Suicide Notes From Beautiful Girls (9 page)

Chapter 20

1 year, 3 months, 17 days earlier

If June was anyone else
on earth, she wouldn’t even have realized anything was wrong. But June was incapable of not noticing the tiniest detail about Delia—she did it without even trying. It’s like when Delia was around, the borders of June’s skin weren’t there. Delia wrapped her up and sunk right in. At its best it felt like the most delicious kind of relief, to have someone in there with her, in her brain and heart, filling them up. Someone to make her less alone. But other times, when things were like this, it felt scary having to share her inside space with someone whose light was so bright but so easily, suddenly, switched off. And lately, Delia’s light was flickering.

Last week Delia had come to school high twice. She kept a water bottle full of vodka in her bag and sipped from it often. The other day June mentioned, very gently, that maybe Delia might want to take it easy a little. “I’m not your mother, June,”
Delia said, her voice sharp. “And you’re not mine.” It was the first time Delia had ever brought up June’s mother like that. And June had felt . . . she wasn’t sure. Protective wasn’t it, exactly. But hurt, somehow, which was of course silly when she really thought about it, because basically everything Delia even knew
about June’s mother was because June had told her. And besides, Delia was right of course, they
were
different, and the stuff with June’s mother was probably why June got so worried about Delia. But June’s own mother, messed up as she was, was at least consistent
in her messed-up-edness. Delia, on the other hand, you never quite knew what she was going to say or do, especially lately. You never knew whether she was going to be the sparkly, charming person who glowed from the inside, who everyone loved, or more and more lately, a girl with a core of darkness that scared June sometimes, because as much as she thought she knew everything about Delia, June honestly couldn’t say how dark it was or how deep it went. There was a giant black hole inside her, she wanted to drag June into it. And June would let her, is the thing. She wouldn’t be able to help herself if she wasn’t very, very careful. Delia absorbed her. Phagocytosis, June had learned at school, that’s what it was called when amoebas did it. It’s how they ate. It’s how they survived.

But June needed to survive too. For the longest time that meant she needed Delia. Only now, sitting in Delia’s kitchen, staring at her friend, June didn’t quite know what she needed anymore.

She just knew this: something was going on with Delia. June could feel the light flickering inside her own chest.

Delia crunched down on a sunflower seed, spit out the shells, and ate the tiny seed inside. Then she looked up thoughtfully and said, as though it had only now occurred to her, “If I got pregnant I’d kill myself.” Then she crunched another seed, shell and all, chewed it, and swallowed it down. June stopped, a seed halfway to her lips. She paused only for a second before tossing it into her mouth, salt stinging her tongue.

“No you wouldn’t,” said June. She tried to keep her voice as light as Delia’s, even though this conversation was making her heart pound. She’d been planning to make a joke, like, “You’d get fat and
then
you’d kill yourself.” But there was something about Delia’s tone—June couldn’t even bring herself to say it.

Delia looked up and smiled. “Okay, maybe not. I sure as hell would kill that baby though.” Delia watched June, one eyebrow raised. June knew Delia was waiting for her to react.

“It wouldn’t be a baby yet,” June said. “I mean, not at first.” She pulled out another seed, cracked it open. “It would be goo.” But even as she was saying the words, she knew it was more complicated than that. That she didn’t mean anything she was saying nearly as casual as she said it.

“Yeah,” Delia said. “I guess you’re right.” Delia threw another seed into her mouth and split it. Then spit the shells into her palm. She stuck one onto the tip of her finger so it looked like a pointy black-and-white fingernail. And then, without glancing
up, she said, “So I had an abortion this morning.” She put the other half of the shell on her middle finger and held her hand out. She didn’t look up.

“Samesies,” June said. “My third this week.” She knew Delia was kidding, trying to rile her up the way she used to. June used to fall for this sort of thing all the time. Not now, though.

June scanned Delia’s face for the tiny hint of a smirk that would bloom into a naughty grin. Only the thing was, the hint of smirk was not there. June closed her mouth and swallowed, anxiety sliding all the way down into her gut. “Wait, but really? Are you okay?” June was calling Delia’s bluff, she thought. She knew it wasn’t true. She didn’t like this particular game anymore. She wanted to play her part and get it over with.

But, still, Delia didn’t smile. “Sure,” Delia said. “No big.” She shrugged like it was nothing. Which is how June knew she was serious.

June stared at Delia’s face, the ground shifted, Delia looked like someone June maybe didn’t actually know very well. Then the world lined up again and everything snapped back into place. June’s head was filled with a million questions she knew she wouldn’t ask.

“Did it hurt?” June said finally.

Delia shrugged. “Not more than the boning that got me there.”

June opened her mouth, her heart beating hard. Was Delia saying . . .

Delia looked at June’s face, shook her head, and let out a cold laugh. “I wasn’t
raped
,” Delia said. “Jesus, Junie. It hurt because it wasn’t
good.
”

“Oh,” June said.

“Because I wasn’t that into it. So the condom broke.”

“Right.”

“It was this guy from Sammy’s party last week. Boring party, you didn’t miss anything. The dude was so awkward with his hands, like he’d just been issued a pair and hadn’t read the instruction manual yet. And his breath smelled like . . .” Delia started to perk up then. “Okay, remember that time that weird girl at the diner showed us her infected belly-button piercing and we almost threw up because it smelled so horrible? Well, his breath smelled like he’d been sucking on that chick’s belly button. So it’s lucky I got an abortion. It would have been a really stinky baby, probably would have stunk me up from the inside with its weird-ass breath.”

June tried to smile then, but she couldn’t. She felt sick. Delia went back to her sunflower seeds, crunching away. She seemed relieved, like a weight had been lifted. The weight was lifted because June had to carry it now. Delia kept the tiny striped shells and stuck one to each of her fingers with spit. When she had ten, she held up her hands.

Chapter 21

Back in the car, driving
away, heart hammering, a letter from my dead best friend on my lap. As soon as I’ve gone far enough, I pull over.

I tear open the envelope. The letter inside is dated over a year ago, a fact which fills me with disappointment and also, somehow, relief.

Dear Junie,

Oh, hi there. It’s me, Delia. Isn’t that a weird way to start a letter? Isn’t it weird that I’m writing you a letter in the mail? It’s just like a text message but longer, more like an e-mail, except that a tree is involved. Heh. This is starting off weird. But I guess that’s sort of the point of this whole thing . . . things have gotten kind of weird in the past couple of weeks. And I don’t know how to unweird.

I’m sorry things have gotten weird is the first thing I wanted to say. Did you just count and see that I used the word “weird” five times already in this letter (and six if you count that last one and, like, fifteen if you count all the ones I wrote in invisible ink). I love you (you know this). You’re my best friend (you know this, too). And if you think I did something, I wish you’d talk to me about it. Because we used to talk about everything. Although I guess lately there’s been stuff I haven’t told you, either.

So here’s something: Ryan isn’t right for you. And the reason I’m saying that is not because he’s too boring and normal or because his face is made of meat or because I’m worried he’s taking you away from me (I mean, all of those things too of course, ha-ha, but it’s not just that). Really it’s because he is, as it turns out, an asshole. He’s been calling me lately. I picked up the first time because I assumed it was you on his phone, but it wasn’t. And he wasn’t calling about you, either. He’s been calling to . . . It feels weird to write in a letter, but let’s just say when things got super odd the other night part of that was my fault. But not most of it, most of it was him. Here is a thing that you will not like, but I hope you will believe me because I swear it is true, and I was not too drunk to be a good judge of this (we drank the same amount, but, girl, you have the tolerance of a fruit fly and I have the tolerance of the big burly hairy dude the fruit fly landed on): while you were out of the room when we were playing that game, he tried to go on without you. And I’d been planning to tell you
this. I thought we’d have a chance to discuss everything after that night but we haven’t really talked since then, not in the way we always do. And maybe some part of me is hurt that you just immediately assumed I was to blame. When I wasn’t.

I’m not sure if I’ll have the balls to send this letter or not. I guess if you’re reading it, you’ll know what I did. And if you’re not reading it, then I guess I’m writing this to myself. Hello, D, you’re looking pretty sexy today, hotness.

But really, Junie, you have to believe me. I would never, ever, ever lie to you.

Yours always and forever,

D

I let the letter fall into my lap. My heart hammers. I don’t know what to think, what to make of this. I just know I need answers, and that of the two people in the world who ever had them, only one is still alive to give them to me. . . .

I’m watching Ryan’s face as his eyes move across the page. I keep having to remind myself to breathe.

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking for here.”
He leans back against the wall next to his bed, crosses his legs at the ankle.

He knows I’m staring. I can tell he’s trying to keep his face calm, but I can see it in his eyes the moment he gets to his name. “What the heck even is this?” he says.
Heck.
When he usually says hell. “You don’t . . . actually believe any of this, do you?” He looks up then.

The world is spinning too fast, and I am going to fly right off. I might be sick. My head nods.

“But how can you? She was messed up in the head! When did she send it?”

“She didn’t,” I say.

“Then how do you have it?”

But I don’t answer. There is no way in hell I’m going to tell him. No way in heck, either.

He keeps going. “From the very beginning I knew that girl was messed up, and I tried to be her friend for your sake, but I never liked her from the start. And she tricked you into thinking you had some sort of special relationship beyond regular friendship. But did you even know how crazy she was? Do you know
she
hit on
me
that night? And after?” His words are coming out in a frantic rush now, like he’s scared to stop talking. “This letter is a fantasy. What she wished would happen, I guess. She hit on me so many times I can’t even count them. I never told you, because I didn’t want to hurt you and you
already didn’t seem to be seeing very much of her anymore, so I thought there would be no point. Like, who the heck wants to know their friend, even a former friend, could do something like that? But it’s true.” He softens his voice. “Come on, you know I wouldn’t do this . . .”

“I’m not sure what I know,” I say.

And then he gets this expression on his face, an expression of such pure hurt. I wonder, for a moment, if I’m making a terrible mistake.

He stands up. “I can’t believe you don’t trust me.” He shakes his head. He looks like he is starting to panic. I’ve never seen him panic before. “I have to go. . . . I . . . I can’t be here anymore . . .” He turns then and heads for the door. I follow Ryan out of his room and stop at the top of the stairs. He walks down slowly, as though he’s waiting for me to come after him. But I just stand there until I hear the quiet thunk of the back door closing.

The wet meat of my heart is flinging itself against the walls of my rib cage. I don’t know what to do now. But I know that I am finally choosing her, choosing Delia the way I should have back then, even though she is not here to choose anymore. I feel the strings that always held us together holding me now. I can feel my insides tied to hers, even though hers are nothing but smoke and ash.

Ryan’s mother is in the kitchen. I wonder how much she’s heard. I’m walking toward the door, toward my car. When she sees me, she smiles.

“Oh, good. You can be my taste tester.” She motions toward the big blender on the countertop. It’s half full of chopped mango. “I’m trying out something new. You know, New Year’s Resolution, blah-blah, all that. You can tell me if it’s awful.” She turns her back to me as she goes to the fridge. She pulls out a container of blueberries, some raspberries, a bag of spinach. “I want you to feel comfortable here, like part of the family.” She tosses things into the blender as she talks. “You know, with me, with Ryan’s dad. We all think . . . think you are wonderful.” She turns back and smiles again. She presses a button on the base of the blender. And then says, over the whirr, without turning, “I couldn’t help hearing your fight.”

I look at the door. I want to run.

The blender stops. “I mean, not the words, but that you were fighting. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.” She pulls glasses from the cabinet, and fills each with smoothie. She pushes one toward me. “I know that having relationships is hard, and sometimes the person you’re with might act like a jerk. I mean, goodness, Ryan’s father certainly does!” She lets out a little laugh. “And I am sure I do too. But I know how much Ryan cares about you—I guess that’s what I wanted to say. Ryan would kill me for meddling but . . .” She lowers her
voice. “I know how serious he must be about you, so I hope he tells you that sometimes. He wouldn’t come home early for just anyone.”

“Sorry?”

“Oh, you don’t need to apologize. We missed him, but of course we understood. And we’ve had sixteen New Years with the kid, so what’s one without, right? ”

“Wait,” I say. “I . . .”

“Please don’t be mad at him for saying anything. He didn’t tell us any details. All he said was that the two of you had some things you needed to discuss, and he wanted to do it before the new year began. Honestly, that’s it.” She pauses. “Maybe next year all of us will be together.”

“Ryan came back . . .”

“And that’s the thing, he wouldn’t do that for someone who wasn’t very special to him!” She nods, as though I’m finally getting the point. “To things working out,” she says. My hand is shaking as our glasses clink together.

Ryan came back from vacation early. He told his parents it was to see me. But he didn’t.

So what the hell was he doing?

“You know, Ryan’s father and I got together when we were only in high school. Sounds crazy, but it’s true!”

I nod weakly. “I’m sorry, I’m suddenly not feeling very well. Do you mind if I go to Ryan’s room?” And I don’t even wait for an answer.

Back upstairs, I take my phone out of my pocket. I scroll to “FUCKER” and hit talk. The ringing starts on my end, but my heart is so loud in my ears I can barely hear it.

It rings once, twice . . .

For a few seconds Ryan’s room is silent. And what I am terrified might happen hasn’t happened yet. Then I hear the muffled buzz of a phone on vibrate.

And I tear his room apart.

It’s not in the bed, not the nightstand, not the desk . . . the ringing stops, voice mail. I dial again. I search the top drawers of his dresser, full of sweaters, T-shirts, underwear. I make my way down. I’m closer now. Dial again.
Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.
I yank open the bottom drawer. I shove my hand into a pile of jeans, and all the way at the back I hit hard plastic. I pull out a little old-school flip phone, black. My own number flashes on the screen.

I open the phone and scroll to the call-log: There are the missed calls from me, and then nothing but calls to her, texts to her. And two calls received and answered: from Delia on December 29, and one more the day before she died.

I hear another buzz. But this time it’s coming from my own phone. I look down. Texts from Ryan, two in a row:
I’m sorry for blowing up. I was upset htat you don’t trust me . . . but I know how much you’ve been going through. Want to meet at the diner? I could go for some pancakes . . .

I put his phone back into his drawer. And then I am
running down the stairs. I am running toward the front door. “June? Are you okay?” I can hear Ryan’s mom calling out behind me. I keep going. Down the front steps. Hands shaking, I unlock the car, throw myself into it, and start to drive.

And then, finally, I let out a silent scream, as what’s deep in my brain, the thoughts I’m scared of even having, start working their way forward.