Beautiful Malice (11 page)

“Maybe I am.”

Now we are quiet. Silent in the darkness. I hear Robbie’s breathing become more even. I close my eyes.

“You’re nice, Katherine.” His voice is soft, drowsy.

“You’re nice, too, Robbie.”

“If only I’d met you before. Before I ever met Alice,” he says. “We could have … we might have …” He doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Yes,” I say sleepily. “I know.”

19

“T
hey’re great, aren’t they?” Philippa is staring up at her brother’s band on the stage. She’s beaming with pride, tapping her feet in time with the music.

“They’re fantastic.” I nod and smile with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. And they are. They’re all accomplished musicians, and their repertoire is well rehearsed, smooth. It’s the kind of folksy, easy-to-listen-to rock music I would normally enjoy from a live band, but I have a major headache and I really want to be home, in bed. When Philippa showed up at my place earlier in the evening to pick me up, she was so excited about the night ahead that I was unwilling to disappoint her. I hoped that my headache would eventually go away, but it has only gotten worse. Our table is too close to the stage, and the music is too loud, pounding, painful.

Philippa’s brother, Mick, is playing the drums. He’s very good-looking in a cool, withdrawn kind of way—I haven’t seen him smile once all night. He’s pale, like Philippa, and has longish black hair that hangs over his eyes. And every so often I’ve caught him staring over at our table quizzically, wondering, no doubt, who the new girl with Philippa is.

I’m glad when the band stops for a break. The sudden quiet makes my head feel a little better. Philippa’s brother talks to the other band members for a while, then he comes and stands beside our table.

“Hey, Pip,” he says, touching Philippa on the shoulder. He stares at me, his expression quite blank and unfriendly. I smile but he looks away, toward Philippa.

“Hey.” Philippa takes his hand. “This is Katherine. I told you about her, remember?”

“Yep.” Mick nods, still unsmiling, and looks at me for the briefest of moments. “Hi.”

I’m not in the mood to put up with such unfriendliness and have no inclination to try and charm him. “Hi,” I say, just as coldly, and then I turn away, look around the bar.

“Katherine’s got a headache,” Philippa tells him. I turn to her and frown, surprised. I haven’t told her I have a headache, so I’m not certain how she knows, and I’m also a little irritated that she thinks my unfriendliness needs explaining. It’s her brother who’s being rude. I’m only responding to his rudeness. Philippa leans forward and puts her hand on mine. “Mick can get rid of it.”

“Rid of what?”

“Your headache,” Mick says. He’s staring at me again. “If you want me to.”

“What?” I shake my head, suddenly certain he means to offer me drugs. “Oh, no, thanks.” I lift my glass of sparkling water. “I’ve got to study tomorrow.”

“He doesn’t mean drugs, silly, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Philippa laughs, reading my mind. “He can make it go away with massage. It really works. It’s amazing. Trust me. Try it.”

I picture this strangely unfriendly man massaging my shoulders, touching my skin, and almost laugh, the thought is so absurd. “No. I’ll be fine. Thanks anyway.”

But before I realize what’s happening or have time to react, Mick is sitting in the chair opposite me and taking my right hand between his. He holds it still, and with the fingers of his other hand he presses the soft, fleshy spot between my forefinger and thumb, moving in small, firm circles. He runs his thumb up over my wrist, then back down my palm and middle finger.

I’m about to laugh and pull my hand away, express my cynicism toward such methods, when Mick squeezes my hand even tighter and says, “Not yet. Give it a chance to work.” And then he smiles.

His smile is the most transformative smile I’ve ever seen. It enlivens his entire face; what once seemed surly, dark, and closed up is now warm, open, kind. His grin is large, his teeth straight and white, and his eyes are deep-set and brown and framed by insanely long lashes. He is handsome. Incredibly so. And I’m suddenly quite certain that he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

Amazingly, the squeezing tension in my temples is easing. It’s as if with each little circle he presses into the skin of my hand he’s erasing the headache. He’s no longer looking at me, no longer smiling, but is staring at my hand with an intent expression on his face.

And then, without warning, he pinches the skin between my thumb and forefinger so hard that it hurts.

“Ouch.” He releases my hand and I snatch it away. “That hurt!”

He looks at me, quizzically, waiting.

“It’s gone.” I put my hand to my temple in disbelief. “My headache’s completely gone.”

“Wonderful, isn’t it? I told you it would work, didn’t I? My clever little brother.” Philippa looks at Mick proudly, but Mick keeps his eyes on me. He still doesn’t smile, but I can now see that there is a definite warmth in his expression, a hint of amusement. He stares at me for so long that I begin to feel embarrassed, feel my heart beating faster, the skin on my cheeks flush with color.

“Yes. Yes, it is. Thank you.” I turn away from his disconcerting gaze and look at Philippa. “Let’s have another drink,” I say, bringing my glass to my lips and draining the remainder quickly. I stand up. “Another one, Philippa? Do you want something, Mick?”

“No, thanks.” Philippa shakes her head.

“I’ll have a beer,” Mick says.

“Sure,” I say, and I head toward the bar.

“Wait!” he calls out. I turn back. He smiles at me, and I’m glad I’m not standing too close, that there’s no way he can hear the pounding of my heart, feel the tremble that has started in my hands. “Just say it’s for the band. It’s free.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Wait,” he says again, and now he is laughing. “I’ll have a Budweiser, if that’s okay?”

“Yep. Fine,” I say. And then I go to the bar. Walking quickly. Eager to escape his scrutiny.

When I’ve ordered the drinks I glance back over my shoulder. He and Philippa are leaning together, talking. He nods and gestures toward the stage, moves his arms energetically in imitation of playing the drums. I’m relieved—they’re clearly talking about music and are not sitting there wondering at my bizarre behavior.

I know this feeling in my chest. I’m familiar with the butterflies in my stomach, the nervous thrill I feel when Mick looks at me. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like this. Not since Will, since the night of Rachel’s death. And I can’t help but be amazed at my physical response to this attraction: the pounding heart, the shaking hands, the heat in my face that betrays my feelings before I’ve even consciously acknowledged them to myself. It’s as if my body knows me better than I know myself.

I drink half of my glass of water straight down when it arrives. It’s icy cold and hurts my throat, but I’m incredibly thirsty. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to be calm, not to shake or blush or stammer. And then, as composed as I can be, I head back to the table.

“Talking music.” Philippa looks at me apologetically as I hand them their drinks. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” I shake my head and sit down. “I love talking music. My family … I mean … We always used to.” And I stop, at a sudden loss for words. Rachel’s death, my history, is no longer a secret, but it’s almost impossible to bring up her death casually. How can you say,
Oh yes. My family used to talk about music a lot. Before my sister was murdered, that is
.

Philippa notices my discomfort and changes the subject. “Oh my God,” she exclaims, putting her hand on Mick’s arm. “You’ll never guess who I saw the other day!”

Mick looks at her, raises his eyebrows.

“Caroline,” she says. “Caroline Handel. And seriously, Mick, you wouldn’t believe how much she’s changed. If you saw her, you’d be absolutely amazed. She looks like a different person, all dressed up and smart. She’s some kind of bigwig with some kind of big company. The change in her is phenomenal.”

“Yeah?” He shrugs indifferently.

And though Philippa tries her hardest—and I assume it’s for my sake—to get Mick talking about something else, he looks uninterested in Philippa’s encounter with the girl named Caroline, and the moment Philippa has finished her story, he turns back to me.

“So your family used to talk music. How come
used to?
What changed?”

“Mick!” Philippa’s voice is sharp. “Don’t be so rude. You can’t ask questions like that.”

“What?” Mick looks baffled. “Questions like what?” He looks at me and lifts his beer bottle. “Was that a rude question?”

“No,” I say. “Philippa, don’t worry. It’s okay.” And right then I make a decision. I’m going to tell them about Rachel; it may not be the most appropriate place, or time, or circumstance; there is no right place to talk about death. But it’s a part of my history—an ongoing part of my life that colors almost everything. If I don’t talk about it, it will just sit there forever, a shadow, haunting me.

“My sister was murdered,” I say.

Philippa nods.

“It might seem weird to tell you this now.” I talk quickly, lifting and setting down my glass, making overlapping circles of water on the table. “You see, I’ve been trying to hide this from everyone for so long. And now that it’s out, well, now that you know, I feel that I have to tell …” I look at Philippa and say, very deliberately, “My friends, that is. I feel that I have to tell my friends what happened. Because it’s not just something that happened. What happened changed me. Completely.”

I look at Mick. “And I understand if you don’t want to hear this. But I’d like to tell Philippa. And you’re welcome to stay and listen, too.”

He nods, says nothing.

“We went to a party that night.” I put my glass down, place my hands in my lap, suddenly uncertain if I can do this. But I take a deep breath and begin.

And this time I don’t sob or cry. A few tears wet my eyes, but I brush them impatiently away. Rachel and Mick listen, silently. And when I’m done, Philippa stands up and comes around the table and hugs me tight.

“Thank you for telling us that,” she says.

I look at Mick. His eyes are wet with unshed tears. He looks at me and he smiles—a small half-smile, a smile of sympathy and sadness, a smile that shows that he’s confused and uncertain and has no idea what to say. It’s the perfect response, and I smile weakly back, grateful.

20

“S
top,” I said. “Hold on. Not now, not here. I don’t want it to be like this.”

“Okay.” Will rolled off me and sat up. He pulled my T-shirt down gently and sighed. “Neither do I, Katie. Sorry.”

I sat up, put my arm around his neck, and kissed him on the mouth. “Don’t be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry for.” I looked around us. We were beneath a tree. The ground was hard and gnarly with old roots and pebbles and grit. I felt dirty and a little dizzy from the aftereffects of too much alcohol. “I’d really much rather lose my virginity in a bed. A nice, clean, soft bed. And I think I’d rather be sober.”

“Me too. Honest.” He smiled. “You’re driving me crazy, but I’d rather it was nice. And I think it’d be a good thing if we were both sober enough to remember it later.”

“Shit. What time is it?” I grabbed Will’s wrist and turned it so that I could see the face of his watch. But it was too dark to see it properly. “Does this thing have a light?”

“Yep.” He lifted his wrist closer to his face. “It’s past eight. Almost eight-thirty.”

“Shit.” I stood up and brushed myself off. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Fuck
. It’s late. We were only supposed to stay for an hour. We’re going to be in such deep shit when we get home. Come on. I have to get Rachel. We have to go.
Now.”

But we couldn’t find her inside. We looked around the dance floor, but she was nowhere to be found. We checked through the people clustered near the walls. We found Carly and asked if she’d seen her, but Carly shook her head, shrugged, and looked around the shed blankly. She was drunk and snuggling up to a boy I didn’t recognize. Locating Rachel wasn’t one of her priorities.

“Outside.” Will took my arm. “Out front. She’ll be near the cars, maybe.”

“Okay. I’ll look out front and you look out back. It’ll be quicker. I’ll meet you back here.”

I was starting to get worried. It was late, and Mom and Dad would be home by now. They’d be wondering where we were, they’d be getting anxious. We were going to be in big trouble. And if Rachel was drunk, if they were able to smell the alcohol on her, they’d be furious. We’d both be grounded for months.

I couldn’t see or hear anything when I first went outside, but then, standing among the parked cars, I heard male voices. Laughter. The clink of glass against glass. I headed toward the noise. A small group of people were gathered around a car. All the doors were open so that the interior light spilled out. Two boys were leaning against the car doors. One boy was sitting in the front seat. Another boy was in the back, with Rachel.

Rachel had a glass of beer in her hand, which looked as if it was about to drop; she held it so loosely, her hand limp from the wrist down. She was lying back against the upholstery with her eyes half shut.

“Hello, there,” the boy sitting in the driver’s seat said as I approached. “What can we do you for?”

I smiled. “I’ve just come to get my sister.” I leaned into the car and put my hand on her shoulder. “Rach. We’ve got to go. It’s really late.”

“Katie.” Rachel opened her eyes and grinned. The movement made her beer slop out of her glass and down her leg. She didn’t seem to notice. “Katie, Katie. I’m having such a good time. I’ve been telling them all about my … my … my … 
whatchamacallit?”
She giggled, mimicked playing the piano with her fingers on her leg. “My … my … 
music!
That’s it! My music!” Her voice was slurred, her gestures clumsy and exaggerated. “They want to come to my concert. Can you believe it?”

I looked around at the boys. They all wore flannel shirts worn open over tight T-shirts. The only one who met my eyes was the one sitting in front, in the driver’s seat. He was a lot older than the others, at least twenty, and was kind of handsome in a rugged way. A man, not a boy. I didn’t believe for a minute that he or any of the others was interested in classical music.

“Great,” I said, taking Rachel’s beer glass from her fingers. “And that’s why we’ve got to go. There won’t be any concert if you and I don’t go now.”

I took Rachel’s hand in mine and tried to pull her from the car. But it was awkward, she was a dead weight, uncooperative, and I felt that if I pulled any harder I’d make her fall out and end up being forced to drag her.

“How are you gonna get her home?” the man from the front seat asked. He was watching me quizzically, a cigarette between his lips.

“Walk. It’s not far,” I lied.

The man laughed. “I’m Grant. And yes, it
is
fucking far. Everywhere is far from here. At night. In the dark.” He nodded toward Rachel. “When you’re out of it.”

I shrugged. “Rachel,” I said loudly. “Come
on
. We’ve got to go. It’s late.”

She just giggled and slid sideways a little without making any real effort to move. She smiled dreamily and shut her eyes as if to sleep.

“Jesus,” I said, staring accusingly at Grant, although I knew if anyone was to blame it was me. I should never have brought Rachel here in the first place. I should never have left her alone. This was all my fault. “How much beer has she had?”

Grant shook his head and raised his eyebrows in an expression of innocence. “I dunno. I haven’t seen her have more than one glass. She’s probably just not used to it. Sean?” He turned to face a very large, sweaty-faced boy, the one who was sitting in the back beside Rachel. “Do you know how much she’s had to drink?”

“Nah.” Sean laughed, an ugly wheezing sound that made his belly rise, and spoke to Grant. He didn’t bother to look my way. “How the hell would I know? She was tanked before she even got in the car.”

“What a nightmare,” I groaned. “How am I going to get her home?”

I was talking more to myself than to anyone else, but Grant responded anyway. “That’s why I asked you,” he said. “We could drive you. No skin off my nose.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Thanks anyway.”

“Suit yourself. But it’s gonna take you at least an hour to get anywhere if you walk. And it’s dark out. And a cab’ll cost you at least a hundred bucks.” He shrugged. “I know what I’d be doin’ if I was you.”

I stared at him as I tried to figure out what to do. Walking home with Rachel like this was clearly out of the question. I’d have to wait here until she sobered up—which could be hours—and Mom and Dad would be totally panicked by then. They’d probably even call the police. I couldn’t just let them sit at home and worry, so I’d have to borrow someone’s phone and call them, let them know that we were safe. But they’d ask so many questions, they’d insist on coming out to get us. And that was something I wanted to avoid. If they saw where we were, if they saw all the drunk kids, the state of the shed, all the alcohol and cigarettes and drugs, they’d be livid. And they’d probably do something really embarrassing, like try to break up the party, tell people to go home. They might even get the police to come and bust everyone.

It was inevitable that they’d discover we’d been drinking, but we were better off going home to face the consequences, better off avoiding the more dreadful fate of them coming here.

“Okay,” I said reluctantly. “That’d be great. Thank you. I wouldn’t ask but I don’t know what else to do. Would you mind? We don’t live far away, just east of town.”

“Not far, huh?” Grant snorted. He threw his cigarette out the window, stuck a fresh one in his mouth, lit it, and inhaled. He let the smoke trickle out of his nose as he spoke, kept his eyes on the cigarette between his fingers. “Not far. Sure. I bet you two live in a nice place. A real nice place.” He looked at me and nodded. “I don’t think that should be a problem. Wouldn’t mind a drive. We were about to leave anyway. Weren’t we, Sean?”

“Yeah.” Sean laughed again, a great dopey guffaw. “We were just about to fuck off from this shithole of a party anyway.”

“Good,” I said. “Thanks. Can I just run back and tell my boyfriend?” I had a sudden idea. “Maybe he could come with us? If you don’t mind? You’d only have to take him to our place. He could make his own way home from there.”

“Nope. Sorry. Can’t do it.” Grant shook his head. “He won’t fit in the car. There’s me, Sean, Jerry, and Chris. And you two girls. That’s three in the front and three in the back. A full house.”

“Unless she wants us to leave her behind. Take her boyfriend and her sister and leave her here,” Sean said, laughing. He was still talking about me as if I weren’t there.

“Shut up, Sean. You’re a fat fuck,” Grant said, his tone so curt and dismissive that I expected some kind of retaliation from Sean. But Sean smiled stupidly, put his hand on Grant’s shoulder, and squeezed. It was an oddly affectionate gesture.

“Pass me a smoke?” he said.

Grant threw a pack of cigarettes onto Sean’s lap.

“I’ll just go and tell my boyfriend that we’re going. I won’t be long.” I put my hand on Rachel’s leg and shook. “Rach? I’ll be back in just a minute. These boys are going to drive us home. Okay? Rach?”

“Drive us home?” She opened her eyes and stuck out her bottom lip in a pout. Her voice was even more slurred now and her eyes fluttered shut as she spoke. “We have to go already? I’m having so much fun.”

“Okay?” I looked at Grant. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

“No worries.” He smiled, took another drag on his cigarette. “We won’t go anywhere without ya.”

I rushed back into the shed. Will was talking to some boys near the exit.

“No luck,” he said when he saw me. “I was just asking these guys if they’d seen her.”

“It’s okay,” I told him. “I’ve found her. She’s really, really drunk, Will. I have to get her home. We’ve got a ride.”

“A ride? Who with?”

“A guy named Grant. It’s okay. Really. She’s in their car and I can’t get her out. She’s too drunk to move.” I waved my hand impatiently and kissed him on the cheek. “I have to go. I’m worried she’ll throw up or pass out or something.”

“I’ll just come out with you”

“No. No. It’s fine. Really.” I smiled and squeezed his hand, stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the lips. “Stay here with your friends. Have another drink for me.”

I turned and ran quickly back to the car.

The four boys were already inside, waiting, when I returned. I slid into the back, next to Rachel, and closed the door. Rachel’s head was tipped back and her eyes were closed. Her mouth was open slightly. I reached up and pushed her lips back together, touched her cheek.

“Rach?” I said. “We’re going home now.” I reached over and clipped her seat belt on.

Her eyes fluttered open for a moment and she attempted a smile. “’kay,” she said.

“Have a beer?” Sean reached across Rachel’s lap, an open can of beer in his hand. He kept his eyes down, and avoided meeting mine.

“Oh, no, thanks. I’ve had enough.”

“Shit,” he said, thrusting it closer. “At least hold it, will ya? I opened it for you.”

I took the can and lifted it carefully to my mouth, let the cold liquid wet my lips without taking any into my mouth. I didn’t want any more to drink. I was thirsty and tired. All I wanted was a glass of water and the comfort of bed. My parents were going to kill me when we got home. “Thanks.” I tried to smile at Sean but he’d already turned away.

“Thanks so much for this,” I said to Grant.

“That’s okay. Um … I don’t—”

“Oh my God. I’m sorry. I’ve been so rude. I’m Katie. Katie Boydell.”

“Katie. Right. Good.”

He didn’t introduce me to the other boys, and for a moment I considered introducing myself, tapping each of them on the shoulder and saying hello. But the whole atmosphere was so awkward and they were making so little effort to be friendly themselves—their bodies were stiff and they were all looking straight ahead—that I didn’t bother.

Instead, I stared out the window, watched the landscape pass me by in a blur, and said nothing. I thought frantically about what I was going to say to Mom and Dad. I’d just have to tell the truth, be completely honest. They were going to realize immediately that Rachel was drunk, they’d probably even have to help me get her inside. They’d hear and see the car as soon as we pulled up—I could picture them rushing out—Mom’s face creased initially in concern, changing quickly to her hard, set look of anger, her cold silence more condemning than any words; and Dad’s disappointment, his head shaking in bewilderment.
But Katherine
, he’d say,
how could you? We trusted you
.

It was going to be awful, we were all going to have a miserable weekend, and Rachel and I would certainly both be punished for our bad behavior. And yet I didn’t regret it. Even then, when all the fun was over and all we had left ahead was lectures and recriminations, I possessed a hard little nugget of joy inside that nothing and nobody could take from me. I loved Will. He loved me. And he was so wonderful, so gentle and kind. And I would hold this little piece of knowledge, the treasure of my love for him, and it would keep me warm and happy no matter what happened. When I was at home alone in my bedroom—grounded (as I knew I would be)—the thought of Will, the memory of the time we’d spent together tonight, the promise of what was to come, would be enough to make it bearable—worth it, even.

I was so busy thinking of Will, remembering his touch, and going over and over every single thing he’d said that it took me a while to realize that the landscape outside my window was completely unfamiliar. I peered at the trees and buildings, trying to place them, trying to recognize something. But it was no good. I had no idea where we were.

“Um, Grant?” I said. “We live just east of town, remember? I don’t know if this is the best way.”

“‘We live just east of town, remember?’”

It took a moment for me to understand what Grant had said, to realize that he was imitating my voice, mocking me. Before I had time to wonder why he was suddenly being unkind, he laughed and said it again.

“‘We live just east of town, remember?’”
His voice was ludicrously high-pitched, his vowels clipped and sharp. “Lucky for some, eh? Some of us don’t get to live
‘just east of town.’”
He laughed viciously. “But someone’s gotta live in the shitholes, eh? Someone’s gotta live at the asshole of the universe out near the dump and the prison. Some of us get to smell the roses while the others get our faces rubbed in shit, eh? That’s just how it is. Isn’t that right, Sean? The way of the fucking world.”