The Fall of Alice K. (18 page)

As Alice walked toward Miss Den Harmsel's room for her noon meeting with Nickson, she was still simmering about Lydia, but she was also resolute that her time with Nickson would be like a classroom discussion when a teacher is present. Like her mother, Lydia could come close to the truth in her cruelest moments. Alice knew all too well that there was something crazy about her friendship with Nickson. She knew it had to cool down. It had to be a friendship that was about debate and nothing more than debate—if for no other reason than to prove how wrong Lydia was.

An outline of topics formed in Alice's mind—federal block grants; standardized national testing; cooperative budgeting between local, state, and federal agencies—and then two steps from the top step on the beautiful granite staircase of the old part of Midwest, she was eye-level with him where he stood facing her at the top of the stairs—those lips, those eyes, and now—oh, how could they be so clear?—those eyebrows that pulsed like dark butterfly wings in sunlight. Their faces were two feet apart when Alice stopped short on that second-to-last step, and the people behind her veered around her. Her face muscles contracted so that she would not smile.

“Debate?” she said in a voice that she forced to sound earnest.

“Resolved,” he said, and then she took the final two steps as he stepped back and she rose to her eight inches above him and his eyes did not rise to her eyes but stopped on her breasts, and she realized she was wearing her tight rose sweater that Lydia once said made her look like an advertisement that would sell a million sweaters. She had actually gone after this sweater in the morning, digging it out from the bottom of her dresser drawer—her sexiest sweater—but this was before she talked to Lydia and made her resolution to prove how wrong she was.

Miss Den Harmsel was leaving when they arrived at her classroom door.

“Here's how you lock the door from the inside,” she said, “if you want to make sure nobody disturbs you. Just don't tell anybody,” she said. “School rules say we're never supposed to lock our classrooms during the day.”

Alice locked the door.

Nickson looked totally healed in his tan shirt and dark brown pants, which together set off his skin and hair.

To Alice, her own fingers looked wiry as she spread the materials out on the table neatly in stacks. Nickson watched her every move. He watched those fingers when she touched things. He followed them to her wrists and arms, and then her face. His eyes moved from her hair to her lips to her chin. He was studying her like a map. His attention didn't make Alice tenser—it did just the opposite, the muscles in her shoulders relaxing and her whole body becoming fluid, her fingers like taffeta, her arms conducting a largo movement. His curious eyes were eyes of approval, not judgment, and as he was studying her, she studied him. She stared at his knuckles. She looked at the eye that had been swollen. Then at his eyebrows that moved so beautifully when he talked, then his cheeks, then his hair, that beautiful dark, thick hair that had a natural glisten to it. She took him apart piece by piece, and she saw in his face that he was finding the same comfort in her attention that she found in his. She couldn't be feeling this way, but she was.

In a minute, as they sat across from each other, their hands brushed as they moved papers. Immediately, Alice set up the opportunity for their hands to brush again.

Alice didn't have much experience with this feeling. Last year, when she was a junior, she'd had her one and first serious boyfriend. Her parents had approved when they were seeing each other every Friday night—always with specific plans for the evening, like choir or debate research. Yes, he had been her debate partner last year. The young man was a senior and from a good family. He was an excellent student and was not only on the debate team with her but also the a cappella choir. Alice knew how much her parents had approved of him, but what they didn't know is that when he was alone with her, he was interested in only one thing. Mr. Octopus-hands was all over her, and there wasn't an ounce of gentleness in him. He even drove his car recklessly, accelerating from stop signs much faster than necessary, taking corners stupidly fast, and when he talked he was one exaggeration after another. Everything about him was an overstatement of what was necessary. When she was ready to be physically intimate, she knew that this was not how it would start. Alice cut him off, and within a week she saw him with flashy Madeline with the tight jeans and plunging neckline. He was going to get what he wanted without Alice—and no doubt do it as fast as he could.

How different Nickson was. He had a way of making her feel his energy without flexing his muscles or trying to put on a sexy smile the way Lydia's Randy had done when she first met him.

She and Nickson did work through the noon hour. They worked in perfect harmony, and there were moments when Alice felt as if she had known him for a very long time and that they were natural work partners, people who understood what the other one was doing and knew exactly what to do next.

“Is that hand still hurting you?”

She held out her hand, and he laid his on hers. She turned it over, and couldn't resist using her other hand to stroke it with her long fingers. When he gave a slight squeeze in response, she had the urge to bring his hand to her lips. With her holding his hand, they looked into each other's eyes, steadily. They were relaxed, deeply relaxed, and totally content to look into each other's eyes without saying a word. Alice knew, he knew, they both knew.

With such a deep longing growing in her heart, Alice couldn't hate
anyone. Not even Lydia, and now she needed Lydia more than ever. She found her after school.

“How are you doing?” Lydia asked. “Still mad?”

“Not really. You?”

“Not really.” She walked over, stood in front of Alice. “We need to be more careful with each other's feelings.”

“Agreed,” said Alice. “Sorry things got tense earlier today.”

“That's all right,” said Lydia. “My fault too.”

“I need to ask a favor.” Lydia waited. “If my mom calls your house tonight, would you cover for me by pretending to be my debate partner? Tell her I was there but just left—and then call the Vangs and ask for me so I can get home before she knows that I wasn't at your house.”

“I can do that, but could it be a bit complicated?”

“I'm sorry. You don't want to be dishonest.”

“That's not it,” said Lydia. “It's our moms.”

“Our moms?” said Alice, totally puzzled.

“Our moms talk a lot, you know. Your mom is a regular at the library so my mom sees her a lot. And they talk.”

“No, I didn't know,” said Alice. “Most people run when they see my mother coming. I'd run too if I had anywhere to go.”

“I know how you feel about your mom,” said Lydia. “From what you've told me, I don't blame you. But she must be different with my mom. My mom says she has a huge intellect. That she's very philosophical, actually. And very well read. ‘An abstract thinker' is what my mom calls her.”

Hearing someone talk about her mother the way Lydia was talking about her was like hearing someone talk about the sweetness of a weasel.

“You wouldn't believe the crap she reads,” said Alice. “It's all this weird end-of-the-world stuff.”

“I don't know about that,” said Lydia. “She must read other stuff too or my mother wouldn't find her interesting—and very intelligent.”

“My mother, intelligent? My mother has a dark-cloud foggy brain that she uses to beat me up and pretty much bring everybody down. ‘Wet blanket' is the kindest thing I can say about her. And her cooking! Gads!”

“Hey, girlfriend, you got your brilliant mind from somebody.”

“All right, all right,” said Alice. “Let's stop. I won't tell my mom that I'm at your house if she's friends with your mom. I'll have to figure something else out.”

Lydia had her own solution: she'd stay near the phone in case Alice's mom called. “I could tell her you're in the bathroom or something—and then I'll call the Vangs to warn you.”

“But what if our moms talk at another time about our being in debate together?”

“Don't worry,” said Lydia. “I'll tell my mom about your situation. She'll cover for you, too. I know she will.”

“I'm never going to get angry with you again,” said Alice.

“I like Nickson,” said Lydia. “You should know that.”

“I believe you,” said Alice. “Thank you.”

After school, the same bad boys Alice had seen Nickson with before were there, surrounding him with nodding respect. The Slouchers may have been friendly, but Alice thought of them as leeches. Nickson led the way down the sidewalk, and the other two imitated his walk. Then he fell back, following one of them to a beat-up blue car. One of the Slouchers opened the door and Nickson leaned down inside the car, his head hidden under the dash. In a moment the old car started, Nickson got out, gave the Sloucher a highfive, and walked away. Nickson's association with them made no sense, but Alice figured it was a matter of the bad boys seeking out the minority kid as a way of looking supercool. When Nickson saw Alice, he gave his friendly wave—holding his arm out at a right angle and moving his hand. They had forgotten to talk about a ride home, maybe because they had already agreed to meet that night. But he walked toward Alice, and already she understood that they knew what the other one wanted without having to say anything.

“What was that all about?” asked Alice.

“He lost his keys,” said Nickson. “I started his car for him. He's got another set of keys at home.”

“Oh,” said Alice, not having the slightest idea of what had just happened.

“See you guys,” said Lydia as Nickson and Alice started off toward the 150.

Nickson held out a folder of papers. “Debate?” he said and moved his eyebrows.

Debate?
It was becoming Alice's favorite word.

19

Alice was bald-face lying to her parents by saying that Nickson had dropped debate, that Lydia was her new partner, and that she had to go into town to work on the topic with her. Alice's mother emitted smug approval at the news: she must have felt she had won a major victory by driving Alice away from Nickson. Her mother was so pleased with the announcement that she didn't question the truthfulness of it, so pleased that Alice could sense an unfamiliar wave of affection.

The successful deception was delicious. It made Alice feel giddy. And energetic. And confident. It filled her with a strange joy that was only briefly interrupted by twinges of fear and guilt, but they were no more than little sour spots in a delectable helping of strawberry shortcake. That's exactly how she thought of this feeling—a generous helping of strawberry shortcake, even though in her actual life she did not feel like eating anything.

Part of her giddy joy was realizing that lying to her mother was the only safe path to getting her approval. Killing two birds with one stone! She was getting her mother's approval and protecting Nickson from her mother's insults at the same time.

It was unfortunate that Lydia had to be conscripted into her deception, but Lydia already had practice by deceiving her parents about Randy. She could forgive Lydia for that: after all, sex should be a private matter. Her own lies had even better moral footing because her mother had been so totally wrong in telling Alice that she couldn't go to the Vangs' house when she first announced that Nickson was her debate partner. Lying to her mother was a way of erasing her mother's error, or at least balancing it. Two negatives made a positive, and the positive
feedback she was getting from her mother proved the logic of it. It probably proved the morality of it too. Life was good.

Lying had another little side-benefit for both Alice and Lydia. A bonus. Putting a couple of lies into their lives was a generous thing to do for their lame-brain classmates. It broke her and Lydia's perfect honor-role image and gave them at least one way in which they were now no better than the rest of them. Just one of the crowd, like everybody else.

The air was full of Monica Lewinsky and Bill Clinton talk. Lydia and Alice had agreed from the start that they wouldn't tell Monica jokes, but they couldn't help but talk about Bill Clinton and his deceptions to his family and the whole country. That didn't mean they were imitating Bill Clinton—and they certainly weren't imitating Monica Lewinsky. Still, the new bond of deception was bringing them back together just when the friendship had been navigating through some rocky shoals. This was better than a white lie: this lie was golden.

“We should be worrying about Georgie Bush instead of Billy Clinton,” said Lydia. “Billy should have a better zipper on his pants, but Georgie should have a better zipper on his mouth to keep the nonsense of his brain from dribbling out. And big money folks are still throwing money at him. Breaking records! They should be embarrassed!”

“You have a mean streak, girlfriend,” said Alice.

“You're the only person around here that I can talk politics with,” said Lydia.

“Talk all you want,” said Alice, “but you know I'm not very political. I don't want to waste my time on politics any more than I want to waste it on sports this year.”

“But you're pouring a lot of time into debate.”

“Yes. Debate is very important to me. It's great preparation for a lot of things, don't you think?”

“I see,” said Lydia, and Alice could tell from Lydia's “I see” that she was seeing more than Alice meant to reveal.

Nickson and Alice planned to meet only once a week at night and twice a week in Miss Den Harmsel's room. Like Alice, Nickson seemed to sense the dangers of excess and how it could lead to exposure not just to Alice's parents but also to his mother who, as Nickson had hinted
to Alice, would disapprove of their relationship if she suspected it was about something more than debate.