Disclaimer: I do not own Wicked in any shape or form. The rights belong to Mr. Gregory McGuire for the book, and the people who made the musical (i can't remember who did it) for the musical.

Geth342: Yeah, this oneshot isn't too good because i was tired when i wrote it, and i really should be updating my other fanfic, but nevertheless, enjoy and please give me some reviews :) And also, yes i am perfectly aware that water melts her. But when Elphaba is crying, i think it only burns a bit if she wipes it off quick enough. Plus she didn't seem too bad off from water in the musical which is what this is based on.


Elphaba never cried.

Not when people were nearby.

When people sneered at her as she entered Shiz University for the first time, she scowled.

When her father gave her sister the shoes, she smiled blandly.

When my friends teased her mercilessly, she walked away.

When I teased her, she replied sarcastically.

When she was humiliated at the ball, she carried on dancing.

When Doctor Dillamond was taken away, she argued.

When the Wizard of Oz used her, she flew away.

When Nessarose refused to help her, she tried to help Nessarose.

When Nessarose died, she fought me.

When Fiyero was arrested, she cast a spell.

When Dorothy arrived to kill her, she hid me.

When she died, she melted.

She would never cry.


But I tell a lie. I did see her cry. Once. After I made her 'popular'.

She had left quickly, without even thanking me. I told myself she'd be popular, and be grateful later. After all, it had been me who had done the makeover.

But she didn't return for hours, not until some time after I had decided it necessary to sleep. Or maybe she waited until I had just fallen asleep before she entered. I never found out.

I woke up to the sound of muffled sobbing. Sitting up, I looked over to her bed. Through the dim light by the bed, I saw a huddled figure holding a green bottle- her mother's bottle. My mind flashed back to our earlier conversation.

"Come on, tell me a secret. I told you one." I say, bouncing happily on my bed. Elphie looks like she's not going to reply, as she has been trying not to. Then she says, quickly:

"Fine. It's my fault my mother died." I can't keep the shock off my face. Why would she think that? The conversation continues…

I had told her that of course it wasn't her fault her mother was dead, but she didn't believe me. And now she was crying. I whispered into the dark:

"Elphie are you okay?"

She turned around, holding a towel in one hand, startled. A tear slid down her cheek and she winced as she dabbed at it with the towel. She glanced at me.

"Galinda, go back to sleep."

No way was I going to leave it at that.

"Tell me what's wrong."

"No, go back to sleep."

"Aw, but I'm awake now." I said it playfully, trying to get a smile on her green face. She didn't smile.

"It's nothing. Just…dust."

Elphie was never a good liar, due to her love of telling the truth, something I never understood. I think both of us realised how pathetic her lie was, but she made no effort to change her words.

"Well, what's the towel for?" I challenged. At first I thought she wouldn't reply but then-

"Tears from the dust. They burn like fire." She sounded like I had just forced her to tell me her deepest, darkest secret. I tried to lighten the mood.

"Well no one likes crying but I can't say it hurts…" I try to grin, but trail weakly off. Elphie wasn't listening anyway. She was too busy gazing at her green bottle. Finally she spoke to me.

"Galinda, it's late and we have lessons tomorrow. We should sleep." She spoke quietly but firmly. I was about to protest, but the expression on her face seemed to suggest a horrible death for me if I protested. I had already opened my mouth to speak, so I said something else.

"Right. Goodnight Elphie."

Just an annoyed grunt in response. Typical.


We never discussed that night. Sometimes, like now, I wonder if I should have been the friend I had promised to be and comforted her. I think I should have done that at least.

But I won't get a chance to find out. She's gone.

Outside, people celebrate the death of my best friend. I go from party to party, repeating the same line. The Wicked Witch of the West is dead. Hooray. I encourage them, like the person I am. Good for spreading lies, not for much else. That's how it always was, and that's how it will always be. Maybe Elphie never lied because she knew how dirty it felt. I'll never know.

I can't even cry for her. I want to cry, but I can't. Why am I, Glinda the Good, mourning for her, crying for her everyone would ask. And I can't clear her name. I promised her that much, that one small mercy, no matter how much it hurts. So, as usual as I prepare to edit the 'truth', I don't cry.

I rarely cried anyway. I didn't cry in Shiz when I was upset (unless it suited me, for some social rise) because I had to be the happy one. The beautiful one. The perfect one.

And perfect people don't cry.

Do they?

At least, not in front of other people.

Someone knocks on the door, asking me for confirmation of the Witch's death. I stand and I notice that, as usual when I'm alone (even for a few minutes) tears have started to form in my eyes. But now is not the time, not when I have to tell her 'story'. It is never the time.

Because Elphie was right.

Sometimes it is too hard to cry.

And sometimes…

Sometimes it hurts.

So I'll plaster a fake smile on my face and join in with the party, just like in Shiz.

And just like in Shiz, just like Elphaba, I'll wait until I'm alone before I cry.