The Truth About Alice by Jennifer Mathieu

cyanide.”
    â€œWhat’s cyanide?”
    â€œA poison. Members of the Jonestown cult consumed it in mass quantities on the order of their leader, Jim Jones. They all died immediately after.”
    â€œ 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 of Healy 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.
    â€œSo 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.
    â€œHanging out at the Healy High parking lot. It was incredible. Just amazing.” He was being sarcastic, I realized.
    â€œBeing fawned on by your adoring public?”
    â€œI don’t understand what you’re saying, Morelli. Talk slower.” He shoved me with his shoulder.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œSo, 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