Beautiful Malice by Rebecca James

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.”
    Robbie suddenly stops walking and looks down at Alice. He is frowning. “Lovable, huh? You could have fooled me. That’s not quite the impression I got when we were there.”
    Alice laughs and pushes her body closer to Robbie’s. “Silly,” she says. “You obviously don’t understand me, then.”
    Robbie doesn’t respond to Alice’s affection the way he usually does. Instead, he shakes his head in a gesture of irritation. “We’re here,” he says, unhooking his arm from Alice’s. He nods toward a bar that has the sign “Out of Africa” in front of it. “This is the place.”
    He pulls open the door and steps aside so that Alice and I can