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“You,” said Alice, “you’re always quick on your feet. In gym class, in lacrosse practice. Even when we were little and everyone was playing living and dead in the school yard. I never once saw you trip or crash into anyone.”
Living and dead was a game of tag in which the person chasing everyone pretended to bite whoever he—or she—caught. Kind of gross, looking back on it, but fun at the time.
“I . . . um . . . okay . . . ,” Gutsy said, definitely tripping now.
“But today you bump into me so hard you knock me down into horse poop.”
Gutsy looked down at her shoes. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “It . . . it was an accident.”
Alice dropped the clothespin into the laundry basket and walked slowly over to the fence. She smelled of soap and flowers.
“Look at me,” said Alice.
It took a lot, but Gutsy did.
“Remember back in third grade, when I always had my hair in braids?” asked Alice. Gutsy nodded. “Do you remember why I stopped braiding my hair?”
“No.”
Alice said, “Bobby McNeal was always pulling my braids. He was always sticking stuff into them because he sat behind me. Feathers, straw, dandelions.” Gutsy nodded again. “He was always playing tricks like that. Pretending to sneeze on me and tossing cooked pasta on my blouse like it was a booger. Putting snails in my shoes. He did all kinds of stuff when we were little. Do you know why?”
“Bobby McNeal’s a jerk.”
“No,” said Alice, “he’s not. Not really.”
“He was bullying you, Alice. There’s nothing cute about that.”
Alice frowned. “Look, he wasn’t really trying to be a jerk in third grade. He was trying to say something and didn’t know how.”
Gutsy stared at her. “Say what? That boys can do whatever they want because they’re stronger and girls just have to take it?”
“No,” insisted Alice, getting flustered. “Bobby really liked me. He still does, I guess. He wants me to go to the fall dance next month. He doesn’t mess with my hair or put snails in my shoes anymore. And he apologized, like, a thousand times for doing it back then.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
“Well . . . no. But I think he gets that now.”
“Maybe,” said Gutsy dubiously, “but he’s still trying to get you to notice him.”
“Sure, Guts, but he’s not doing anything like he used to. People can change.”
Gutsy gave a reluctant shrug. “Maybe. Why’d you bring him up? He and I aren’t even friends.”
“I brought it up because back then, he was hitting on me the wrong way because he was going through a lot of bad stuff. Don’t forget, his dad was killed by shamblers in the summer before third grade. And his uncle, too. Bobby was all screwed up.”
“So . . . ?”
Alice put her hands on the edge of the fence. She seemed to be standing very close.
“Look,” she said, “I know your mom just died. That’s horrible. My dad died two years ago and I’m still not over it. I think about him every night. I dream about talking with him and sitting in the living room sewing side by side, talking about stuff. About anything, really. Just being together. I miss him so bad. So I know what you’re going through. And while I was washing my clothes, I kept wondering if that’s what’s made you weird lately. If that’s why you walked into me like your head was totally somewhere else.”
“I . . .”
“But,” said Alice, leaning a few inches closer, “if you want to get my attention, maybe try it some other way.”
“What?”
Alice smiled. “Flowers are nice,” she said, “and they smell better than horse poop.”
