The Truth About Alice(46)

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.