The Hulk is watching me, but his expression is different, somehow. He gets it. He knows what I’m talking about.
But Isabelle clearly doesn’t. “Sounds like you’re a supporting character in your own life.” She shakes her head, disgusted. “It’s your life, Alice. You should be the lead.”
I don’t expect her to understand. “It is what it is.”
“It’s not fair!” Isabelle gives me that look—the one I see countless times from strangers whenever Noah stims or hums, freaks or flaps, or bobs or babbles—whenever he does the million things that make him Noah.
They look at me with pity.
I hate that the most. Pity doesn’t do me any good, and I should know. I’ve wallowed in it many nights. Right around 4:00 a.m., when those questions I buried all day came bubbling back up:
Why?
Why did she leave me?
Why didn’t she take me with her?
Why doesn’t she call more often?
Why doesn’t she love me?
Gran says Mom doesn’t have the strength to deal with Noah. Or the guts to face the guilt. It’s just easier for her to stay away. To keep busy. To forget.
The Hulk speaks, his voice strangely quiet. “Life’s not fair.”
“Not fay-yar,” Noah echoes, in his Scar voice, “not fay-ar. Life’s not fay-ar.” He has the words and the British accent down. I wonder if he has any idea what it really means.
The Hulk continues, “But you can’t run from it—no matter how hard it gets. Because if you start running—you just never stop.” He looks at me, in me. He understands. “I don’t know about missing moms, but I’d give up anything…anything to have my brother here.”
And for the first time in my life, I see a look, not of pity, but of longing. The Hulk wants what we have, Noah and I.
I meet his eyes. Hold them for a moment. “Thanks…Hogan.” He shrugs it off like it’s no big deal. But it is, for me it’s huge.
“Okay—but your brother is definitely dead,” Xander blurts at Hogan. “That I know because—”
“Xander!” Isabelle cuts him off. “Geez, don’t you have a filter?”
“No.” Confused, he looks down at his camera. “I never use one. I’d rather see things as they really are.”
We sit in awkward silence, looking everywhere but at each other.
“He’s right. It’s true.” Hogan lets out a deep breath. “It’s been two years, I should be able to at least say it.”
But he doesn’t.
Xander tilts his head and stares at Hogan. “But is it true that you killed him?”
I gasp. People gossip like that behind Hogan’s back—but only Xander is dumb enough, or maybe honest enough, or brave enough to say it to his face.
Hulk Hogan killed his brother.
I heard he stabbed him in the change room.
No, he squashed his head like a melon—right between his palms.
Blood everywhere.
It can’t be true, right? It has to be just a rumor. It’s too terrifying, too unbelievable. Hogan stares at the splatters of red drops on the white tiles. Blood from my cut. Nobody moves, or speaks, or even breathes.
“I did it,” he finally says, his voice barely a whisper. “I killed my brother.”