Beautiful Malice Read Free

sister once, nor of my devastated parents. I dance and laugh and flirt. I forget, temporarily, about the night I realized the awful truth about myself. I forget all about the night I discovered the shameful, grubby coward at the core of my soul.

3
    A fter Alice’s party, people at school are noticeably more friendly to me. I get smiles and nods in the corridors from students I don’t recognize, and a few even say “Hey , Katherine!” surprising me by knowing my name. And Alice finds me at lunchtime, sits down beside me in the cafeteria, and makes me laugh with stories about the other students, gossipy tidbits of information about people I barely know. It’s fun, and I’m more than happy for the company, glad not to be alone anymore.
    I don’t question why she would want to spend time with me. I used to be popular, after all, and am used to being liked. Alice says she wants to be my friend; she seems to enjoy my company; she listens, intently, to everything I have to say. So I am grateful and flattered and pleased. And for the first time since Rachel died, I feel something resembling happiness.
    On the Thursday following her party, I call Alice and invite her over for Saturday night. I live with my aunt Vivien, my father’s sister. I like living with Vivien; she’s warm and easygoing, and I’m grateful that I’m no longer at home, that I can finish high school where nobody has heard of Rachel or the Boydell sisters. I spend a lot of time alone because Vivien goes on so many business trips and if she’s free on weekends she goes away with friends. She’s always encouraging me to invite people to the apartment and clearly thinks it strange that I never socialize, but I’ve grown used to my own company and enjoy being able to choose exactly what to eat, what to watch, what music I listen to.
    “I’ll make dinner,” I tell Alice.
    “Awesome,” she says. “Hope you’re a good cook.”
    “I am. It’s one of my many secret talents.”
    “Secrets, hmm?” Alice is quiet for a minute. “Have a lot of them, do you?”
    I laugh, as if the very idea is absurd.
    I spend Saturday buying food. I used to cook a lot before Rachel died, when we were still a family, and so I know what I’m doing and what I’ll need. I buy all the ingredients—chicken thighs, cardamom pods, yogurt, cumin, ground coriander, basmati rice—to cook one of my favorite curries. That way I can make it early, before Alice arrives, and when she gets there I can let it simmer and grow more delicious as we talk.
    I’ve become so used to keeping everything guarded and private, so reluctant to let anyone close, that I’m surprised to realize how much I’m looking forward to Alice’s company. I don’t know when or how the idea of friendship and intimacy became so appealing, but all of a sudden the thought of having fun and getting to know someone new is quite irresistible. And although I’m still afraid of revealing too much, still conscious that friendship can be risky, I can’t quell this feeling of excited anticipation.
    I get home, prepare the curry, then shower and dress. I have an hour before Alice arrives, so I call my parents. Mom and Dad and I moved about a year ago. Too many people knew us at home, too many people knew what had happened to Rachel. It was impossible to cope with the pitying stares, the curious looks, the conspicuous whispering wherever we went. I moved in with Vivien so that I could finish high school in the city, a place so big I could keep to myself, remain anonymous. My parents bought a house a couple of hours north. They wanted me to live with them, of course, and argued that I was too young to be leaving home. But I’d started to find their sadness overwhelming, their very presence suffocating, and so I convinced them that the city was the perfect place for me to be, that my very happiness depended on it, and they finally relented.
    “Boydell residence.” My mother answers the phone. I changed my last name