The Truth About Alice(6)

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 *, 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 *. Ever.”

“Not like you, King of All *,” 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, f*cking Mexicans who moved here five seconds ago and didn’t even know English knew him. Everybody knew Brandon Fitzsimmons.