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.