Suicide Notes From Beautiful Girls (4 page)

Chapter 7

I follow Jeremiah back to
the road.
What the hell am I doing?

I feel like I’m in a dream. I think,
This guy is crazy with grief. I shouldn’t even be following him.

We get in our cars.

We make our way on the narrow twisty roads. Up Beacon, down McKenna, onto leafy Red Bridge. It seems like we’re heading right for Delia’s house, but instead of pulling up in front, Jeremiah makes a sharp right and pulls into the cul-de-sac that connects to the woods behind it. He parks. I pull in behind him.

For a moment I sit there in the silent dark, the only light the yellow circle from someone’s front porch. I press my hand to my chest. I haven’t been anywhere near Delia’s house in over a year, but I used to come here nearly every day. This was more my home than my actual house was.

I open the door and step out. Jeremiah is waiting for me.
I will the memories to stay away. I can’t handle them now.

“It’s down through the woods,” he says quietly.

He holds up his phone again, flips on the blue light. He steps up onto the grass between houses and disappears among the trees. I follow.

We’re surrounded by darkness. The leaves crunch beneath our feet. I’m breathing heavy. In, out, in.
And that’s when I smell it
: this strange scent I cannot understand. It’s weak at first, but as we reach the edge of the trees, it hits me like a punch in the face. There’s burnt wood and leaves, scorched rubber, melted plastic, gasoline. I pull my scarf up over my mouth and nose. But it doesn’t matter—the stench is so strong.

“What the hell is that?” I say.

We are standing at the edge of Delia’s backyard now. Jeremiah points his phone toward the remains of a structure out in the grass. I can’t tell what it is.

“How they say she did it,” he says.

“How she . . .” I stop. Then I remember: this is where Delia’s stepfather’s shed is supposed to be.
He uses it to drink and jerk off,
Delia had said. And what I’m looking at now is what’s left of it—half of a wall, a metal frame, and a pile of burnt things.

Jeremiah turns toward me. “
This
is how they’re saying Delia killed herself. That she burned herself to death in there.”

I breathe in. I can taste it. My legs start to shake.

“There was firewood inside, she doused it in lighter fluid, herself too, and,
whoosh,
lit it up. So they say.”

I can feel the heat crawling up from my stomach. Images flash through my mind—Delia trapped, the fire all around. She’s scared, screaming.

And it’s real now. I can’t breathe. Delia, who was so tough, who would say anything, do anything, go anywhere, wasn’t brave about everything. Memories come—Delia shrinking away from a tiny bonfire on the night she first confessed it. Delia flipping out because a guy was playing around with a lighter too close to her. I remember the look in her eye when she told me about her awful nightmares of nothing but flames.
If I have one while you’re here,
she had said, squeezing my hands tight,
you must promise, promise you will come and wake me up.

Delia was scared of just one thing. This was it.

“There’s no way she did this,” I say. And I know in that moment that what I’m saying is true.

Jeremiah nods. He turns toward me, out there in the dark.

“So now you understand,” he says, “why I need your help.”

We’re up by my car now, Jeremiah and I. And I’m this close to losing it entirely.

“Maybe we can go back to the police,” I say. “Maybe we can tell them . . .” I am desperate, grasping for anything.

“They’ve already seen this place. There’s no point in going to them until we can tell them something they don’t already know.”

“I haven’t . . . I hadn’t spent time with her in so long, I don’t know anything about . . . Where would we even start?”

Jeremiah turns away. “I might have an idea.” He raises his gloved hand and puts his finger on the window. “I did something a few weeks ago that I’m not very proud of.” He traces a circle in the condensation on the glass. “She got a lot of phone calls when we were together, but she didn’t always pick them up. I guess maybe I was a little jealous. She wasn’t always the easiest person to have as a girlfriend, you know.” The words are tumbling out of his mouth, faster now. “Usually she’d bring her phone with her when she went to the bathroom, but this one time a couple weeks ago she forgot, I guess. The phone was ringing, it had been ringing all afternoon. So I don’t know, I didn’t even really mean to, but then . . . I answered it. It was a guy, and he said, ‘There’s no point in trying to avoid me. I know your friends, I know where you hang out. I’ll find you.’ He was all crazy mad sounding.
I asked who he was, what he wanted, but he hung up. I checked, and the name on the phone was Tigger. When Delia came back from the bathroom, I didn’t say anything. I knew she’d get pissed at me for snooping if I did, and I didn’t want her to be mad at me. I’m such an idiot. I should have said something. I should have . .
.
” Jeremiah pauses then. He rubs the circle off the glass with his fist and looks up. “If we need somewhere to start, I think he’s it.”

I am silent. But all of a sudden I realize something:

Tigger. Tig.

My breath catches in my throat.

Tigtuff?

Not on me, thank fuck.

The pieces are clattering together, bits of memory arranging themselves into a shape.

“What?” Jeremiah says. He is staring at me, jaw set, head tipped to the side. “What is it?”

Down by the water they weren’t talking about “tigtuff” but “
Tig’s stuff
.”

I open my mouth to tell him, and I’m stopped by a thought. Can I trust him? This guy who I’ve never spoken to before, who spent tonight hiding out in the dark, watching, who answered Delia’s phone and never told her about it?

“Nothing,” I say. I press my lips together. But what’s Tig’s stuff? It’s the sort of stuff guys like the ones down by the water might bring out for a night of getting fucked up. It’s the sort of stuff one would very much want to hide from the cops.

And as I understand this, I understand something else: just what that makes Tig . . .

Chapter 8

Before the sun rose, I
was already there, sitting in my car in the parking lot of Bryson High. I haven’t been to sleep. For five hours I drove, thinking about Delia. It was like over Christmas when I was alone, only this time I was kept company by images I couldn’t escape. Every time I blinked, there was the shed, charred and crumbling. Every time I took a breath, there was that stench. I turned the radio up loud and forced myself to sing along. Scream along. It’s what I had to do to keep the tears from coming.

Now I sit huddled in my coat and scarf, watching as the sky turns from black to gray to clear, cold blue. At 7:20 I get out and walk toward the school, waiting for the students to arrive. If this were a regular day, I’d be nervous knowing I’m about to have to talk to so many people I don’t know, to ask
them for something. But as it turns out, there are many worse things to be scared of.

Finally, they begin to trickle in—two tall girls in fuzzy boots and pea coats, a small guy with an enormous backpack, three huge dudes in football jackets.

I’m not sure who I’m looking for, exactly, and I could barely see them last night, but Delia’s type of person is never that hard to spot.

There’s a girl in all black with short dark hair. I walk up to her. “Did you know Delia Cole?” I say.

“Who?” the girl tips her head to the side, confused. She smiles slightly. I ask again. She shakes her head.

I ask a guy with a skateboard and two girls wrapped together in one very long scarf, a kid with a Mohawk and a dozen more people after that. They all say no. But someone who knows her is here somewhere and I’m not giving up until I find them.

Three guys are walking toward me now. Two are tall and lanky, one is shorter and sturdier; they’re dressed in black and green and gray. I feel a tingling in my gut.

I make a half circle and come up behind them. They don’t notice me. They’re talking. I listen.

“. . . appear in court,” says one of them.

“I can’t believe you’re even here today.”

“My mother bailed me out at two in the morning. Then
stood over my bed at six and told me to get up for school.”

“Daaamn.”

“Yup.” The first one snorts. “Thanks so much for backing me up.”

“Well, you’re the one who
brought the vodka
up to them.
What did you think they were going to do, make you a martini?”

These are the guys from last night.

I walk faster, fall in with their steps. “Hey.”

They turn toward me. One of them smiles slightly, looks me quickly up and down, the way guys do. I can feel my hair blowing around my face. I’ve never thought I looked like very much—average height, kind of curvy, eye-shaped eyes, nose-shaped nose, dark blond hair that falls right below my chin.

Delia always insisted I was hotter than I realized. “Everyone else who looks at you sees something you don’t” is what she used to tell me. But she was the type of person who would say that anyway, would actually
think
it anyway, because she loved you. Only, maybe these guys are seeing something now—I can tell by the way they’re looking at me, smiling slightly. They’re glad I’m there until I say, “You’re Delia’s friends.” And then all of their expressions change.

They start walking a little faster. I keep their pace.

“I saw you last night,” I say.

“Oh?” says the tallest one. He stops then and looks right at me. “What’s up?”

He has dark hair gathered into a topknot, smooth cheekbones, a strong jaw, and full lips. Up close I get a sour whiff of last night’s alcohol seeping through skin. I remember them down there, drinking, laughing.

“Tigger?” I say, in case he’s one of them.

They’re all silent for a moment. “What’s that?” Topknot asks.

I pause. “I’m looking for Tigger.”

“Bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing?” Topknot says slowly. “Fun fun funfunfun?”

“Check Pooh’s corner,” says one of the others, grinning. This one is scruffy-faced, with a black wool hat pulled down low. He smiles.

I grit my teeth and force myself to smile back.

“I’m looking for Tigger the person,” I say. “I thought you might know him.”

Scruffy and Topknot glance at each other.

“Nope, don’t think so,” Scruffy says. But he’s lying. His voice is gravelly and low. I recognize it. He’s the one who said Delia was trouble.

I feel my palms begin to sweat. I have an idea. “I need a hookup,” I say. “Delia was always the one who went to him, for both of us. And I don’t know where else to go now. I need a little . . .” I pause. “Help.”

They stare at me, wary, all of them.

I reach into my pocket. There’s a folded twenty I keep in there for emergencies. I pull it out and thrust it forward. “For your trouble,” I say.

Top Knot and Scruffy exchange another look, and I know this was the wrong move. Now they’re even warier. “Sorry, can’t help you,” Scruffy says. “Have a good day.” Scruffy and Top Knot turn and keep walking.

But the shorter one, he hesitates. He is broader than the other two, and his face looks softer, younger. Maybe he can hear in my voice how desperate I am. Maybe he really needs the money. He looks back at his friends, who have realized he isn’t with them and have stopped a few feet away. They’re watching him. He reaches out and takes the bill.

“Listen,” he says softly. He dips his hand into his black canvas messenger bag and pulls out a chewed-up pencil and little green notebook. There’s a tiny sticker on the cover, a fluffy chick with a parasol. He opens the notebook and starts to write. “There’s a party tonight at his house. If you need something, you can get it then.” He looks me in the eye. “But you probably shouldn’t mention Delia.”

I force myself to breathe slowly, to try to keep my voice from shaking. “Why’s that?”

“They weren’t always on the best terms.”

“Oh, really,” I say. “Delia never mentioned . . .”

The guy shrugs. “I don’t really know the deal. I think she
might have stolen something from him, not too long ago? All I’m saying is if you drop her name, he might try to jack up the price. He can be a dick like that.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“Don’t tell Tig I told you that. Or about the party either, actually.”

“No problem,” I say. And then, “I don’t even know who you are.”

He bites his lip as he hands me the folded-up notebook paper. There on the back of his wrist, where a watch would be, is something I’ve seen before, something I remember from a night with Delia a long time ago—an infinity sign inked in black. I remember when this tattoo was fresh, and I first saw it by a bonfire. I remember how scared I was then, that fear a very different fear than what I’m feeling now. Warmth spreads across my cheeks. When I look up, he is staring.

“No,” Infinity says. He looks me straight in the eye and smiles ever so slightly. Does he remember? “I guess you don’t.”

I unfold the paper. There’s the address—Pinegrove Industrial Park, Building 7. And there’s my folded-up twenty.

“It’s in Macktin, down by the water,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say.

Infinity nods. “Good luck.” He turns to walk away, then stops and turns back. “Be careful. Tig . . . isn’t always the nicest guy.”

“I can handle it,” I say. And I shrug, more confident than I feel.

He gives me a half wave and goes back to his friends. I start the long cold trek back to my car.

What the hell had Delia gotten herself into?