Rebecca James - Beautiful Malice

For Hilary

I didnt go to Alices funeral.

I was pregnant at the time, crazy and wild with grief. But it wasnt Alice I grieved for. No, I hated Alice by then and was glad that she was dead. It was Alice who had ruined my life, taken the best thing Id ever had and smashed it into a million unfixable pieces. I wasnt crying for Alice but because of her.

But now, four years later and a lifetime happier, finally settled into a comfortable and routine life with my daughter, Sarah (my sweet, oh-so-serious little Sarah), I sometimes wish that I had made it to Alices funeral after all.

The thing is, I see Alice sometimesat the supermarket, at the gates of Sarahs day care, at the restaurant where Sarah and I sometimes go for a cheap meal. I catch glimpses of Alices glossy corn-blond hair, her model-like body, her eye-catching clothes, from the corner of my eye and I stop to stare, my heart pounding. It takes me only an instant to remember that Alice is dead and gone, that it cant possibly be her, but I have to force myself to move closer, to reassure myself that her ghost isnt haunting me. Close-up, these women are sometimes similar, albeit never, never as beautiful as Alice. More frequently, though, they look nothing like her.

I turn away and get on with whatever I was doing before, but all the warmth will drain from my face and lips, my fingertips will tingle unpleasantly with adrenaline. My day is, invariably, ruined.

I should have gone to the funeral. I wouldnt have had to cry, or feign despair. I could have laughed bitterly and spat into the pit. Who would have cared? If only Id seen them lower her casket into the ground, watched them throw the dirt into her grave, I would be more certain that she was really dead and buried.

I would know, deep down inside, that Alice was gone for good.

D o you want to come?

Alice Parrie is looking down, smiling. Its lunchtime and Im sitting beneath a tree, alone, absorbed in a book.

Sorry. I shade my eyes and look up. Come where?

Alice hands me a piece of paper.

I take it and read. Its a brightly colored photocopy of an invitation to Alices eighteenth birthday party. Come one and come all!! Bring your friends!! it reads. Free champagne! Free food! Only someone as popular and as self-assured as Alice would issue such an invitation; anyone more ordinary would feel as if she was begging for guests. Why me? I wonder. I know of Alice, everyone knows of Alice, but Ive never spoken to her before. She is one of those girlsbeautiful, popular, impossible to miss.

I fold the invitation in half and nod. Ill try. It sounds like fun, I lie.

Alice looks at me for a few seconds. Then she sighs and plonks herself down next to me, so close that one of her knees rests heavily against mine.

You will not. She grins.

I feel my cheeks begin to color. Even though my entire life can sometimes feel like a faade, a wall of secrets, Im not good at lying. I look down at my lap. Probably not.

But I want you to come, Katherine, she says. Itd really mean a lot to me.

Im surprised that Alice even knows my name, but its even more surprisingin fact, quite unbelievablethat she wants me to come to her party. Im practically unknown at Drummond High and have no close friends. I come and go quietly, alone, and get on with my studies. I try to avoid bringing attention to myself. I do well enough, but my grades arent exceptional. I play no sport, have joined no clubs. And though I know I cant do this foreverlive my entire life as a shadowfor now its okay. Im hiding, I know that, Im being a coward, but right now I need to be invisible, to be the kind of person who arouses no curiosity in others. That way they never need to know who I really am, or what has happened.

I close my book and start to pack away my lunch things.

Wait. Alice puts her hand on my knee. I look at her as coldly as I can, and she withdraws it. Im serious. I really do want you to come. And I think what you said to Dan last week was fantastic. I really wish I could think of things like that to say, but I never can. Im just not quick enough. You know, I never would have thought about that womans feelings like that. Not until I heard you tell Dan off. I mean, you were great, what you said was just so right, and you really showed him up to be the moron that he is.

I know immediately what Alice is referring tothe one and only time Id let my guard down, momentarily forgotten myself. I dont often confront people anymore. In fact, its something I try very hard to avoid. But the way Dan Johnson and his friends had behaved two weeks ago had disgusted me so much that I couldnt help myself. We had a guest speaker talking about career planning and college admissions. Sure, the speech was boring, wed heard it all a billion times before, and the speaker was nervous and stuttered and hesitated and talked in confusing circles, only becoming worse as the crowd became noisier, more restless. Dan Johnson and his group of creepy friends had spotted their opportunity. They were so cruel and deliberately disruptive that the woman ended up leaving in humiliated tears. When it was all over, I stood behind Dan in the hallway and tapped him on the shoulder.

Dan turned around with a smug, self-satisfied look on his face, clearly anticipating some kind of approbation for his behavior.

Did it ever occur to you, I started, my voice surprisingly strong, fueled by anger, how much youve hurt that woman? This is her life, Daniel, her career, her professional reputation. Your pathetic cry for attention means a whole lot of humiliation for her. I feel sorry for you, Daniel. You must be very sad and small inside to need to hurt someone like that, someone you dont even know.

You were amazing, Alice continues. And to be honest, I was totally surprised. I mean, I think everyone was. No one speaks to Dan like that. She shakes her head. No one.

Well, I do, I think. At least the real me does.

It was admirable. Courageous.

And its that word that does it: courageous. I so want to be courageous. I so want the coward in me to be obliterated and smashed and destroyed that I can no longer resist Alice.

I stand up and hook my bag over my shoulder. Okay, I say, surprising myself. Okay, Ill come.

A lice insists that we get ready for the party together. She picks me up in her car, a battered old Volkswagen, shortly after lunch on the day of the party and takes me to her place. She lives alone, she tells me as she speeds along, weaving in and out of lanes, in a one-bedroom apartment in the inner city. Im surprised by this, astonished really. Id imagined that someone like Alice would live in a comfortable house in the suburbs with her devoted parents. Id imagined her being spoiled, pampered, coddled (just as I used to be), and the fact that she lives alone makes her suddenly seem more interesting, more complicated than Ive given her credit for. Its clear that Alice and I have more in common than Id imagined.

I want to ask her a million questions: Where are her parents? How does she afford her own apartment? Is she ever afraid? Is she lonely? But I keep quiet. I have secrets of my own. Ive learned that asking questions only puts me at risk of being interrogated myself. It is safer not to be too curious about others, safer not to ask.