The Truth About Alice by Jennifer Mathieu Read Free Book Online Page A

that’s … fine, okay? But … it’s just, like … once you’ve had sex … I mean…”
    â€œYou lied to me because I’m a virgin?” I said. I gave her an insulted look because, well, I was insulted. She was talking to me like I was retarded or deaf or both. I was so mad I looked away and focused on the wall behind us. My mom had hung up a framed yellow sign that read “This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it! Psalm 118, Verse 24 .” I wanted to throw something at that yellow sign.
    â€œIt’s just … I mean…” Alice said.
    â€œForget it,” I said. “Forget it.”
    I didn’t, though. Not really.
    After that, I don’t think Alice ever hung out with Mark Lopez again, and I never really trusted Alice again. I mean, she was still my best friend, and we still spent most of tenth grade having sleepovers and staying up too late talking and texting people and blaming one another for our smelly farts and laughing so loud my dad would come down to the family room and start yelling at us to calm down and everything. And things were basically normal between us. The truth is, I still liked her.
    But I can’t say I trusted her.
    Not 100 percent anymore.
    I just kept thinking of how stupid I’d felt that night in the bed with her, Alice’s room still stinking like Healy Pool North. How she’d turned her face away from me. How she’d laughed at my guess about Mark. How she’d told me I wouldn’t get it. And I guess I didn’t.
    Not then anyway.
    I guess that’s why when The Really Awful Stuff happened to me later, not long after Alice lied to me about Mark Lopez, I didn’t tell her about it. Even if she was my best friend.
    I guess that’s why when all the rumors started about Alice this year it was so easy to let go of her. So easy to say goodbye. It was as easy as a buzzed, nighttime swim at Healy Pool North. As easy as remembering all the song lyrics in Grease 2 . As easy as anything.

Kurt
    I’ve been watching Alice, ever since that day I saw her sobbing on the bleachers outside of the school earlier this fall. I’ve wrestled with myself, attempting to find some way to speak with her. As I’ve mentioned, I don’t talk to girls much, or to anyone at school, really, and this state, while unusual to many, seems natural to me. I do make an exception for Mr. Becker, my Physics teacher. He is one of the few teachers at Healy High who seems more interested in the subject matter at hand than what was happening on the football field or at the pep rallies. I often wonder how someone like Mr. Becker ended up staying in Healy, not married, living in a garage apartment behind his sister’s house (even though I’m sure he could afford something nicer). He certainly is a good enough instructor to move on to a bigger city school somewhere. Earn more money. Teach more advanced students.
    He and I were sitting in his messy classroom yesterday afternoon discussing quantum gravity. Because of the Halloween holiday, everyone in Healy High had cleared out early to prepare for a night of debauchery and pranks. Everyone but me, of course. At one moment during our discussion, the conversation waned a bit, and I asked him why he hadn’t moved somewhere else.
    â€œIt’s such a pleasure to teach you, to talk with you,” he continued. “You have a gifted mind.” He leaned back in his chair, his arms behind his head, and I could see the yellowing stains on his shirt, under his arms. If Mr. Becker knew they were there, he didn’t seem to care. Nor did he seem to care that he was almost completely bald and had pockmarks on his cheeks from bad acne, or that he had several unknowable stains on his tie.
    I have a gifted mind, all right. I know enough to know that I do not want to turn out like Mr. Becker. And I know enough to know that to ask Mr.