Alice I Have Been: A Novel by Melanie Benjamin Page A

Dodgson looked confused. He also looked very, very tired. His fine, curly brown hair was more mussed than I’d ever seen it, and his lips were chapped from the sun. When he was this tired, his eyes looked even more lopsided than usual; the left one drooped more.
    “The story—my story. It is mine, isn’t it?”
    “If you want it to be.”
    “Oh, I do! I do!” Just like that, I reached out and took it, so bold, so sure that it was meant for me, as sure as I had been when he told me that only I could be his gypsy girl. And no matter how much older Ina was, she could never, ever be so confident, so certain with him; I knew she hated this about herself.
    “Then it’s yours,” Mr. Dodgson said. “So you’ll never have to grow up, in a way.”
    “But that’s what I mean!” I could scarcely believe he understood so well what was in my heart; it was only later that I realized all he had to do was look in my eyes, to see. “If you write it down, I won’t grow up—ever! Of course, not truly, but in the story. I’ll always be a little girl, at least there, if you write it down. Could you?”
    “I don’t know—I’ll try, Alice. But I’m not sure I can remember it all.”
    “Oh yes, you can! I know you can—and if you can’t, I’ll help!”
    “Alice,” Ina interrupted, taking Edith’s hand. “We must go. It’s late. You and Edith ought to be in bed, although naturally I’ll be up for hours—simply hours!”
    “Indeed,” Mr. Duckworth said, knocking on the front door. “It’s been lovely, ladies. A most enjoyable day. I do hope to see you again soon.”
    One of the Mary Anns opened the door as both Mr. Duckworth and Mr. Dodgson raised their straw boaters—somewhat limp after the long day in the sun—in farewell.
    “Don’t forget!” I twisted around to catch one last glimpse of Mr. Dodgson.
    “I won’t,” he said, cocking his head and looking at me with a puzzled expression, before turning to leave with Mr. Duckworth. It was an odd request, I knew; one I’d never made before. I wasn’t sure if he completely understood my urgency.
    The door closed behind me before I could say anything else; I felt a rising bubble of panic burble up in my chest, but I tried to swallow it. I would see Mr. Dodgson again soon, I knew. I’d remind him then.
    “He won’t write that silly story down,” Ina grumbled as we went up the stairs—Mary Ann gave us each a candle, as it was dark already. “What a rude request. He has much better things to do with his time.”
    “You’re simply cross because he didn’t tell a story about you,” I retorted, sure of that, at least.
    “What do you mean? I was the sister reading the book!”
    “Perhaps.” I also thought she was someone else: the dreadful queen at the end, who wanted to behead everyone, although I didn’t dare tell her that. “Still, he named the girl after me, not you. He’ll write it down, I’m sure of it.”
    “And if he doesn’t? What? What will happen then?” Ina turned to confront me; her face loomed large and mysterious, the candle flickering and throwing off ominous shadows. “You’ll have to grow up all the same. And then you’ll be too old for him, too.” Her mouth quivered while her eyes grew bright—with tears, I realized; wounded tears, spilling onto her hand as she clutched the pewter candleholder.
    “No, I won’t. I’ll never be too old for him,” I said, even though I knew it would hurt her. I tried to put my arm around my sister anyway. For even if I didn’t completely comprehend what she was saying—how could any of us be too old for Mr. Dodgson, when he was always going to be so very much older than us?—still, I didn’t want to see her weep. Ina never wept. I couldn’t recall the last time I had seen her with tears rolling down her cheeks, smudged and dusty and pink from the sun.
    “Yes, you will. You’ll see—you will.” Ina shook my arm off and stomped up the stairs. Edith had gone on up ahead, too tired to