said anything. To be honest, I was surprised myself. Alice looked back down at the magazine and said, “Try twelve-thirty.”

“Oh my God, seriously?”

“Yes.”

“God.”

Total silence.

I put down my
Cosmo
and crossed my arms over my chest. Alice still wouldn't look at me.

“Who's back there taking so long anyway?” I asked.

Alice waited a second before responding. “Ms. Cooper.”

“Oh God,” I groaned. “We'll be here all day.” Ms. Cooper was the Healy High secretary, and she was always trying to get us to believe she was a real redhead. She so wasn't.

Alice snapped her magazine shut and stared at me. “Why are you talking to me?”

I shrugged my shoulders a little. Maybe I was talking to her because I knew I could. I could talk to her because I was Elaine O'Dea, and I could decide to talk to anybody I wanted to whenever I wanted to talk to them. But I didn't say that out loud.

“In a few weeks we're going to be seniors,” I told her. “I think maybe we're getting too old for this shit.”

As soon as I said it, I realized I believed every word of what I'd just said.

Alice rolled her eyes and laughed a little, but not a funny ha-ha laugh. More like an I-can't-believe-you-would-say-that laugh. “Easy for you to say,” she huffed.

She had a point, and I didn't say anything for a minute or so. I heard the tock of Misty's clock and the laughter between her and Ms. Cooper. I stared at the faded pink linoleum under my new strappy sandals.

We were going to be seniors. And maybe she had texted Brandon while he was driving, but that didn't mean that Brandon had to answer his phone. And maybe she did have sex with two guys in the same night, but hadn't Brandon probably had sex with five times that number of girls the summer before junior year alone? And maybe she had made out with him in the coat closet during the eighth grade dance when he and I were totally and completely
on again
, but hadn't Brandon been the one to choose to make out in the coat closet in the first place? And wasn't the eighth grade graduation dance pretty damn far away from senior year?

“Alice,” I said, and I waited until she made eye contact with me again before I kept going, “look, if you want to start coming around my table at lunch again, you know, just to say hi, it might be a way to start smoothing things over. I mean, if you're interested.”

She just stared at me, expressionless.

“I mean, I know you've been hanging out a lot with Kurt Morelli and everything,” I said, although it occurred to me that I hadn't seen the two of them together much these past few weeks. “So maybe you're not even interested or whatever. But I'm just putting it out there.”

Alice just kept looking at me. Not in a mad way, I don't think. But just sort of staring like she couldn't believe what she was hearing. I guess if I had been her I wouldn't have believed it either. I gave it one more shot. “Are you getting your hair done to go to the dance with Kurt?”

Alice gave me one of her big honking laughs that she was known for and that I hadn't heard all year, but it was cut with a tone that sounded super bitter. “No, I'm not going to the dance with Kurt Morelli or anyone else. And I don't hang around with him anymore, anyway,” Alice said. “He's no different from anyone else in this town.”

I was surprised by what she said, but I was also sure that Alice couldn't be more wrong. Kurt Morelli had been different from everyone in Healy since the day he'd moved here back in elementary school, and he'd been proving he was different ever since.

“Oh, sorry. I thought he was your friend.”

“Well, I thought a lot of people were my friends,” Alice said. It could have come out sounding a lot icier than it did, but the way Alice said it—like she was just flatly stating the facts we both knew were true—made her words feel like they were hanging right over me. I thought about the Slut Stall. Part of me wanted to tell her I'd only written in it that one time and everything, but I didn't think Alice would care if it had been one time or twenty.

“I'm sorry I brought up Kurt,” I answered. “I thought you guys liked hanging out together, but I guess I was wrong. I know he's sort of freaky deaky or whatever, but you can't say he's anything like the rest of us. First off, he hung out with you when no one else would, and it honestly seemed like you guys were having a good time. Plus, he's, like, a crazy genius. He knows more than the teachers.”

Alice just looked away, down at the floor. “Yeah, well. I guess I have a way of turning everything around me into shit. Maybe he was my friend. Maybe he wasn't. I don't know anymore. Whatever.”

“Fine. I was just saying.”

A few more moments of silence passed, but Alice broke it this time.

“Who are you going to the dance with?”

“Jacob Saunders,” I said with a shrug. Jacob was a graduating senior and captain of the varsity basketball team, and if you want me to be honest he was about as exciting as a bag of hammers.

Just then Misty stuck her head out and told us she was so sorry she was running late and did we mind waiting just a few more seconds?

I rolled my eyes at Alice and she rolled her eyes back at me. Then Alice picked up her copy of
Teen Vogue
and started reading it again. I figured she was done talking, so I grabbed a magazine and we sat there reading in silence until Ms. Cooper left and Mindy called for Alice to come on back.

Just before she disappeared behind the reception area, Alice turned around and said, “Have a good time at the dance.”

“Thanks,” I answered.

I felt pretty good about what I had said, and I hoped Alice was grateful I'd said it. After all, she had to have known that me being nice to her in the cafeteria would be a sign to everybody else that it was time to stop the mess that had been going on all year. She had to know I had that kind of power.

But the truth is, I knew there was a pretty good chance Alice would never come by my table on Monday or any other day. The truth is, I wouldn't blame Alice Franklin if she never talked to me or anyone else in this town again.