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Chapter 1
I’d forgotten what it was like to be that alone.
For the ten days of winter break, I drove. I made my way past the crumbling houses in my neighborhood, the mansions a few miles away, out toward the hills and then back again through stretches of cold, flat land. Up and down the Schuylkill River and up and down the Delaware, I cranked the radio and sang loud. I needed to hear a live human voice, and I was my own best hope.
But now break is over. I’m walking up toward school from the far lot, and I’m happy because I’m here, because it’s done. I know you’re supposed to like vacation, but it was lonely, that’s the thing, like I was floating off into space, tethered to nothing.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, a text from Ryan who I haven’t seen yet because he only got home last night: by the way got somehting in vermont I want to give you. Then a second later another one: not herpes.
I write back: good because it would be really awkward if we got each other the same present.
I click send with one frozen finger. Warm puffs of air escape through my smile.
I walk into homeroom, and Krista looks up like she’s been waiting for me.
“Oh my God, June,” she says. Her eyes are half open, and she’s wearing a pair of red plastic glasses instead of her usual contacts. “Is it possible, medically, that I’m still hungover from Tuesday? That was two entire days ago!” She takes her big orange purse off the chair next to her so I can sit.
“Given everything, yeah, that seems likely,” I say. She grins as though I mean this as a compliment.
The only thing I did over break, other than drive, was go to a party at Krista’s boyfriend’s house, which is a little weird since we’re not close friends or anything. But we talk in homeroom sometimes, and neither of us has a lot of other options, is I guess the truth of it. When I got the text about her boyfriend’s party, I’d been alone for so many days that I just said yes.
Her boyfriend, Rader, lives thirty-five minutes away, right at the edge of Philly, in a run-down apartment that he shares with friends. He’s older, and his friends are too, some of them in their twenties. The party was mostly guys and the air was hazy with a few kinds of smoke. When I walked in, Krista was already trashed and going upstairs to Rader’s bedroom. And I felt all these guys turn and give me the up-down. And I suddenly understood why I’d been invited—not for her, but for them. I spent the whole night leaning against the wall, not really talking to anyone, watching the party like a movie.
“Rader asked me to get your number for Buzzy,” she says. She rubs her eyes.
I have no idea who Buzzy is. Maybe he’s the tall guy who kept coming out of the bathroom sniffling and wiping his nose, or the guy with A S S S tattooed on his knuckles, or the one in the velvet shirt who kept asking if I wanted to touch it (I didn’t) and who tried to put a shot of tequila in the fish tank (I stopped him).
“I have a boyfriend,” I say.
“Wait, you do? Who?”
“Ryan Fiske.”
Krista raises her eyebrows like maybe I’m joking.
“Seriously,” I say.
She tips her head. “No shit.”
I shrug. I’m not surprised that she’s surprised. We’ve been a couple for over a year, but mostly no one knows about us. I guess we don’t exactly seem like people who would be together.
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be dating someone so . . . normal.” Krista means this as an insult, to him.
“Well, you don’t know him,” I say. But the truth is, he is normal. And it is comforting, somehow.
Ryan is one of those people who slides effortlessly into whatever social group he wants without even thinking about it. He is comfortable everywhere, and tall and handsome in the sort of way where even if he isn’t your type, you can probably appreciate the bones in his face and the fact that they’re all exactly where they’re supposed to be to make a face pleasing.
He’s a little bit of everything, I guess is what it is. And I’m not sure what I am. I don’t think most people give me much thought at all, which is fine by me.
“I hope he’s at least secretly into something freaky,” Krista says. And then she winks and lets out a pained little moan. “My eyes are not ready for winking yet.”
A second later the announcements begin. “Good morning, North Orchard students and faculty. Can I please have everyone’s attention?” Vice Principal Graham. There’s something strange in his tone. I sit up and listen. “It is with deep sorrow and a heavy heart that I must deliver some very sad news. A member of the North Orchard High community passed away over break.” He pauses to clear his throat. And in that moment, I stop breathing. I think everyone does. In that moment it could be any of us. “Junior Delia Cole passed away yesterday. Ms. Dearborn and Mr. Finley and the rest of the counseling staff will be available for anyone who needs to talk, and my door is always open as well. Our thoughts and prayers go out to Ms. Cole’s friends and family during this difficult time.”
The loudspeaker clicks off. And then there is silence, and the ding of the bell. The school day has officially begun.
My head detaches from my body. It rises right up into the air and floats toward the door, and so I follow it.
“He didn’t say how,” someone whispers. “What could have happened?” They sound confused, as though her death was so unlikely.
But I can so easily imagine a million ways Delia might have died. Maybe she climbed up onto the old closed-off bridge that stretches over the reservoir and went out onto the rotted part beyond the DO NOT PASS sign. Or she was up on someone’s roof looking up at a big bright moon and teetered onto the delicate edge, even as they begged her not to. Maybe she walked across the road with her eyes closed, playing a game of chicken like she used to, her final moment the howl of a horn, a rush of adrenaline, and sudden blinding light.
Ryan is waiting for me outside homeroom. We lock eyes and he stands there staring, frozen, like he isn’t really sure what to do with his face. And I’m not sure what to do with mine, either, because it doesn’t even feel like my face anymore. I start walking toward him and he pulls me against him into a hug. His arms are strong and warm like always, but right now I can barely feel them.
I say, “This is . . .” And I stop because my brain has run out of words, and there’s nothing in my head but air.
“. . . completely nuts,” he says. He is shaking his head. And it occurs to me that this is the first time either of us has mentioned Delia, referred to her at all even, in over a year. I thought we would at some point—that it would be so strange when we finally did.
We make our way across campus, and he drops me off at the door of the English building, where my next class is. He leans in and hugs me again. The nylon of his jacket is smooth and cold against my cheek.
When he lets go, he looks down at the ground. “I can’t believe this happened.”
But the thing is, now that it has, it seems like it was always going to. Like somehow all along, Delia was far ahead of us, dead, and we are only just now catching up.
“I don’t know if it’s weird to say this now,” he says, “but I really missed you.”
And I know in a different version of the world than the one we are in, this would send a jolt of pleasure up my spine. So I say, “Me too,” but being apart from him and winter break and everything that happened before this moment seems very far away. I can’t really remember what missing feels like, or any other feelings either.
Chapter 2
I went to classes. My brain registered nothing. It mattered even less than it normally did.
It’s right after lunch now. I’m in the bathroom standing at the sink. There are two girls, juniors like me, three sinks away. I don’t know them well, but I know their names: Nicole and Laya. Nicole always wears big silver hoop earrings and Laya always wears a ponytail so tight it looks like her face might split. They are passing a stick of eyeliner back and forth.
I’m not really paying attention to them, to anything, until there’s a buzzing sound—Laya’s phone receiving a text. And then a half second later there’s Laya’s high-pitched voice shrieking, “No fuh-reaking way.”
I look up. Nicole is lining her bottom lid, pulling at her face so you can see the pink around her eye. “What?”
Even though I don’t know what Laya is going to say, my heart is psychic and decides to start pounding.
“So you heard how Hanna’s older brother is training to be a police officer, right?”
Nicole nods, her head bouncing like it’s too heavy for her neck to hold up.
“And you know how they didn’t say how she died, right? Well, she said he said that’s because”—Laya pauses, getting ready to say something juicy—“it was suicide.”
Through the fog of feeling nothingness, my stomach drops, my heart stops beating. I lean forward, like I’ve been punched.
Nicole turns to Laya. “Whoa.”
“Yeah. On New Year’s Day.”
“Oh my God, that is so sad!” Nicole sounds excited. “How?”
Laya shrugs. “Hanna’s brother didn’t tell her.”
“I read a thing once that women, girls, whatever, are more likely to use pills, but I don’t know, I could sort of see her, like . . .” Nicole puts her two fingers together and sticks them in her mouth. Then she jerks her head to the side and lets her tongue hang out.
The water is pounding down into the sink and splashing onto my shirt. Maybe I am going to throw up.
“She always seemed sort of off the rails . . . ,” Laya says.
“Totally. Like one of those famous people who do insane things, except not actually famous.”
“Yeah, like, famous only in her own head, though.”
My sink has filled up. Water drizzles out onto the floor.
I face them now, something inside me sparks and catches fire. “Stop talking about her like that,” I say. I try to keep my voice from shaking. They turn toward me, like they’re only now noticing that I’m here at all. “Just fucking stop it.”
“Um, hi?” Nicole says. “Private conversation. Besides, were you even friends?”
She looks at me, lips pursed slightly.
“Yes, we were,” I say.
“Oh,” says Laya. “Sorry.” And for a moment she almost kind of sounds it. Laya and Nicole exchange a quick look and then head toward the door without another word. They are best friends, which means they don’t always need to speak to understand each other. I watch them go. There’s a squeezing in my chest, and my eyes tighten. The tears are starting to come, but I grit my teeth and I blink them back.
The thing is, when I said Delia and I were friends, that wasn’t really true.
If we were still friends, then when I saw Delia’s name flashing on my phone two days ago for the first time in over a year, instead of clicking ignore and not even listening to the message, I would have picked up. I would have picked up and heard Delia’s voice, and would have known something was wrong. And then, no matter what Delia said, no matter what Delia was planning, I would have stopped her.
Chapter 3
1 year, 6 months, 4 days earlier
It was a relief to know she didn’t have to explain. Not about the ache in her chest, the pit in her stomach, where it was coming from, and how much she didn’t want to talk about it—Delia would just get it. She always did.
June imagined what Delia was about to say, maybe something along the lines of, “Parents. Fuck ’em,” or “Only boring people have perfect lives.” Delia could make you feel like the things you didn’t have were things you didn’t want anyway. She changed the whole world like that.
So that’s what June was expecting, standing out there in the summer sun, waiting for Delia to fix this.
Delia tipped her head to the side as if she was considering something. She raked her curls behind her ear, hiked up her low-slung cutoff shorts, then reached out and took June’s hand. She squeezed it tight, but still she didn’t say anything at all. She just grinned and waggled her eyebrows.
Then she started to run.
And because she was holding June’s hand so tightly, and June’s hand was attached to June’s arm, which was attached to June’s body, June had no choice but to run with her. She stumbled at first, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she plunged toward the ground, then righted herself. Delia was ahead of her, arm stretched back, racing across the empty field, legs pumping, pulling June right along.
“Wait!” June begged. “Please!” June was in flip-flops. They were flapping against the grass until she accidentally ran right out of one of them. “I lost my shoe!”
But Delia didn’t wait or stop.
“Fuck your shoe!” Delia called out.
So what could she do? June kicked off the other one and pumped her legs. When was the last time she ran as fast as she could?
“But where are we GOING?” June shouted.
“WE’RE JUST RUNNING,” Delia shouted. Trees zipping by them, they were flying through the air.
The pit in June’s stomach dissolved, sweat broke out along her back, her lungs were bursting. But still they ran, giddy and breathless, the pieces of June’s life dropping away bit by bit, until she was nothing but legs in motion, arms, a heart, a hand, held. A body, stumbling, tripping, almost falling. Except she wouldn’t fall, that’s the thing. Delia wouldn’t let her.
Chapter 4
After school I meet Ryan out front and follow him to his house like it’s any other day. That’s where we always go, even though no one is ever home at my house after school and someone is almost always home at his, and we’re supposed to want to be alone.
Ryan puts his arm around me as we walk inside into the enormous open foyer. Ryan’s family is rich. For some reason I didn’t even understand that when I first started coming over. I knew that his house was nicer than mine, that it felt much better to be in here in this big beautiful space than it ever did to be at home, but that wasn’t saying much. Delia was the one who explained it to me the one time she ever came here. Ryan was out of earshot and she’d leaned over the edge of their giant leather sofa and stared at me in this really intense sort of googly-eyed way that she only did when she was already drunk. “Shit, J,” she said. She was holding one of their very soft throws, stroking it like a bunny. “Why didn’t you tell me that your love-ah was loa-ded ?” But things were already kind of weird between us at that point, so I didn’t say, “Wait, he is?” which is what I was thinking in my head. Instead I shrugged like it was nothing.
Now I’m on the sofa and Ryan has gone into the kitchen area. I can still see him from where I sit.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” He opens the freezer. “You might feel a little better if you eat something.”
I shake my head. I’m underwater.
While Ryan puts things in the microwave, I look down at the phone in my lap, at the tiny icon on the screen—the message from Delia, which I still haven’t listened to. Which I can’t even bring myself to mention.
Th
e microwave dings and Ryan takes out his plate, carries it to the couch, and sits down beside me. He pulls his laptop onto his lap and opens up the Kaninhus website, which is Swedish for “bunny house.” Basically there’s a guy in Sweden who has these two rabbits who live in a penned-in area in his backyard, and the guy keeps a webcam on them all day long. Ryan showed me the site when we first started seeing each other. “I really, I mean, I really, really like these bunnies,” he said, almost like he was embarrassed about it, which was what made it so charming. He told me his friends would think it was super weird if they knew. (His friends have an extraordinarily low bar for what weird is.) The bunnies mostly sniff around and wiggle their noses and eat stuff. We talk about them a lot, as though they are real and have hopes and dreams and complicated interior lives.
“Hi, Adi. Hi, Alva,” he says to the rabbits on the screen. He is using a terrible fake Swedish accent, which is another one of our couple things. “How are you today, bunnies?” One of the bunnies is eating from a little dish. The other is asleep.
I guess he’s trying to distract me, to keep my mind off things, as though somehow that’s possible. Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t know how to talk to me about her, to have this conversation at all. I sure as hell don’t either.
But I’m thinking how it feels wrong to be sitting here staring at these rabbits while Delia is dead.
And I’m thinking how Delia would say, I’m dead, what the fuck do I care? Watch the fucking bunnies if you want to. And then she’d curl up the corner of her mouth the way she did when she knew she was being sassy.
“How’s your screenplay going, Adi?” Ryan says.
Normally I’d join in, ask Alva about her slam poetry or something (because we pretend they’re both frustrated writers on a writing retreat in Sweden). Instead, I’m bursting with everything that I’m not saying about Delia.
I can’t hold it in anymore. My mouth opens up and the words tumble out. “I heard it wasn’t an accident.”
Suicide Notes from Beautiful Girls Page 1