Beautiful Malice Read online

  Alice is dressed. Her hair is damp, and I can smell the citrus of her shampoo. I sit up, feeling rumpled and tired and stale. I pick up the cup. The tea is hot and strong and sweet, delicious in my dry mouth.

  “How are you?” I ask after I’ve drunk half the cup and feel lucid enough to speak. “What time did you get up? You must be exhausted.”

  “No. I feel great. I got up early and had breakfast with Helen on the porch.”

  I wonder why Alice has started referring to Mom by her first name. My parents are usually the Mr. and Mrs. type.

  “We’ve been talking about Rachel,” Alice says.

  “Oh.” I’m shocked. I can’t imagine what they would have said to each other. Mom is usually so reluctant to talk to strangers about Rachel, so afraid of reducing her life and death to a story. “Is that … I mean, how did Mom … Is she … did she actually talk about it?”

  “Did she talk? My God, Katherine, she didn’t stop talking. I think this is really what she’s needed. It’s been … um, what’s that word … cathartic for her, I think. Helen’s a brave, strong woman but she needs, I don’t know … she really needs some kind of outlet for all of this. It’s so clear that she’s just been holding it all in, repressing all her fury and misery for so long. I mean, don’t get me wrong, this morning was completely exhausting, emotional for both of us. We laughed and hugged. We were both crying so hard, we even had a shot of rum in our coffee. I mean, she just opened up completely this morning, told me all this stuff … things that I don’t think she’s told anyone before.” Alice tilts her head and smiles dreamily. “And I gave her some different perspectives. A new way of seeing things. A more sympathetic and tolerant view of the whole situation. I think I really helped her, you know. Really helped her let go of some of the shit she’s been bottling up inside.”

  “‘The shit’?” I say. I’m irritated but not sure why. “What shit is that exactly?”

  “Oh.” Alice blinks, then looks at me a little warily. “Are you okay? You don’t mind or anything, do you? It just kind of happened. I’m not even sure who brought Rachel up. I mean, I think I did initially … but I couldn’t just sit there with Helen and not say anything about her. I kind of felt false or like I was lying or something, to pretend I didn’t know. But wow, once I mentioned Rachel’s name, that was it. Helen just couldn’t stop talking.”

  The way Alice is calling my mother Helen is infuriating. Every time she says it, I have to control the urge to tell her to shut up.

  “I’ll have to go and see if she’s really okay.” I sigh. I toss the blankets off my legs and stand, avoiding Alice’s eyes as I put on my robe. “She’s become very good at hiding her true feelings since Rachel died. You wouldn’t be able to tell what she’s really thinking unless you know her very well. And she can sometimes be ridiculously polite. To the point of self-destructiveness, really.”

  I leave the room without giving Alice a chance to say any more. I know I’m being rude and probably overly dramatic, but I’m sure that Alice has read everything all wrong—I’m certain that if they’ve been talking about Rachel, Mom will be feeling bruised and upset. And something about Alice’s attitude toward the whole thing seems oddly self-congratulatory. Annoyingly smug.

  I find Mom in the kitchen. She’s standing at the island, kneading some dough, and there’s flour everywhere, a smear of it on her cheek. She is humming.

  “Oh! Darling.” She smiles and puts her hand on her chest. “You startled me.”

  “How are you?” I look at her carefully.

  “Oh! I’m feeling quite …” She touches her lip vaguely, leaving a smear of flour behind. Her eyes tear up and I think she’s about to cry, but then she smiles. “I’m feeling fine, actually. Alice and I had a lovely talk this morning. A really good, honest conversation about Rachel. It was, well, it was liberating to get it all out.” She laughs then and shakes her head. “I was swearing like a sailor, darling. I even drank rum like a sailor, too.”

  “Rum? Already?” I look up toward the kitchen clock. “It’s only just past ten!”

  “I know. Aren’t we wicked? Your friend Alice.” Mom shakes her head, smiles fondly. “She’s quite a character, isn’t she? Such good fun.”

  “I guess so.” I open the fridge, busy myself looking through it. “Although it’s hard to imagine you swearing.” I can’t help it, I sound disapproving.

  “Well, I was.” If Mom has noticed my mood she’s not letting on; she remains cheerful and bright. “Those poor men. Their ears must be burning still.”

  “‘Poor men’? What poor men?” I close the fridge door, stare at her.

  “Well, boys, really, not men. The boys who killed Rachel.”

  “‘Poor’? I don’t think so. At least they’re still alive.”

  “That’s right. They are. And they’ve got to live with what they’ve done forever.”

  “Good,” I say viciously. “So they damn well should.”

  “Indeed.” My mother looks at me. “It’s okay. Get it all out, darling. Swear if you want to.”

  “God, Mom, I’ve already done all that.”

  “Good. Well, that’s good. I’m glad you have.” She laughs. “It feels good to get angry, doesn’t it? It feels good to behave badly sometimes.”

  “I wouldn’t call it behaving badly. I’d call it behaving like a normal human being.”

  “Of course. You’re absolutely right. Alice pointed that out.”

  “And you’re okay?” I don’t know why I’m not relieved. But there’s a strange and shameful part of me that’s disappointed to find her looking so happy. I suppose I’m a little jealous that it was talking to Alice, not me, that made her feel this way. “You’re not upset?”

  “Upset? Well, of course I’m upset, sweetheart. My beautiful, talented daughter was murdered. But it just feels so good to … to have acknowledged how fucking angry I really am. To let a bit of that anger out.” She shrugs and turns back to her kneading, pushing into the dough furiously. “It just feels so great to express it. I was so vicious about those men, those boys, those bastards, I almost started feeling sorry for them.”

  “Oh. Well. That’s—” I stop, turn away and go to the counter, busy myself finding the sugar, a cup, scooping leaves into the teapot. I’ve never heard my mother swear before. Never. In almost eighteen years. And far from feeling happy that she’s finally releasing some of this natural anger, far from feeling pleased to see her let go a little, I am close to tears. I feel hurt. I’ve tried so many times to get her to talk about Rachel, to express some anger, to scream and cry and rail at the unfairness of it all, but she’s always been so stony and stoic, tight-lipped and unwilling to let herself be overcome by emotion.

  Where I have always failed, Alice has succeeded—and so easily and quickly!

  I finish making my tea silently, and as I’m about to leave the room and head back up to my bedroom to drink it in aggrieved solitude, Mom approaches. She stands directly in front of me, puts her hand on my shoulder, and squeezes. “She’s a lovely girl, your friend Alice. I’m so glad you brought her up this weekend.”

  I nod and force myself to smile.

  “And she clearly thinks the world of you,” Mom says. “She couldn’t sing your praises highly enough. I’m so glad you two have become friends.” And then she leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. She smiles, and it is the happiest, most genuine smile I’ve seen on her face since the moment she learned that Rachel had died. My mother holds her arms open wide; I put my tea down and my arms around her. We hug, squeezing tightly for a long, long time, and by the time we let go, all the resentment I’ve been feeling toward Alice has vanished. She’s made Mom happy and instead of feeling childishly jealous, I should be grateful. I’ve been unreasonable and self-centered and petty. And as I head back upstairs I promise myself that in the future I’ll be much more generous and understanding toward Alice. After all, she has the best intentions. She’s a good friend, a kind and giving friend, and her heart is always
in the right place.

  13

  Rachel and Carly and I stopped at Carly’s house on our way to the party. Carly took off her school uniform and changed into a pair of jeans, a tight pink tank top, and a pair of flat gold sandals. She offered to lend us something to wear and I chose a pair of jeans and a striped T-shirt, but all of Carly’s clothes were far too big for Rachel.

  “You’ll just have to wear your uniform,” I said.

  “I’m going to look like such a loser,” Rachel whined, looking down at herself. And though she had already removed her school tie and untucked her shirt, there was nothing she could do about the length of the skirt—a long, dark-green kilt that hung well beneath her knees, an obvious sign of our private-school status. “I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb.”

  “Who cares?” I said. “You’re going to stick out anyway. You’ll be the youngest person there, the only fourteen-year-old within a hundred miles.”

  “But I—”

  “Rach,” I interrupted. “Stop complaining. You shouldn’t even be coming, remember. These are my friends, not yours.”

  Rachel and I both took our hair out of ponytails and let it hang loose—Rachel’s long and straight and golden, mine brown and curly-wild. We borrowed some of Carly’s lip gloss and made our eyes dark with her mascara and eyeliner.

  Carly took her cell phone from her schoolbag and switched it off. She tossed it on her bed. “If you don’t want your parents calling,” she said, “leave yours here, too.”

  Rachel looked at me, uncertain, waiting for me to make the decision. I shrugged, took my phone from my bag, switched it off, and tossed it on Carly’s bed. Rachel quickly did the same.

  When we’d squirted ourselves with some of Carly’s mother’s expensive-looking perfume—bottles of which covered her dressing table—we set off. We didn’t have enough money for a taxi, so we decided to walk. After we’d been walking for five minutes, idly discussing which houses we did or didn’t like as we passed them, Carly reached into her shoulder bag and brought out a plastic bottle.

  “Hold on a minute,” she said. She stopped walking, twisted the cap off, and took a long drink. The way her eyes watered and the way she gasped as she lowered the bottle revealed that she wasn’t drinking water.

  “Vodka.” She held the bottle toward me. “With a bit of lemonade. Want some?”

  I shook my head in amused disbelief, but took the bottle anyway. I should’ve known that Carly wouldn’t go to the party without some alcohol. She was the first girl at our school to start drinking, the one who arranged for someone older to buy it for us whenever we needed it.

  I lifted the bottle to my mouth and took a tentative sip. It was strong. Much more vodka than lemonade. “God, Carly, that’s lethal,” I gasped as I handed it back.

  “Rach?” Carly held the bottle out toward Rachel and lifted her eyebrows questioningly. Rachel looked at me as if for permission.

  “May as well.” I shrugged. “You won’t like it, though. It tastes like gasoline the first time you try it.”

  Rachel took a small sip and, as I knew she would, screwed her face up with disgust.

  “Yuck. That is vile,” she said.

  “It’s just a means to an end.” Carly shook her head when Rachel tried to hand the bottle to her and pushed it back into Rachel’s hands. “The more you drink, the easier it gets. It’ll help you relax, help you have a good time.”

  Rachel did what Carly suggested and put the bottle to her lips and took another drink.

  “Not quite so bad,” she said, making a face. “But I think I still like normal lemonade better.”

  Carly laughed. “But normal lemonade won’t help you enjoy yourself the way this will. Take my word for it.”

  I’m not sure why I didn’t worry about what Rachel was drinking. I still don’t know why I didn’t take care of her better, monitor her drinking and make sure she stayed sober. I guess the vodka had an almost immediate effect on me—on all three of us. We shared the bottle as we walked, each of us taking frequent sips, and soon the alcohol started to taste better and we started taking greedier swigs.

  When the bottle was empty, Carly stopped walking.

  “Hold on.” She put her bag on the ground and pulled out a large glass bottle, turning it so that we could see the label: Stolichnaya Vodka. “You didn’t really think I’d let us run out, did you?” She grinned. “We’ll have to drink it straight now. There’s no more lemonade.” She refilled the plastic bottle and held it out to Rachel. “You can go first. It’s going to taste like fire again. But you’ll get used to it.”

  Rachel took a large swig. The expression on her face as she swallowed made Carly and me laugh.

  By the time we arrived we were all quite tipsy. Rachel had a neat circle of flushed skin on each of her cheeks and a huge grin on her face. She looked pretty and innocent and very young.

  “How do you feel?” I took her hand in mine and smiled. The vodka had dissolved all my earlier irritation, smoothed out all my rough edges. I no longer felt so mad at her for coming with us. It just didn’t matter. “Are you okay?”

  We hadn’t entered the shed, but we could hear the music, the dum dum dum of the bass, the sound of voices and laughter, young people having a good time. Young people with no adults around.

  Rachel just stared at me, still smiling, and nodded. She started moving her body in time with the music. She raised her eyebrows, and cocked her head, as if to listen more carefully to the notes.

  “Come on.” Carly stood behind us and pushed us gently forward. “We’re not going to stand out here all afternoon. Much as I love you both, I didn’t walk all this way just to hang out here with you two.”

  It occurred to me as we headed inside that I hadn’t actually thought any of this through very carefully. We’d planned to be gone for only an hour. We’d planned to get Rachel home by five, with plenty of time to practice the piano. But we’d been at Carly’s for a good ten minutes and the walk had taken another forty. And as I watched Rachel heading into the party, the bounce in her step matching the rhythm of the music, I realized that it was now inevitable that we’d be late getting home. If Rachel had just gone home, everything would have been okay. I could have called Mom and Dad later and made up some excuse for my absence, said I was doing homework at Carly’s. They would have been annoyed but not as angry as they were going to be now that Rachel was involved. Rachel being home late would be a big deal, she was still only fourteen and was missing out on piano practice—and missing piano was always a major crime. And I had no idea how we were going to hide the smell of vodka. One thing was certain: we were going to be in trouble, big trouble.

  I may as well make the most of it, I thought as I followed Rachel inside.

  14

  Alice walks ahead of us. She’s only a fraction in front, barely two steps, but it’s enough to make it difficult to include her in a conversation, enough to make it clear that she’s not in the mood to talk. I don’t think she’s unhappy or angry or upset—far from it, she’s in good spirits, glowing with energy and beauty, clearly excited to be going out on such a beautiful autumn evening and enjoying the last of the warm weather.

  But she gets like this sometimes, preoccupied and silent. Robbie and I know her well enough not to worry that she might be upset or offended about something; we understand that she is sometimes happier not to participate. Robbie even made a joke about it once. Robbie and I were talking animatedly of our shared love of music—from rock and pop to opera—when we discovered that Alice had fallen asleep on the sofa. We had no idea how long she’d been asleep. We’d been talking on and on, oblivious, for hours. I think she’s tired of our constant blathering, Katherine, Robbie had said, laughing, when we found her. I think we talk too much. We’re boring her to death. And he’s probably right. Robbie and I never run out of things to say to each other—our conversations can continue for hours and hours.

  In fact, Robbie and I talk so much, and get along so very well, that I
started to worry that it might be upsetting Alice. I wondered if she might not be jealous. But when I asked her if she minded me talking to Robbie so much, if she wanted me to back off, she shook her head and looked at me quizzically.

  “Why? I love it that you get along. My two favorite people in the world. I’m thrilled that you’ve got so much to talk about,” she said.

  “Oh, good. I was scared you might be … well, think that I was stepping on your toes, that you might be jealous.”

  “Jealous?” Alice shook her head, looked thoughtful. “I’ve never been jealous. Of anyone. Of anything. I can honestly say that it’s not an emotion I’m familiar with.” And then she shrugged. “Jealousy’s a stupid, futile little sentiment, if you ask me.”

  It’s Friday night and I probably should be at home studying. But I studied hard during the week, and both Robbie and Alice had begged me to come out. School is important, I know that, but right now my friendship with Alice and Robbie is more so. Right now, having fun, living the life I’ve denied myself for so long, seems more than important. It’s crucial.

  Robbie and I are talking about skiing. Robbie loves it and suggests that the three of us head to the slopes next winter.

  “I’m not very good, though,” I admit. “I’ll probably just slow you down, ruin your vacation.”

  “I’ll teach you,” Robbie promises. “You’ll be good by the time we leave.”

  I laugh. “Such arrogance. You don’t even know how bad I am. To teach me to be good at skiing would be something close to a miracle.”

  “He taught me.” Alice turns around and slows her pace so that she can walk beside us. She shuffles between us so that Robbie and I are forced apart and she can walk in the middle. “I couldn’t even stand straight on the skis, but a week later I was skiing like a champion.” She hooks her arm through Robbie’s and smiles up at him. “And you are so sexy when you’re skiing.” She looks at me. “He’s just so confident and in charge when he skis. So totally lovable.”