The Truth About Alice (3 page)

“So you could say she was distracting him with her texts?” Mrs. Fitzsimmons asked.

“Yeah,” I answered. “You could say he was distracted.”

“Thank you, Josh. Thank you for telling me that. I know it wasn't easy.”

I nodded, and I was glad when she switched the topic to Brandon's funeral and how touched she was that so many people came out for it and how happy Brandon would have been about that. We sat there for a little bit longer, just talking about Brandon and how much we both missed him, and Mrs. Fitzsimmons had to dab at her eyes a little with her napkin and stop every so often so she didn't start crying really hard. When she decided to leave, she hugged me, but not too tight on account of my shoulder.

“Josh, sweetie, I just want you to know you're welcome at our house anytime,” she said. “Anytime, honey. I don't want to lose touch with you. I hope you know that.”

I nodded again, wishing she would just go home. I felt bad about feeling that way, but I just wanted to be by myself.

On her way out, she stopped in the kitchen to talk to my mom, and I could catch little bits and pieces of what they were saying over all of the yelling on ESPN. Now I love my mom and everything, but she doesn't exactly have the best habit of keeping stuff to herself. And in a town like Healy, information like the kind I'd just shared with Mrs. Fitzsimmons travels pretty fast. I guess my mom must have told someone else's mom, and that mom told another mom, and maybe that mom told her kid. You get the idea. Anyway, the bottom line is that by the time I started back at school, Alice Franklin wasn't just that slut who'd slept with Tommy Cray and Brandon Fitzsimmons at some party.

She was the slut who got Brandon Fitzsimmons killed.

Elaine

Brandon and I were never, uh, boyfriend and girlfriend. Like official, we-celebrate-monthly-anniversaries, I-have-a-framed-picture-of-him-in-my-bedroom kind of boyfriend. I mean, I've
had
boyfriends like that. When I was younger, they were usually upperclassmen, and they were always popular. I started dating guys when I was in seventh grade. Other girls couldn't go out that young, but my mom was okay with it. I mean, my dad wasn't. But my mom sort of talked him into it as long as the guy came over to our house first and shook his hand and blah blah blah.

But the thing is, as I've grown up, there've just been fewer and fewer available guys around here who are older than me and who are my type. Which leaves Brandon. I know this is going to sound totally conceited, but, like, as the most popular girl and guy in our class, we naturally ended up together sometimes. And by that I mean we went to sophomore Homecoming together and we made out at parties pretty regularly and when I was bored or he was bored, we would go over to each other's houses and yes, okay, fine, I did sleep with him a few times last year. (Oh my God, if my dad knew he would just have a stroke and die. Even if Brandon was the best quarterback Healy ever had.)

Anyway, I'm not saying he was like my property or whatever, but there was this unspoken thing that everyone knew, which was that Brandon Fitzsimmons and I were sort of with each other when we weren't busy figuring out who else we could be with. It was, um, the natural order of things. We were on-again, off-again, on-again, off-again, wash, rinse, repeat.

Until that Sunday when he got in his truck with Josh Waverly and they headed to Seller Brothers.

The news that Brandon died spread faster than the news about Alice at my party. I heard about it from Maggie, one of my best friends, who heard about it almost right away because her father is a Healy police officer.

She called me the afternoon that it happened, totally sobbing—she couldn't even breathe.

“Elaine, I'm so so so totally sorry, but Brandon Fitzsimmons is dead,” she said.

I just sat there on my bed, holding my phone, and I cried for him. And for me. For us.

I thought about how gorgeous he was. How you could stare at him all day long, even when he was being kind of an asshole, and you could just appreciate his face for what it was. Which was perfect.

And I thought about junior high, when he used to snap my bra strap and wink at me in the cafeteria and squeeze my butt in the hall. It was the first time I'd started to realize I was cute to boys, even if my mom was already making me go to Weight Watchers and I was already worried that my butt was kind of big.

And I thought about that weird, totally embarrassing thing that happened between us the night of my infamous party—him pinning me down on my bed the night of my party, his eyes looking at nothing, his breath stinking of beer.

And I thought about him doing it with Alice Franklin later on at that very same party in my guest bedroom, the two of them laughing about me before Tommy Cray took his turn.

Alice.

I knew I could never trust that girl.

On the day I found out about Brandon, I also thought about the eighth grade dance—when Brandon and I were absolutely and totally
on again
, but later Alice swore to me up and down she didn't know, she thought nothing was going on between us, and she hadn't really wanted to kiss Brandon that much to begin with even though she had. I mean, okay, I get that it was eighth grade and Brandon's voice had barely changed and none of us could even drive yet or whatever, but still. It just goes to show you what Alice Franklin is like. At the dance—which I had arrived at
with Brandon
, I will have you know—Alice ended up making out with him in the coat closet. A few of my girlfriends found them and ran and told me, and after walking in on them and screaming at them both, I ended up spending half the dance in the bathroom crying and asking everyone if my mascara was running.

Brandon apologized a bajillion times, and then we were off again until we were on again. Again. But I never forgot what Alice Franklin did to me, and neither did anyone else. Which makes it very easy to believe the rumor about her at my party. It's just the kind of thing a girl like Alice would do.

And it makes it even easier to believe the rumor about her and the car accident and those texts.

She's just a skank.

I honestly don't see how Alice Franklin is going to recover from all this. I really don't think she will. After the party she tried so hard to act like nothing ever happened, even coming up and trying to sit with us and everything in the cafeteria. It was kind of pathetic. Even her best friend, Kelsie, doesn't want anything to do with her anymore, and that was before Brandon died. But since the accident … well, I guess it's not possible since not going to school is against the law, but it would've almost been better for Alice Franklin if she never even came back to Healy High.

Josh

The afternoon of Elaine O'Dea's party, Brandon Fitzsimmons and I were talking about tits.

The deal was, you could open Brandon's bedroom window and get out onto the roof of the first floor of his house. Lots of times we would climb out there and drink beers and talk about Coach Hendricks's plays or what teacher was making us crazy or what girls in Healy High had the best tits. That's what we were talking about the afternoon of Elaine's party.

“I'm thinking about Elaine right now,” Brandon said, reaching up with both hands like he was giving the clouds in the sky a feel. “She's got a nice set.”

“You're sick,” I said, opening up my Natty Light. It was Brandon's dad's beer of choice and so it was our beer of choice, too.

It was usually hot as hell up there, even with the beers. We didn't go out there much during the summer, but the day of Elaine's party it was kind of overcast, so it wasn't too bad. And anyway, after a couple of Natty Lights we didn't mind the sun. Our muscles were aching after
Two-A-Days
all week, and nothing would help us relax more than the roof and some cold beer. Brandon's parents were home, and they probably knew we were drinking beer. But they didn't care. Brandon could get away with anything.

“Look at that dude,” Brandon drawled, motioning to Kurt Morelli. I looked down at the yard to the right. Kurt was hunched over an old lawnmower from maybe 1984 or something. I didn't see how he could even really push it he was so small and skinny. He kept stopping now and then to wipe the sweat off his face. He was a puny guy, and I felt sorry for him just watching him.

“Glad I'm not mowing my grandma's lawn,” I said, enjoying the Natty Light buzz that was settling on me.

“Mark my words, man,” Brandon said, “that dude is never going to get any pussy. Ever.”

“Not like you, King of All Pussy,” I said, wishing we had more beer.

“It's true,” Brandon said.

And it was true.

Brandon was like a God in Healy, and I guess I was like God's best friend. He was God of the football team and God of the school and God of the town. Everywhere he went, people knew him. Old people knew him, little kids in grade school knew him, fucking Mexicans who moved here five seconds ago and didn't even know English knew him. Everybody knew Brandon Fitzsimmons.

Brandon got more action than any other guy I knew. He'd even slept with Ms. Sanchez, this chick who teaches Spanish part-time at Healy High. She's like twenty-four with a pretty great body, and Brandon said he needed help with Spanish and he just showed up at her house, and according to Brandon they did it on the kitchen table while her husband was at work.

I've only done it once. The summer before sophomore year when I was fifteen. It was at the beach and it was this girl named Tessa, and her family was staying at the beach house next to my family's beach house, and we did it one night down on the sand after we'd gone for a walk. I found us this sort of private hiding spot near some rocks and we did it. Tessa brought the condoms. All I could think about when it was over was at least I could finally say I did it. Tessa and me still text sometimes, but this summer our families didn't go down to the beach at the same time.

Brandon was always getting after me to get with someone else. I'm not saying this to sound like a dick or anything, but I could probably get action with lots of girls in our class in about five seconds if I wanted to. But for some reason a lot of the girls in our class annoy the piss out of me. They always act like everything is some stupid huge crisis or drama or whatever, and they always want to talk about everything for five hundred years. They remind me of grackles sitting around on a telephone wire getting ready to swoop at some worm.

It was like Brandon was reading my mind the afternoon of Elaine's party, because after we talked about Kurt Morelli, he said, “Speaking of pussy, you should try to get some action tonight with Maggie Daniels. Her panties get wet every single time you walk by her locker.”

“Jesus, man,” I said, trying to drag out the last of my last Natty Light.

“Whatever, dude, it's true.”

Then, I guess just so I could be saying something, just so I could be getting the attention off of me, I said, “What about you and Alice Franklin? Just the other day I saw you checking her out when we were all hanging out in the parking lot.”

I don't know why I picked Alice since Brandon checked out just about every girl he ever saw in the parking lot and everywhere else. I guess she was just sort of floating around in my head. I mean, Alice and me had known each other since before we could even be aware that we knew each other. Me and her were even in the same day care at the Methodist church near my house when we were little.

Brandon said, “Alice Franklin? Hell. I haven't messed around with her since that middle school dance when Elaine lost her shit.”

“You've never done it with Alice?” I asked. I guess that surprised me because Alice was definitely a chick who had done it. She started having boyfriends in fifth grade. She kind of had a reputation for being a little crazy. Like how in eighth grade she made out with Brandon at the graduation dance even though he showed up with Elaine. Plus there was that rumor about her and that lifeguard at Healy Pool North.

“No, I've never done it with Alice, but now you've gone and put an idea in my head,” Brandon said. He peered over at Kurt Morelli who had stopped mowing the lawn and had his hands on his hips and was just staring out at nothing.

“Hey, Kurt, my man. Wanna come up and have a beer?” I don't know why Brandon said this seeing as we had no beers left and Kurt Morelli is a pretty weird dude, but I think Brandon was pretty wasted by then.

“No libations, thank you sir,” Kurt yelled up, waving his right hand at us like a salute, and Brandon and me just looked at each other like what the hell is this guy talking about.

So after that me and Brandon peeled ourselves off the roof and we went inside, and I had to steady myself for a little while before I felt sober enough to drive home. I laid back on Brandon's twin bed with the football bedspread he's had since he was ten.

“Do? You? Want? To? Sleep? With? Me?” Brandon said out loud as he texted Elaine about the beer for the party, like making it look like was texting Elaine about doing it with him. But he was just joking about Elaine. Elaine was sort of old news to Brandon. I knew now he was really thinking about Alice Franklin because he kept bringing her up.

“I've never done it with a girl with real short hair before like that,” Brandon said. “I hope doing it with Alice wouldn't be like doing it with a dude. Because that would be gross. That would be gay.”

Man, I felt hot and tired that day. At that moment I didn't even know if I wanted to go to the party. The Natty Light made me feel like going to sleep, but even as I thought that, I knew I would be going to the party to drink even more Natty Lights. There wasn't anything else to do.

“Maybe you
are
gay,” I said. “You've seen me naked two hundred times.”

“Dude, if you think I'm looking at you in those showers, you are one sick bastard,” Brandon said.