Suicide Notes From Beautiful Girls (3 page)

Chapter 5

2 years, 5 months, 24 days earlier

By the time Delia and
June got to the reservoir, the boys were already there.

Delia linked her arm through June’s. “Don’t be nervous,” she whispered. “It’s not too late to change your mind.” She was using this gentle, sweet tone she only ever used with June and her cat.

But June shook her head. “I want to get this over with.” It was the summer after eighth grade, and June had decided it was time.

Delia snorted a laugh. “Well, that’s one way to think about it.”

They kept walking down toward the water, and June could hear the others now—laughter, the clink of bottles, and music coming out of someone’s phone. According to Delia, they were out there almost every night during the summer. They all went to Bryson, which was the school Delia would have gone to if
she hadn’t convinced her mother to tell the school district that they still lived in their old house even after they’d moved in with Delia’s stepfather.

“Guys at Bryson are generally hotter,” Delia had told her once. “More skateboardery than soccer player, which is why it’s better not to go to school with them. Then you don’t have to see them in the morning and look at the oozy zits they popped when they got out of the shower, or smell their coffee farts, and have no choice but to find them disgusting forever.”

And so when June mentioned not wanting to start high school still not having kissed anyone, Delia made a joke about kissing
her
,
then laughed and said, “Well, you’ll just make out with one of the Bryson boys, then.” Like it was no big deal and already settled. Delia, of course, had kissed lots of people. Eleven at last count, according to her list.

They made their way toward the tiny flickering campfire and stopped. Delia reached over one of the guys’ shoulders and snatched the bottle of beer from his hand. Then she backed up and sat on a rock. Delia stayed far from the fire. She always did. Fire was the only thing on earth she was scared of.

“Hey, D,” the guy said without turning. He had longish floppy hair and a black-and-white striped T-shirt.

“Hello, boys,” Delia said. “This is June.” She turned to June and handed her the beer. “June, I can’t remember any of their names. It doesn’t really matter, though.” Delia grinned
at June. She was doing her Delia Thing, which guys always seemed to love. June held the beer tightly to keep her hands from shaking. She pretended to take a sip and looked at them more closely.

There were four: one shirtless with wiry muscles, two in black T-shirts who looked tough and cool, and the one whose beer she had. She watched as he raked his hair away from his face. He had a tattoo on the back of his wrist where a watch would be, a figure eight maybe, but she couldn’t say for sure. He caught her staring at him, and by the light of the fire she thought she could see the tiniest hint of a smile.

“Tell us honestly, June,” Shirtless said. “Is Delia paying you to hang out with her?”

“No,” June said. “I’m her imaginary friend.”

June hadn’t known what she was going to say until the words popped right out. When she was around Delia, she was a better, more clever version of herself. Like she really was someone Delia had made up.

All the boys laughed. And for a second June felt bad; maybe it wasn’t nice of her to join in with the boys’ teasing. But Delia laughed too and slung her arm over June’s shoulder, proud.

“Then how come we can see you?” said Shirtless.

“She must have a very powerful imagination,” Striped Shirt said. “A dirty one.” He was staring directly at June then. She felt herself blush, and she was glad it was dark. She liked the
way his voice sounded, sexy but playful, like he was saying that but also making a joke about someone who would say that, all at the same time.

June glanced at Delia, who was looking back and forth between them. Delia gave June a tiny nod.
Him.
A minute later when the boys asked them to sit down, Delia arranged it so that June and Striped Shirt were sitting next to each other. And then a minute after that Delia walked toward the water. “Hey,” she shouted. “Come with me if you’re not a pussy.” They all watched as she stripped down to her bra and underwear, climbed to the top of the tall rocks, and threw herself off into the reservoir.

“We better go down there and see if she died,” Shirtless said. Even though they could already hear her splashing and whooping below. Shirtless and the two in black stood up. Striped Shirt stayed behind.

“Next time you take a drink from your sink,” Shirtless said, “remember: my balls have been in your water.” He leaped off the edge, and the others followed.

And then it was June and Striped Shirt all alone, just the way Delia had planned it. He leaned over and put his elbows on his knees. She could see the tattoo on his wrist again. It was covered in plastic wrap. He reached out to rub it like he wanted her to notice.

“I only got it a few days ago,” he said. “So it itches.”

“Does it mean something?”

“Yes,” he said. And she couldn’t tell if she was supposed to ask more questions or not. So she just picked up a skinny stick and poked the end of it into the flame.

She wished very much that Delia were still there next to her instead of far away in the water. June’s heart was pounding. She felt small and scared. She closed her eyes, pictured Delia nodding.
Him.

June took a deep breath, then turned toward Striped Shirt, and in one swift motion she grabbed the neck of his shirt and pulled him in toward her until their lips were touching.

For one horrifying second he just sat there, lips slack. His mouth was cold and tasted like beer, and she thought about the fish at the bottom of the reservoir that sometimes nibbled at their toes when they went swimming, and how this was what kissing one of them might feel like. But a half second later he started kissing her back, and a second after that he pushed his tongue against her lips. She opened her mouth and let it in.

This is my first kiss,
she thought.
I am having my very first kiss now.

But it didn’t feel sophisticated or cool or even good. It was odd—a little gross, really. And suddenly, June was struck with something else: For the rest of her life, no matter how many kisses she had, no matter who those kisses were with or what they meant, this was the one that came before all of them, out in the dark with a guy whose name she didn’t even know. He would always be her first.

Striped Shirt reached up and put his hand on her boob. His hand felt small, in a creepy way, kind of like a child’s. She thought maybe she wanted him to stop, wanted to undo this. But she wasn’t sure how.

A moment later Delia and the boys were back, climbing up the rocks, dripping and shivering. June and Striped Shirt pulled apart.

Shirtless said, “Whoa, hey now,” and started backing away when he saw them.

But Delia just stood there, wringing out her hair. June felt like she might cry.

“Come over here, D,” is what one of the guys said. “I think our boy and your imaginary friend could use some privacy.”

“How was the water?” June asked. She tried to make her question sound casual, but what she was hoping beyond anything was that Delia would somehow figure out all that June wasn’t saying. And fix it.

Delia raised her pinky up to her mouth and ran it back and forth across her bottom lip. She was staring straight at June.

June scratched her ear. Their code.

A second later Delia glanced down at her phone, then said loudly in a voice only June would know was fake, “We have to go now. Sorry, Junester, my mom just realized we’re not at home. She’s totally going to kill me.”

June scrambled to her feet.

“That sucks,” said Shirtless.

“Parents, man,” said one of the others.

“So I’ll see you back here sometime?” Striped Shirt asked June. And June nodded, not meaning it, not even looking at him.

Silently they walked away. Delia held June’s hand the whole way home. She never brought it up again.

Chapter 6

When I get home, the
apartment is dark, but I can hear the TV blaring through my mother’s bedroom door. It’s after nine and she’s not at work tonight, which means she’s drunk, and what is there really to say about that. I’ve long since gotten used to things being the way they are; in general I just try not to think about it. But as I climb up the narrow stairs, for one weak second I let myself imagine what it would be like if I could knock on her door and tell her what happened. I imagine her wrapping me up like Ryan’s mom did. I imagine her telling me everything is going to be okay. I feel a wave of something then, longing, maybe. I shake it away. My mother wouldn’t do it. And even if she did, I wouldn’t believe her.

I go into my room, kneel down, and start pulling things from my drawers. In this moment I am calm again, a strange, faraway kind of calm, like I’m not really here at all.

Ryan tried to convince me to stay the night. “My parents won’t mind,” he said. “Considering everything . . .” His voice was soft and sweet, and even though I could hardly feel anything, I knew that if all of this hadn’t happened, it would have made me happy that he wanted me to. And a part of me wished so much that I could say yes, that I could sit there on his family’s couch where everything is safe and warm and good. When his dad got home he’d make bad puns and turn on the news. He’d kiss Ryan’s mother on the lips, and Ryan would jokingly roll his eyes. Then Marissa would make popcorn with tons of this butter spray she loves, and we’d all sit together. I’d let their normalness swirl around me and envelop me. I’d pretend like none of this had happened.

“I should go home,” I told Ryan, “to be alone for a while, I think.” And he seemed to understand, or at least he thought he did. He walked me out to my car and stood there watching as I drove away.
Alone.
I felt bad for lying to him. But what choice did I have?

Now, here in my room, I get undressed. I pull out a pair of thick black wool tights. I put the tights on and my jeans back over them. I slip on my dark gray leather boots and lace them up. I am trying so hard not to think about anything, not to think about where I am going and why.

I rifle through my drawers until I find what I’m looking for. The sweater—so soft, dark green with delicate gold threads. This was Delia’s. I haven’t worn it in a very long time. She gave
it to me back when things were still good with us. “It makes me look diseased,” Delia had said, throwing it at me. “Please save me.” Delia was always so, so generous, acted like it was nothing. Acted like you were doing her a favor accepting whatever she gave you.

It is the nicest sweater I own by far. I put it on, my jacket over it, and a black scarf as big as a blanket, because it’s January and I know it will be cold down by the water.

I park in the little alcove at the side of the road and get out. It’s been years since I’ve been here, but I know the route by heart. There’s a car right in front of the hole in the fence around the reservoir, and I shake my head. You’re supposed to park far away. This is trespassing. No one is supposed to know that anyone is out here.

I squeeze through the hole and walk down the narrow dirt path. My stomach turns over and over. I hear quiet murmurs, and as I get closer the murmurs turn to words.

“You can’t start a fire, man. It’s too cold.”

“Fuck off, I was a Boy Scout. I have skills.”

“Oh yeah?” A few people laugh. “They give out patches for rolling a jay?”

I can see them now, a small group huddled in a circle around the bonfire spot. Someone is bent down, flicking a lighter over a pile of twigs. They smolder weakly, thin ribbons of smoke curl up.

My eyes start to adjust, and by the light of the big bright
moon I can make out thick coats, army jackets, hats, gloves. Their breath is cotton in the icy air.

I walk up behind them, my heart beating fast. I don’t belong here, here among her friends. “Hey,” I say. A couple of people half turn.

I work my way into the circle between a tall wiry guy and a tall girl with short dark hair and lips so red I can see them in the moonlight.

Someone takes out a bottle of vodka, the cheap kind that comes in a big plastic jug. “To Delia,” one of the guys says. “A girl who could really fucking drink.”

“To Delia,” the others say back. And then there’s a splashing sound as someone tips the bottle over the ground. And I feel a deep wave of sadness—this is it, this is her good-bye, a few people standing out on a cold January night, pouring shit booze onto frozen earth. They pass the bottle, taking long gulps. Who were they to her? How well did they know her? How much do they care?

When the bottle gets to me, I hold it far from my face so I won’t have to smell it. I don’t know how to begin, but I know it might be my only chance for answers. So I just blurt it out.

“Was she in some kind of trouble?” My voice sounds strange and hollow.

A guy turns toward me. “What are you talking about?”

“Was Delia in trouble?” I say.

“Who even are you?”

“I’m June,” I say. “A friend.”And I feel like a liar.

There is a silence.

“Delia wasn’t
in
trouble,” the guy says. “She
was
trouble.” He sounds pleased with himself, like he thinks this is a very clever line. I hate him, whoever he is.

Someone lets out a laugh. I keep going. “But something must have been really wrong,” I say. “For her to . . .”

“Well, obviously,” another guy says. “People who are fine don’t generally off themselves.”

“It’s not like she would have said what it was though.”

“If you knew her at all, you’d know that.” Someone reaches out and takes the bottle from my hands. “Delia didn’t tell anyone personal stuff about her life.”

But she did,
I want to shout.
She always told
me
.

“Listen,” another voice says. This one is female, kinder than the others, slightly southern sounding. Only, before she can say any more, a bright light is slicing through the trees, lighting up our faces one by one. Two car doors slam and the beams from two flashlights shine out into the night.

“Shit,” someone says. “Cops.”

“Tigtuff?” one of the guys asks.

Tigtuff?

There’s another voice then, gravelly and low. “Not on me, thank fuck.”

And all at once there’s frantic motion, everyone running in every direction. Adrenaline zips through my veins, but I force
myself to stand right there. Here’s something I know that none of them seem to, that Delia never understood either: if you run, they will chase you; if you stay and fight, you might lose. Sometimes, when there’s danger, the answer is to curl into yourself and wait. I take tiny silent steps down toward the reservoir. I climb up over the big rock and crouch down.

It’s so peaceful there, the commotion behind me, the moon reflecting off the water, shimmering silver.

I turn toward the road. The cop car’s doors are open now, the light pours out from within. I see the silhouette of a cop holding a bottle up in the air. Someone was stupid enough to bring it up with them.

I stay where I am for a long time, as names are taken and tickets handed out. One person is led into the back of the police car, and everyone else is either driven or drives themselves away.

And then I am alone again. And I am afraid. And this time I don’t even know why. I start back up toward the road. My toe snags a root and I lurch forward, but I catch myself just in time. My heart is hammering, and I’m not sure if it’s the near fall or something else. I keep going, quietly, carefully. I can hear my breath and the wind and the beating of my heart.

Then, footsteps.

Someone else is out here. A square of blue light sweeps by.

I want to turn and run, but I know if I do, this person will hear me. I force myself to breathe. Whoever it is must be here for the memorial, same as I am. But still I reach into my
pocket and wrap my fist around my keys so the sharp ends stick out between my knuckles. The light goes by again. It stops on me.

“Hello?” a voice calls out. It’s low and male. The footsteps are getting nearer. “Please,” the voice says. “Wait.”

He’s close. He holds his phone up to his face so he glows. Big jaw, thin mouth, short nose. I realize I know who he is.

I saw him with Delia a few months ago, out in the parking lot at school. I remember watching them, curious about her and this guy who wasn’t her type. He was a wrestler, not tall, but wide and sturdy-looking, like a bulldog. Wholesome, somehow, too. Delia had jumped up on him from behind, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist. And he ran around the parking lot, fast like she didn’t weigh anything at all.

“I’m Jeremiah,” he says. “I recognize you.”

“We go to school together,” I say, because sometimes when I meet people from North Orchard outside of school, I have to tell them this.

Jeremiah shakes his head. “Not from there. From a picture she kept in her room. You both have these hats on. She talked about you. You’re June.”

I know exactly what photograph he means, because I have a copy too. Mine is in the back of my closet, and I haven’t looked at it in a very long time.

“I’m sorry, you’re too late. For the memorial, I mean,” I say.
“People were here before.” I try to slow my still pounding heart. “Other ones. But the police came.”

“I know. I was watching.”

“You didn’t come down.”

“I wasn’t here to drink with those people.” He pauses. “I came looking for answers.”

There is something in his voice then; it hits me in the center of my chest. “Me too,” I say. “I’m trying to find out why she did it. Why she . . .”

The wind whistles. I pull my coat tighter.

“She didn’t kill herself, June.” Jeremiah leans forward. “Delia was murdered.”

A pulse of white-hot energy rushes through me. I stare at his face, half lit under that big yellow moon. “What are you even talking about?”

“She hung around with a lot of messed-up people. She wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything. Even when she maybe should have been. She wouldn’t have killed herself, and if it looks like she did . . .” He pauses. “Then it’s because someone made it look that way.”

I reach out for something to grab on to. There’s nothing but air.

“So we have to figure out who did this to her,” he finishes. “Because no one else is going to.”

I say, “If someone . . . I mean . . . We need to go to the police.”

“I already went. And they wouldn’t listen. They pretended to humor me, then gave me some pamphlets on grief and sent me on my way.” Jeremiah leans forward again. “We have to figure this out ourselves.”

His words are sinking in.

“You’re the only other person who cares enough to ask the right questions.”

I can barely breathe.

“She wouldn’t have done this to herself, what they’re saying she did,” he says.

“But what
are
they saying?”

Jeremiah is quiet for a long time. “Come with me,” he says finally. “There’s something I need to show you.”