Alice

I remember Alice.

She was my roommate in college. We were first-years together, both nervous as all hell. I think I enjoyed it more than she did. She was always the quiet one, off in her room sitting on her bed with her laptop or her keyboard. She had headphones for both. I remember walking into the room to see her practicing some wild melody, fingers flying over the keyboard, but no sound.

The headphones must’ve been very good quality, they lasted her the whole year.

I enjoyed the night life. I went to every party, every pub, every bar, every mixer, every dance. I got drunk every weekend with the girls on our floor and once I even flashed the boy’s dorm with half our classmates. Alice was never around.

Oh she came to the first party. Sat in the corner and pushed the ice cubes around in her drink. We went back early because she begged me to take her home. So I did. And then she stayed in our room after that. I invited her to come along all the time. She always politely declined.

I wonder what she was afraid of.

But I never judged her for it. She was a wonderful friend and a good student. She helped me with my reports and essays, especially after I’d been drinking. She always made sure I had my papers in on time. Come to think of it I can’t remember ever doing much for her. I cleaned every so often, offered to throw her laundry in with mine, give her rides to places. She would shake her head and smile.

I ran into Alice when I was grocery shopping downtown in about mid-December, just before the holidays. We chatted in the store and decided to buy a gingerbread house so we could decorate it and then eat it together. We laughed and laughed over some stupid singing Santa dolls in the aisles, and then I drove her back.

She got quiet again as we walked up the stairs to our floor. I asked her if she wasn’t feeling well; she didn’t say anything. When we got to our suite door, I went to unlock it and found it open. There was light and noise inside, a party was going on.

“Come on in!” one of our floor-mates giggled, and then gave me an odd look. I turned to see what she was looking at.

Alice had gone whiter than a lily and was physically shaking. I blinked at her, dropping the bags inside the door.

“Alice? Are you all right?” I asked, offering a hand to steady her in case she fell.

The words were barely out of my mouth when she grabbed my hand and took off down the hallway. My arm was nearly yanked out of its socket, so sudden and violent was her action.

“What? Wait! Alice!” I tried to protest, but by the time I could think we were in the common area and in the floor’s public bathroom. She yanked me into a stall and crouched up on one of the toilets, shuddering and pale as death.

Concerned, I knelt with her on the seat and rubbed her back. There was noise outside the main door, confusion; they must have been looking for us. She buried her face in her hands, and began to sob. The sound was muffled and quiet, as if a mouse was crying somewhere in the back of a church.

When the ruckus outside had died down, I slipped off of the seat and unlocked the door. Alice didn’t move.

“Alice?”

She let out a soft muted moan, and then hurried to my side, like a little lost child. I walked down the hall with her, one arm over her shoulders as we reached the door to the suite.

Alice shut her eyes tight, and I gathered our bags and ushered her blindly to our room, through the confused party. I locked the door and put away our food, and she sat on her bed, her knees up against her chest.

“Alice?” I sat down beside her, gingerly, squeezed her shoulder. “Alice, please…what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Not wanting to make her even more upset, I didn’t press the matter. Instead I simply sat with her, both of us watching the light of the moon through the window as it pooled on the floor.

The party lasted until dawn.

Yes, I remember Alice.