The Truth About Alice(38)

“I…” I said. I couldn’t talk. Like I said, there was nothing to say. Nothing.

“Look,” Alice said, and for a second I wondered if she was going to hit me. It’s not like I didn’t deserve it. But she just stayed there by the sink, and I stood back, up against the stall door, as far from her as I could be. She kept talking, her voice low, steady, but I could tell it sounded like it was about to explode. “I get the fact that I can’t do anything about the crap going around about me and Brandon and Tommy. I get that. Okay. And I get the fact that no one would even think for a second that the amazing and wonderful Josh Waverly made up that story about me texting Brandon in the truck and causing the accident. Fine. People are going to think what they’re going to think and it doesn’t matter what I say about it. But you know the abortion thing is a lie. You know it!” When Alice said know the second time, she kind of hit the edge of the white porcelain sink with her hand, and I jumped a little.

“I…” I said, and Alice stood there, like she was just begging me with her eyes to say something, anything. And I couldn’t. I really couldn’t.

All of a sudden Alice was crying. Not all sobbing or anything, but there were tears running down her face. Her voice stayed really even though, just even and steady despite all the tears.

“You were my best friend, Kelsie. My best friend. And I am not letting you out of here until you tell me why you made that up,” she whispered, stepping toward me. “You can’t just lie like that!”

I swallowed. Now I was the one breathing hard. I was pretty sure I was red in the face, too.

“Well, you lied to me once,” I said, barely getting the words out. “You lied to me about messing around with Mark Lopez that summer at the pool. You said I wouldn’t understand because I was a virgin.” I spat out the word virgin like I had as much right to be mad at Alice as she had to be mad at me.

Alice stared at me, completely confused, like she’d made up all sorts of reasons why I did what I did, but in a million years that had never been one of them. She sort of shook her head a little, like she was repeating my words in her head.

“Mark Lopez? That was a million years ago. I don’t … what does that have to do with…” She just stood there. Stunned, I guess. I just kept swallowing and breathing hard and my heart was thumping so bad I just knew Alice could hear it.

And for the briefest moment, the teeniest, tiniest moment ever, I was totally tempted to tell Alice everything. Like, everything. Like real best friends are supposed to do. About how I’d felt like I’d had something to prove after she said what she’d said. How I got jealous of her so much of the time. How I’d slept with Tommy Cray. How I’d been terrified I’d lose all my friends by hanging out with her and I’d be transformed into a dork again. I even wanted to tell her about the abortion. Because she was hurting so bad and I was hurting so bad—am hurting so bad—and, like, I just wished I had someone I could talk to. Anyone. But I knew I wouldn’t say anything to her. I’m not that brave. I’m just not.

And not only am I not a brave person, to tell you the truth sometimes I’m pretty sure I’m the worst person alive.

We didn’t say anything for a minute, and Alice stopped crying. She looked confused. Then she walked past me into the stall and got some toilet paper out and patted the skin under her eyes. When she came back out, she just stared at me and said really slowly, like I was stupid: “Okay. So you told the entire school I had an abortion because one time—over a year ago—I lied to you about giving Mark Lopez a blow job because I felt stupid about it? That’s why you told everyone I had an abortion?”

“And you said I was a virgin,” I repeated. Oh God, that sounded so dumb. So impossibly dumb.

“Well … you are,” Alice said, still dragging out her words like I was a kindergartner. “Right?”

Here was my chance to make it better. Here was my chance to tell the truth. To fix everything.

But I couldn’t. Yeah, I was scared of becoming Kelsie from Flint again. But maybe just as much—as silly as I know it sounds, as ridiculous as I know it is—there was a part of me that blamed Alice Franklin for The Really Awful Stuff. It was petty and childish and I realize that. My mom was more to blame than Alice, and I was probably the most to blame out of everyone. But at that moment in the bathroom I couldn’t help but think that maybe things would have turned out different if Alice hadn’t made me feel like a naive little kid about everything.

Maybe.

So I didn’t tell her the truth. I didn’t fix anything. I just stood there.

“Okay,” Alice said. Then she added, “So tell me to my face that you know the abortion thing is a lie.”

I nodded yes. “It’s a lie,” I whispered. “I made it up.”

Alice didn’t look satisfied or anything. She just stood there, almost like she couldn’t believe she’d gotten me to say what I said. Then she walked over to the corner of the bathroom and threw away the wadded-up toilet paper she’d used to dry her face. Then she turned around to face me again.

“You know what, Kelsie?” Alice said all calm. “Fuck you.” She stood there and looked at me evenly for another moment. When she said that last part, her voice broke like she might cry again, but she didn’t. And then she just walked out.