“Morelli,” he said, this time not whispering but sort of burping in the middle of uttering my last name. He was drunk. Obviously.
“Fitzsimmons,” I answered. “Knackered again, I see.”
“If knackered is smart boy talk for lit to the tits, then yeah, I am. Morelli, what I love about you is you always shoot straight with me. You don’t beat around the bush. You see I’m drunk and you tell me I’m drunk. You see the light of the moon shining down upon you, and you say hi to the moon.”
“I haven’t said hi to the moon. You’re simply incredibly intoxicated.”
“Come up man, just come up.”
I shrugged my shoulders and headed toward the back of the Fitzsimmonses’ house to get the ladder they keep next to the garage. Starting in the eighth or ninth grade, Brandon had had me up on the roof a few times in the late night hours, so I knew where it was. I laughed to myself as I imagined the rest of the Healy High population catching a glimpse of the highest- and lowest-ranked men in the Healy High hierarchy sitting next to one another on a roof, talking. At school, Brandon didn’t acknowledge me unless it was to make fun of my size or my grades. Truthfully, he did it so good-naturedly I couldn’t really mind. I mean, he called me a poindexter and he grinned when he did it. It was almost quaint.
“Wanna beer?” He slipped his hand inside his bedroom window and handed me one. I opened it.
“Wow, Morelli, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“It’s beer, not cyanide.”
“What’s cyanide?”
“A poison. Members of the Jonestown cult consumed it in mass quantities on the order of their leader, Jim Jones. They all died immediately after.”
“Jesus, Morelli, where do you get this crap?” Brandon said, taking a sip and grinning.
I smiled to myself with satisfaction. Ever since we’d been young children, Brandon had enjoyed exploring my collection of unusual facts and figures. He would always remind me of that time when we were quite young and I convinced his mother that the roof was structurally sound enough to play on by explaining to her the concept of compressive strength. I could tell he was impressed with my intelligence even if he never admitted it out loud.
Now, despite our occasional nighttime conversations and Brandon’s interest in the inner workings of my brain, Brandon wasn’t my secret friend or any such nonsense. I knew this, even at the time. He was my neighbor, a person who had been in my life since kindergarten. He was Brandon Fitzsimmons, and I was Kurt Morelli, and for reasons I’m not certain of but could speculate on, he enjoyed talking to me. Perhaps because there was no one else he felt he could tell his secrets and stories to. Perhaps because I humored him. Perhaps because I lived next door.
And I suppose, on some level, I enjoyed speaking to him. Or at least listening to what he had to tell me.
So we talked.
Why did I enjoy listening to him? Brandon was so incredibly different from me in almost every possible way—except for the fact that we were both males living in Healy—that it was almost like anthropological research sitting on the roof next to him, listening to him tell me about his exploits and his adventures and his problems. It provided me insight into a radically different kind of life. I believe I may be the only person in the town who knows that once during a big game he wet his pants out of anxiety. And that the Geometry teacher passed him even though he turned in every single test and quiz completely blank because his status as Healy High quarterback was simply that important. Or that he often forgot the difference between his right and his left. (One night I showed him a trick to help him remember—that his left hand made the shape of a letter L—and for this he was quite grateful.)
And so I admit to having enjoyed these evenings. Evenings like that fall night with Brandon drunk and me just drinking. And I was enjoying that particular evening so much that I even started a second beer.
“So where were you this fine Saturday night?” I asked after listening to Brandon complain about how tired he was from that afternoon’s game and how much of a blowhard Coach Hendricks could be at times.
“Hanging out at the Healy High parking lot. It was incredible. Just amazing.” He was being sarcastic, I realized.
“Being fawned over by your adoring public?”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Morelli. Talk slower.” He shoved me with his shoulder.
“I mean, were you getting lots of attention from people in the parking lot? Since you are, after all, Brandon Fitzsimmons.”
Brandon laughed and sucked down the rest of his beer.
“I suppose this is when I should tell you that it’s not all that it’s cracked up to be, being the most popular junior in the school, right? That I just want to be understood and shit.”
“So, it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?” I asked, honestly curious.
Brandon slowly nodded his head in the affirmative, and a sad expression spread on his face. Then he suddenly broke up laughing. “No, man,” he told me. “It’s pretty awesome, I have to say. I know that makes me sound like a dick, but it is. People love me. I can do no wrong. Chicks love me. Dudes want to be me. Except maybe for you.”
I thought about the latest rumor just out around the school involving him and the gorgeous Alice Franklin, and I thought otherwise. So, perhaps emboldened by the beer, I said, “Well, what about Alice Franklin? I heard about the two of you and Elaine’s party. I wouldn’t mind getting to know her, in the Biblical sense.”
Brandon didn’t say anything for a moment, then shook his head and chuckled just a bit to himself.
“You mean, you’d like to bang Alice?”
“Well, I don’t know if I’d use the phrase bang, perhaps, but she’s quite a foxy young lady.”
“Morelli, I think you’re buzzed,” Brandon said.
“I think I am, too,” I said.
It was quiet for a little while on the roof, and then, out of nowhere, Brandon burped loudly. Then he said, “I didn’t do her, you know.”
I’d almost forgotten for a moment what we’d been talking about. Then I remembered. Alice Franklin.
“You mean,” I said, “you … did … I mean, people are saying—”
“People are saying that I screwed her and then Tommy Cray screwed her. Yeah, man, I know what people are saying because I told them in the first place! Come on, Morelli. Catch up here.”
“But you didn’t, uh, bang her?”
“Nope,” he said. “Didn’t. Bang. Alice.”
“Did Tommy?”
“Nope. Not him either.”
“So why…?” I was confused. At this point, people had already started treating Alice differently at school, in small but obvious ways. Like not sitting with her as often during lunch. Or laughing when she walked into class.
“Morelli, I don’t know why the hell I do the things I do sometimes, if you want to know the truth,” Brandon said, and he burped again. “I wanted to get with her that night and she wouldn’t get with me. Led me on and then told me she didn’t want to fool around. Pissed me off. She should be happy to get with me. Most girls are. Take Maggie Daniels, right? She’s a little chunky for my taste, but Maggie Daniels would give her left arm to be with me. Of course then I wouldn’t want to be with her because she wouldn’t have both arms, and I’m not some kind of pervert.” Brandon laughed at his own joke, but I didn’t.
“Is Alice the first girl to refuse your advances?” I asked, and I felt a bit strange inside, like the house had suddenly tilted a bit.
“Yup,” Brandon said. “That’s the truth. I never had a girl say no before. And it made me angry. So I said I did her and Tommy did, too. Sort of to get her to see that she shouldn’t have said no.”
“But what about Tommy?” I asked.
“I knew Tommy would be going back to college,” Brandon answered. “He wouldn’t be around to deny it.”
I thought of how to explain to Brandon in a way he would understand. “But she’s getting so much … shit for this.
You’re aware of that, right? I mean, everyone thinks this is true.”
Brandon rolled his eyes. “Elaine O’Dea and her whole crew, spreading it around to everyone in creation. But it’ll pass. This stuff always does. Give it a week or a month and everyone will forget about it.”
I simply could not believe what I was hearing. Never did I think Brandon would have lied about something like that. But he had lied. And what was more, I could tell this utterance on the roof wasn’t meant as some revelation or even an admission of guilt. I don’t think that Brandon had that level of depth. In his mind, he was merely entertaining me as he usually did with stories about what it was like to be Brandon Fitzsimmons.
We finished our beers wordlessly, and then Brandon said he needed to go to bed.
“Morelli, you’re not going to tell anyone about our little secret, right?” he asked, turning around to slide into his room. “I have a reputation to uphold, you know.” When he said this, he put his hand on his chest like he was saying the pledge and grinned at me widely.
“Who would I tell?” I answered.
* * *
That was the last time I saw Brandon Fitzsimmons alive. The next afternoon as I was helping my grandmother weed her garden, we saw Officer Daniels pull up in front of our house in his official Healy Police Department vehicle.
“Hello, Paul,” my grandmother called to him.
“Hello, Vivian,” Officer Daniels said, his face looking drawn and pale. Then he told her he needed to speak to her privately, so she left me in the bed of weeds and walked down the driveway to talk to him.
Whatever he told her, my grandmother put her hand up to her mouth and shook her head upon hearing it. I thought it must be news about one of grandmother’s church friends, but then I saw her nodding her head yes, and she followed Officer Daniels toward the Fitzsimmonses’ house.
“Kurt, give me a moment, please,” she said, and I think she was trying not to cry. I watched, confused, as she and Officer Daniels knocked on the door and Mrs. Fitzsimmons let them in. A few moments later, I heard Mrs. Fitzsimmons screaming like an animal at the top of her lungs.
* * *
I couldn’t tell Alice my story that night. Not like that. Not with Alice buzzed from drinking and her eyes red from possibly crying. So I said nothing.
“I left my math books at school,” Alice said, tossing her empty beer can away and opening the refrigerator to find a full one. “So I guess you can’t tutor me tonight.”
“Okay,” I said. It seemed to be the one word I could utter.
We were just standing there in the kitchen. Alice was wearing those dark blue jeans and her shirt was green and loose and draped over her small frame almost like a blanket. She didn’t have on any shoes, and her tiny toenails matched the color of her lips. These are the things I notice about Alice Franklin. These are the things I am constantly noticing about Alice Franklin.
“Follow me to the living room, please, my tutor friend,” Alice said, and she took one finger and sort of dragged it across my chest as she left the kitchen.
My chest was on fire from Alice’s fingertip, and I walked behind her to the living room. It’s not a particularly unique living room. It has a window that faces the street, two broken-in beige couches, a few end tables, a television (not the latest model), and a dark blue throw rug in the center of it all.
Alice sat down on one end of one couch, and I sat down on the other end. I drank my beer slowly, and then I asked the only question I could come up with.
“So why aren’t we working on math?”
Alice’s eyebrows popped up like she was thinking about my question very hard. Then she sighed one of her big loud sighs again and took another sip of beer, and she got a sort of faraway look in her eyes.
And then a few tears started to run down her face.
Soon, she was no longer entertaining a few tears; she was sobbing. Hard. Hard enough that she got up to grab some paper towels from the kitchen as I sat on the couch, mute and useless.
In all of my Alice Franklin fantasies, sitting on the couch in her house while she cried was not one of them. Something told me I should go to her. Pat her hand. Tell her it was going to be all right. But I couldn’t figure out how to make myself do any of those things. And anyway, who could say it was going to be all right? Considering all that Alice Franklin had suffered in recent months, that sort of prediction would be considered highly suspect by anyone in Healy. Most especially Alice.
I almost asked her if I should leave, but I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to do the right thing. I clenched a fist in frustration. Why couldn’t I just say something? The right thing? Whatever that right thing might be?
“Alice, I have a Christmas present for you.”
Alice was back on the couch now, rubbing at her face with a wadded-up paper towel. When she heard what I said, she kept sniffling but her crying slowed down.
“What?” she said, confused.
“Here,” I said, walking over to the front door where I’d left my gift, wrapped in some burnished red wrapping paper my grandmother gave me. “This is for you. For Christmas.” I handed it to her and then sat back down.
“Oh, Kurt,” Alice said, balling up the paper towel before putting it on the coffee table in front of us that was stacked with magazines and remote controls. She was still sniffling, but at least she was no longer sobbing. At least my move worked. Although I couldn’t say it came from any sort of rational plan. My offer of her present was simply the first thing that slipped out of my mouth.
But here was Alice Franklin opening my present, here she was slipping a delicate finger underneath a piece of carefully placed Scotch tape, here she was pulling out the book that cost me more money than I’ve ever spent in my life at one time.
“Oh, this is my favorite book ever!” Alice said, turning it over in her hands. “How did you know?”
Oh.
This was definitely not part of any rational plan. Despite my alleged intellectual prowess, I hadn’t thought this far ahead. How could I tell Alice that I knew The Outsiders was her favorite book without admitting to her that I’d been observing almost everything about her since we were in the seventh grade?
“I think you … mentioned it once. In an English class we had together.”
Alice exhaled one last little shaky, post-crying exhale and seemed to accept this answer. Thank goodness. She opened the book and flipped the pages.
“I’ve never seen this version of the cover before. Is this … old?”
“It’s a first edition,” I said.
I could see from Alice’s face that she didn’t know what this meant, but she smiled at me anyway.
Now I have to confess something that may come off as sounding snobbish. In all of my fantasies about Alice Franklin, she knows what a first edition is. And in all of my fantasies about Alice Franklin, not only does she understand this, she understands all of my strange, obscure cultural and historical references and she can even engage with me in long conversations about quantum mechanics.
This is because my fantasy Alice Franklin is perfect.
But that night something occurred to me. I’d never been to fantasy Alice’s house. Fantasy Alice had never given me cold Cokes or smiled wide enough to show off her crooked tooth. (Let’s face it, Fantasy Alice doesn’t even have a crooked tooth.) And I’d never been able to make Fantasy Alice stop crying with a present I’d purchased.
“A first edition is from the first print run,” I explained, and I obeyed the brave part of me inside that encouraged me to slide over to Alice’s side of the couch and flip the book open to the first few pages. I ran a finger under the copyright date. “See, the very first time the publishing house printed a big bunch of The Outsiders, this was one of those books. Before anyone knew how famous it would become or how special it would be.” I wanted to add that a first edition of such a famous book is pretty rare, but I didn’t want to sound stuck up about everything. And anyway, you could tell from Alice’s facial
expression that she understood the precious quality of this book in her hands, and I don’t mean financially.
She smiled broadly and closed the book and opened it again. Then she bent her head down and smelled the pages.
“It smells good,” she said to me. “Very first edition.”
I grinned back at her. It felt quite good to grin with Alice Franklin.
“I hope you like it,” I said.
“Oh, Kurt. I love it. But I didn’t get you anything. You’re helping me. I should have bought you something. You gave me a first edition of The Outsiders and all I gave you was one of my mom’s shitty beers.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “This beer is not so shitty.”
“Oh, God, yes it is. No, I’m going to order us a pizza,” Alice said. “A Christmas pizza.”
She wouldn’t let me pay, and soon we were sharing a pizza with green peppers and pepperoni.
“This is a very festive meal, Alice,” I told her, aware of my sudden ability to talk to her. Maybe it was the Lone Star. I admit that for one second it was awkward to eat in front of such a beautiful girl, but Alice is a messy eater, I noticed. She licked her fingers and took big bites. Watching her gorgeous raspberry lips open and close over and over made me slightly dizzy if I looked at them too long, but more than anything else, I just enjoyed sitting in the living room, drinking Lone Star beer and eating Christmas pizza with Alice Franklin.
Not the fantasy version, but the real thing.
Kelsie
Once when I was helping my mom clear out some boxes in our attic back in Flint, I found a shoebox full of photographs of her and my dad. I pulled one photo out of the box and stared at it. The people in the picture looked completely different from the parents I have now, and that’s because they were. My mom had a nose ring and a streak of pink hair. My dad had a beard and a knit hat that looked filthy, and he was wearing a T-shirt that said “The Melvins.”
“Chicago, 1993” was scrawled on the back in blue ink.
That was before Jesus became my mom’s BFF. Three years before she got pregnant with me, back when they were living together (and not married!).
The Truth About Alice Page 8