Furthermore(8)

Music gave her access to the earth.

Her feet had grown roots, planting her into the ground with each footfall. She could feel the reverberations rising through her, beyond her. She never wanted to stop. She never wanted to forget this feeling.

“Alice, I’m sorry,” he said.

She kept spinning.

“I’m so sorry. Please, give me a chance to explain—”

Alice stopped. Her skirts swung all about her, momentum whipping them against her legs. She was out of breath and out of patience and she did not care for this conversation, not one whit.

She stepped right up to Oliver Newbanks and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. Yanked him down to meet her eye to eye. (He was so unaccountably tall; it was only fair.) “What do you want?” she demanded.

Oliver was startled but he hid it well. She could hear his heart again and she was immediately thrown by the beauty of it. The songs of his soul; the harmony within him: It was incredible. She’d heard this symphony when she first ran into his chest, too distracted then to understand what it might mean.

She dropped his shirt and her jaw and took a few steps back. She didn’t want to get near him again.

“Please,” he said, holding his hands together in supplication. “That was so long ago, Alice. I was a stupid kid. I didn’t mean it.”

Alice stared at him for what felt like an abominably long time.

Then, “Okay.”

And she turned and left.

She was halfway down the meadow when he caught up to her, breathing hard. “What do you mean, ‘okay’?” he asked.

Alice rolled her eyes but he couldn’t see.

“Does that mean we can be friends?”

“Definitely not,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because I will never be able to trust you.”

“Aw, c’mon, Alice—I didn’t mean it—”

Alice turned on him. Narrowed her eyes. “You don’t think I’m the ugliest girl in Ferenwood?”

“No! Of course n—”

“Then why did you say it?”

He had no answer.

“You’re a cruel, silly boy,” she said, walking again. “And I do not like you. So go away, and please stop talking to me.”

There. Now he would leave.

“I can’t.”

Alice stopped. “What?”

“I can’t,” he said again, this time with a sigh. He looked into his hands, looked away.

So this was what Mother was smiling about. This was it. She thought it was funny. She probably thought this was hilarious.

“Alice,” Oliver whispered.

“Don’t say it.”

“Alice—”

She covered her ears and hummed.

“Alice!” Oliver pulled her arms down, gripped her hands. “Alice, I’ve been tasked . . . to you.”

“Oh, Oliver.” She looked up at the sky. She wanted to kick him very hard. “You terrible liar.”

“I’m in love with you.”

“Good grief.” She kept walking.

Oliver was stunned. He blinked a few times. “But, Alice—”

“You were tasked to me? When? A year ago? And it’s taken you this long to gather the gooseberries to tell me?”

“I—I was nervous,” he stammered. “I didn’t expect it. I took the year to think about it—to understand—”

“You are as much in love with me as I am in love with this tree stump over here,” Alice said, pointing to the tree stump. “Now, I’ll be on my way, thank you very much. It was awful talking to you.”

“But—”

“Go away, Oliver.” She kept walking.

“Fine,” he said, catching up to her. He was frustrated now. Frustrated and impatient. “Fine—I’m sorry.” He clenched his jaw. Fixed a look at her. “I lied, okay? I lied.”

She stared back. “What do you want from me?”

He shook his head, confused. “How did you know? No one can ever tell when I’m lying—it’s the only thing I’m any good at—”

“What do you want?” she said again.

“Alice.” He stepped in front of her. “I need your help.”

Alice took a flower out of her pocket. Bit off the top. “Of course you do,” she said, mouth full of petals. She shook her head. “Typical.”





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Alice found a nice patch of grass and sat down in it, spreading her skirts about her. She leaned back on both hands, legs crossed at the ankles, the stem of an unfinished daisy sticking out of her mouth.

“Go on, then,” she said, squinting up at Oliver in the rainlight. He was a pretty kind of person, she supposed, but she thought he’d look much prettier if he traded in his personality for something better.

Oliver ran a hand through his silver hair, and a few strands fell across his eyes, contrasting sharply against the brown of his skin. His hair was definitely the color of silver herring, and Alice wondered for a moment if he’d ever eaten fish as a child. She stifled a shudder.

He leaned against a nearby tree, arms crossed against his chest. He leveled her with a glare. She glared back.