The Truth About Alice (19 page)

There are some things, like your eighth grade boyfriend kissing some other girl at a middle school dance, that are easy to forgive.

And there are some things that are just unforgivable.

Alice

It's a long walk to get to where I'm going, almost to the other side of town. I think it seems longer than it really is since spring in Texas lasts about two weeks, so essentially it's already summer which means it's ridiculously hot. We have a few weeks left of school and the heat is just all-consuming. Every year it arrives and people act like they can't believe it's already here again. Like maybe if they'd been good all year long the 100-degree weather would somehow pass us by just once.

But it shows up every year, whether we like it or not.

I guess that's one of the reasons I've chosen to make this walk in the evening. The heat isn't so bad then, even if there are a few mosquitoes around, and it's actually sort of peaceful to walk the Healy streets at dusk. Maybe one of the two or three good things about living in this crappy town is it's small enough that you can walk pretty much anywhere to get there.

Even if it is hot enough to melt tar.

Like just the other week, I'd walked to the Curl Up and Dye to get my hair cut.

On the way there I'd had to walk past the Pizza Hut and the Wal-Mart and the elementary school, and just like I did whenever I had time alone to think, I thought about the rejection.

The rumors.

The unending crap on the walls of that bathroom stall that I couldn't stop reading even though I knew I should and that nobody ever bothered to clean because black Sharpie doesn't come off so easily. (And I should know because I tried.)

How much did it hurt?

It was like a million paper cuts on my heart.

Because it was slow and not all at once. It wasn't a complete flip-flop of everything overnight. It was more gradual than that.

Which was actually worse, to be honest with you. At first, it was so subtle I thought maybe I was imagining it.

“Oh, Alice, I'm sorry, I forgot to save you a seat.”

“Oh, Alice, I never got that text. Something is weird with my phone.”

“Oh, nothing, Alice. We're just laughing at a stupid joke.”

Obviously, I wasn't imagining it.

But it had to be gradual. So people would get used to it. So it would become easy for them to treat me like shit. So my best friend since freshman year could justify dumping me and telling everyone I had an abortion. So they could have the Slut Stall and enjoy having it.

So there could be enough time for me to become subhuman in their eyes.

I really can't handle talking about this for too long because it just hurts too much, but I do want to say that there is one thing I've learned about people: they don't get that mean and nasty overnight. It's not human nature.

If you give people enough time, eventually they'll do the most heartbreaking stuff in the world.

 

 

But now I was taking another walk. Past Memorial Park where families have picnics on the weekends and sometimes kids from Healy High go to smoke pot. Past the lit-up Walgreens sign advertising toilet paper on special. Past the First Methodist Church of Healy and St. Helen's and Salem Lutheran and Calvary Baptist Church, whose church sign reads “YOU THINK IT'S HOT HERE?”

They post that message every May. It's as much like clockwork as the heat itself.

My legs ache, and the sweat is trickling down my neck. I'm grateful for my short hair. I turn into a neighborhood full of some of the oldest homes in Healy, rambling two-story houses with wraparound porches and big yards. They're old and hard to keep up, I think. It's not like it's the rich people neighborhood. Honestly, I don't think Healy actually has any people living here who are really rich because if you had a ton of money, why would you choose to live here? But if I had to pick my favorite neighborhood in this pathetic little town, this one would be it.

Probably not just because of the houses. But because of who lives here.

I've been to this house once before, and as I walk up the steps to the porch, I check the time on my phone. I have a minute or so to wait and as I wait, my heart marches to a tune of nervousness and anticipation.

Finally, I take a deep breath and knock. I've told myself I'll count to 100 before walking away. By the time I make it to twelve the door swings open.

Standing there is Kurt Morelli.

“Hello, Alice,” he says, and when he sees that I am smiling, he smiles, too.

Things I Noticed About Kurt Morelli After He Started Tutoring Me

• We're just about the same height, but he couldn't look me in the eye for the first month that he tutored me. Because I made him so nervous.

• He gave off the vibe of liking me the entire time—from the moment I got that note in my locker, which, by the way, I almost didn't open because I thought it was going to be some rude, disgusting note complete with a gross cartoon of me. (It happened a couple of times.) But I did read the note, and I knew he liked me, but I also knew that he wouldn't try anything. At least, I believed that initially. And anyway, I did need the help in math. Then that first night I thought maybe he assumed I was
so
slutty I
would
sleep with him in exchange for math help. After all, who else was lining up to sleep with Kurt Morelli? I still smile to myself when I think about his face when I accused him of that. He looked like he wanted to melt into a puddle under the kitchen table just hearing the words “sleep with me” come out of my mouth. And then when he told me he thought I just deserved someone to be nice to me, I knew that even if he did like me, he wasn't going to try anything. And he never did.

• He's ridiculously smart. Like, ridiculously. I don't understand probably twenty percent of the words he uses. One time I told him that, and he smiled and said that it came from reading too much. “Is there such a thing as reading too much?” I asked him. “No, I guess not,” he said, and he blushed again. In addition to being ridiculously smart, he is also a ridiculous blusher.

• When he eats, he chews each bite exactly seven times. I don't think he's aware of this. I noticed it the night I bought us pizza and the day he had me over for grilled cheese sandwiches. It's a little weird, I'll grant you that. But it's also sort of reassuring.

• He is an incredible gift giver. I felt so stupid when I didn't know what a first edition was, but when he told me, it made the copy of
The Outsiders
even better than I thought it was when I first opened it. I keep it on my nightstand and when I'm having an especially crappy day, like when I think even the teachers are looking at me weird, I pull it out and I read the note Johnny wrote to Ponyboy on his death bed. The one where he tells him to stay gold.

 

 

“Do you want to sit down?” he asks, and I nod. We take a seat on the porch swing.

“Are you home alone?” I ask him.

“My grandmother is at church,” he says. “Wednesday night fellowship.”

“Of course,” I say with a grin.

“So,…” Kurt says. “I got your note.”

“The one I slipped into your locker?”

Kurt nods yes. “I was wondering where you got that clever idea.” He chuckles at his own joke. I love it when Kurt is silly. When he is, it's like this perfect mix of doing something that seems totally out of character but is actually totally in character once you get to know him.

“So you read it?” I ask.

“Yes,” Kurt says, and I wonder if he has also memorized the words I chose so carefully the night before. Here's what it said:

Dear Kurt. Dearest Kurt. My dear Kurt. I want you to know that none of what happened before matters. I want you to know it's okay you didn't tell me about Brandon sooner. I want to tell you that I'm sorry for anything I said that hurt you and that you were right. That it wasn't fair for me to react the way I did. Because you've been everything to me this year, Kurt. You've been my friend. And I want you to know that I don't want to be friends with anyone else but you. I think I just needed some time to come to terms with all of it. To think it all through. This isn't nearly as poetic or adequate as if you had written it, but what I'm trying to say is that all is forgotten and all is forgiven. Not that there was ever anything, really, to forgive you for. If anything, I need to ask your forgiveness. I'll come by tonight at 7:30 exactly and if you answer your door when I knock, I'll know it means you feel the same way and we can be friends again. If you don't answer the door, I'll never bother you again. Thanks for everything. Alice.

“Alice, I want to explain—” Kurt starts, but I cut him off.

“There's nothing to explain, Kurt,” I tell him. “Honestly.” I notice he has a scar on his knee. I've never noticed it before. I remind myself to ask him later where he got it. Suddenly, I have a million things I want to know about Kurt Morelli. “Kurt, I want you to know, I'm just so sorry for anything—”

“Alice, I read your note, remember?” Kurt says, and now it's his turn to cut me off. “I've missed spending time with you, Alice. Tremendously.”

“I've missed you, too,” I say. “And I've missed your vocabulary.”

“Tremendously?” he says wryly.

“Oh, yes, tremendously,” I answer.

I've got this certain kind of feeling about Kurt Morelli. I think I first realized it existed when I sat down to write him that note. Or maybe I first realized it during those miserable few weeks when we weren't friends. Or maybe I recognized it when Elaine O'Dea and I talked that afternoon at the Curl Up and Dye. Maybe I don't know when exactly I started feeling it. Maybe it's sort of like the way the Healy heat comes on so steadily you don't realize it's there until one morning you wake up and it's 102 degrees at seven in the morning. It seems like it happened overnight, but when you look back, you realize it was building slowly all along.

I think that's the way it's been for me and Kurt.

I know Kurt won't, so I reach over and take his hand, and I like the way his fingers lace up with mine, like we've held hands a million times before. I'm surprised at how sure his grip is and at how fast my heart is pumping. We sit in the silence of the Healy evening, surrounded by the comforting chorus of cicadas.

“Thank you, Kurt, for being here,” I tell him.

“Thank you, Alice, for the same thing,” he says back, his voice almost a whisper.

And then Kurt looks at me with his big, sweet eyes and he smiles at me with his nice, warm grin.

It's the kind of grin you can trust. The kind of grin you want to keep on seeing. The kind of grin you wear on your face when you know you're going places in this life.

Because Kurt Morelli is going places.

Someday, so will I.

Acknowledgements

Huge thanks to my amazing agent Sarah LaPolla for absolutely everything. That call on the beach changed my life, and it wouldn't have happened without your guidance, support, and willingness to cheerfully put up with my neurosis. I owe you so much. Thanks also to Nathan Bransford for taking a chance, Sonya Sones for telling me I could, and Liz Peterson for reading early drafts and providing valuable feedback. Many thanks to everyone at Roaring Brook Press, especially my editor Nancy Mercado who works with a wise and gentle hand. Much love to my mom, dad, brother Christopher and sister Stephanie for calling me a writer long before anyone else did.

And to Kevin, who suffered through rejections and revisions alongside me and served as the world's best sounding board through many late night talk times. Texas-sized love to you and Elliott forever.