Read Online Beautiful Malice by Rebecca James - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rebecca James
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Grief, Family & Relationships, Psychological, Death; Grief; Bereavement, Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Young Adult Fiction, Death & Dying, Friendship, Teenage girls, secrets
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think. I didn’t say that. I just think it’s crap the way you brush off everything to do with feelings like it doesn’t mean anything. It’s some kind of defense thing—and I think it’s unhealthy.”
“What?” She stares at him incredulously as she slides off the bed and stands beside it. She puts her hands on her hips. She is wearing a white nightie, a modest and pretty, almost childlike gown, and a spot of color has appeared on each of her cheeks. Her eyes are bright with anger. She looks innocent and beautiful and dangerous all at once, and it’s hard not to stare. She shakes her head and smiles bitterly. “What are you saying, Robbie? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you, Alice. Your family. Your mother and your brother. I don’t even know your brother’s name. Katherine didn’t even know you had a brother. Don’t you think that’s weird? You never talk about him. You never talk about your parents or your childhood. You never talk about anything.”
“And why should I, Robbie? Just because you think it’s the right thing to do? What is it that you’re so desperate to know, anyway? What sordid little detail is it that fascinates you? Huh? You already know that Jo-Jo is a heroin addict. You already know that I was adopted. I don’t talk about my brother because I barely ever see him. I don’t talk about him because we didn’t grow up together, because he was adopted by some stupid assholes and he had a crappy life and now he’s in prison, okay? I don’t talk about him because people like you couldn’t possibly understand what he’s been through.”
I stand there watching them. It’s difficult to tear myself away, impossible not to listen. Alice has secrets. Why shouldn’t she? I want to tell Robbie to leave her alone, to drop the whole subject, but this is not my fight. I turn and start toward the kitchen, and Alice shouts my name.
“Don’t run away,” she says.
Her tone is cold and demanding and it annoys me. When I answer, I’m equally cold. “I’m not running away,” I say. “I’m going to make breakfast. I’m hungry.”
“I just want your opinion,” she continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “Don’t you think I have the right to decide what I do or don’t want to talk about? Or is it unhealthy of me to keep things to myself?” She glares at Robbie, then turns to me and raises her eyebrows. “Or should friends talk to each other about everything? Everything that has ever happened?”
“No,” I say, my voice quiet. “Of course not.” Of course you can have secrets , I think. I have secrets of my own. Let’s bury them deep and try hard to forget about them and never ever talk about them. Ever .
But I don’t have a chance to say any more because Robbie interrupts. “Let’s just leave Katherine out of it, Alice. It’s not her fight.”
“Yeah, well, she’s standing there eavesdropping as if it is.”
“I am not,” I say, suddenly defensive. “I wanted to go. You asked me for my opinion.” And I stop myself from continuing, before I start to sound like a petulant child. “Anyway”—I shrug—“I’m starving. I’m going to make breakfast.”
I turn around and stalk to the kitchen. The door slams loudly behind me. I hear Robbie exclaim and then Alice’s furious retort. I’m stung that Alice has been so unkind, and a little humiliated to be treated like some kind of nosy stranger. I pull the ingredients from the fridge—eggs, bacon, lemon, chives, butter—bang them on the counter, and slam the door shut angrily.
I make the hollandaise sauce first. I crack the eggs and separate the yolks from the whites carefully. I can still hear the hum of Robbie’s and Alice’s voices from the room. They are much quieter now, and sound calmer, as if they might be making up. And as I’m whisking the yolks, one arm holding the bowl tight against my belly, my other arm moving briskly round and round, I find myself smiling. We’ve had a fight
“What?” She stares at him incredulously as she slides off the bed and stands beside it. She puts her hands on her hips. She is wearing a white nightie, a modest and pretty, almost childlike gown, and a spot of color has appeared on each of her cheeks. Her eyes are bright with anger. She looks innocent and beautiful and dangerous all at once, and it’s hard not to stare. She shakes her head and smiles bitterly. “What are you saying, Robbie? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you, Alice. Your family. Your mother and your brother. I don’t even know your brother’s name. Katherine didn’t even know you had a brother. Don’t you think that’s weird? You never talk about him. You never talk about your parents or your childhood. You never talk about anything.”
“And why should I, Robbie? Just because you think it’s the right thing to do? What is it that you’re so desperate to know, anyway? What sordid little detail is it that fascinates you? Huh? You already know that Jo-Jo is a heroin addict. You already know that I was adopted. I don’t talk about my brother because I barely ever see him. I don’t talk about him because we didn’t grow up together, because he was adopted by some stupid assholes and he had a crappy life and now he’s in prison, okay? I don’t talk about him because people like you couldn’t possibly understand what he’s been through.”
I stand there watching them. It’s difficult to tear myself away, impossible not to listen. Alice has secrets. Why shouldn’t she? I want to tell Robbie to leave her alone, to drop the whole subject, but this is not my fight. I turn and start toward the kitchen, and Alice shouts my name.
“Don’t run away,” she says.
Her tone is cold and demanding and it annoys me. When I answer, I’m equally cold. “I’m not running away,” I say. “I’m going to make breakfast. I’m hungry.”
“I just want your opinion,” she continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “Don’t you think I have the right to decide what I do or don’t want to talk about? Or is it unhealthy of me to keep things to myself?” She glares at Robbie, then turns to me and raises her eyebrows. “Or should friends talk to each other about everything? Everything that has ever happened?”
“No,” I say, my voice quiet. “Of course not.” Of course you can have secrets , I think. I have secrets of my own. Let’s bury them deep and try hard to forget about them and never ever talk about them. Ever .
But I don’t have a chance to say any more because Robbie interrupts. “Let’s just leave Katherine out of it, Alice. It’s not her fight.”
“Yeah, well, she’s standing there eavesdropping as if it is.”
“I am not,” I say, suddenly defensive. “I wanted to go. You asked me for my opinion.” And I stop myself from continuing, before I start to sound like a petulant child. “Anyway”—I shrug—“I’m starving. I’m going to make breakfast.”
I turn around and stalk to the kitchen. The door slams loudly behind me. I hear Robbie exclaim and then Alice’s furious retort. I’m stung that Alice has been so unkind, and a little humiliated to be treated like some kind of nosy stranger. I pull the ingredients from the fridge—eggs, bacon, lemon, chives, butter—bang them on the counter, and slam the door shut angrily.
I make the hollandaise sauce first. I crack the eggs and separate the yolks from the whites carefully. I can still hear the hum of Robbie’s and Alice’s voices from the room. They are much quieter now, and sound calmer, as if they might be making up. And as I’m whisking the yolks, one arm holding the bowl tight against my belly, my other arm moving briskly round and round, I find myself smiling. We’ve had a fight
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