Suicide Notes from Beautiful Girls

by Lynn Weingarten

  June had never felt jealous of Delia before—not once, not even for a second. She knew that some best friends were competitive with each other, but she had always assumed that those friendships were less pure than her and Delia’s, less real somehow. Because the thing was, when Delia was being extra hilarious and charming and sparkly and people noticed, June just felt proud. And when someone wanted Delia—and so many people did, and Delia ate that shit up—June thought, if anything, it was a testament to their good taste. The only way she’d ever have been able to imagine being jealous in relation to Delia was if Delia seemed to love someone else more, and that was impossible.

  At least that’s what she’d always thought, no, known, deep down in the center of herself.

  But in the car she felt something hot and sick in her, completely brand-new—she was jealous. And not only that, but angry at the way Delia had acted, sparkling like that in front of Ryan on purpose. Of course it was on purpose. Delia was way too smart for anything to be an accident.

  Ryan was supposed to be entirely off limits. He was hers, wasn’t he? She’d never thought of him like that before, but she couldn’t help it now. She hated herself for it, but, no, screw it, it was . . . was it wrong to feel that way? Didn’t most girls feel that way about their boyfriends? Maybe it was normal. And even if it wasn’t, she didn’t know how to make herself feel something else.

  June stopped on the way home and got a toasted everything bagel with cheese, because that’s what Delia sometimes wanted when she was hungover, but June could barely eat a quarter of it before she was dry heaving into the toilet. And then she’d gotten back into bed, adrenaline pumping. She felt like she was dying, or wanted to die. This is a hangover, she told herself. But she couldn’t convince herself that it wasn’t something far worse.

  Finally, curled under the covers, she let herself go over the events of the night again, what she could piece together. She remembered being nervous, she remembered deciding, fuck it—even though she was usually so careful, so not fuck it about anything. She remembered taking her first shot. And then her second and third and more. Almost everything else was fuzzy after that, and mostly what she could recall were flashes of things—a very stupid game, Delia and Ryan, lip to lip, the view from Ryan’s bathroom floor, cheese puffs, water, Delia’s face, Delia not looking her in the eye.

  But there was one moment that stuck out more than the kiss even. Delia had been teaching her a drinking trick. “Just open up the back of your throat,” Delia had said, “anything will slide right down. No gagging, once you really learn how to do it.” And then, June remembered this part with strange clarity: Delia had smiled slyly at Ryan. “Think I mastered that one,” she’d said. And had she winked? She had.

  How had Ryan reacted? Did he laugh? Smile back? June tried to picture it, but she could not remember. The only clear thing was Delia’s face, luminous, eyes glowing the way they did when she was all lit up and looking at something she wanted for her very own.

  This moment played over and over in her head. June couldn’t stop it.

  She lay in bed. She picked up a book, but reading would be impossible, and she tried to put on music, but the sound gave her a headache, so instead she just lay there, trying to think of nothing at all.

  That’s what she was doing when the phone started ringing. And that’s when, for the first time in their entire friendship, June saw Delia’s name flashing on her phone and she didn’t reach for it.

  June told herself she’d call Delia back later, she didn’t feel well, that was all. But she knew then that something significant was changing, had changed, and that—and maybe more importantly—Delia would know it too. Because it was like Delia was inside her head sometimes. And June couldn’t imagine anything happening in her own head without Delia immediately figuring it out. But maybe that was the other thing. Maybe she no longer owed Delia access to every part of herself . . . With that thought, June felt a weight lifting, a great weight that had been tied to her for so long. The phone rang and rang, and June watched it until it stopped and the screen went dark. And all of a sudden, just like that, she was free.

  Chapter 26

  I cry myself to sleep, wake puffy eyed, and drag myself to school.

  There is no mystery, no clues to uncover, there’s nothing to do but miss her.

  The first text from Jeremiah comes when I’m in homeroom, before the announcements start. I’ve just finished telling Krista everything that happened, and she’s staring at me, eyes wide and round. I look down at my phone.

  “Who’s that?” Krista says. “Ryan? Jeremiah?”

  Sorry I had to beat up your boyfriend. Did it for Delia.

  “What did he say?” Krista edges forward in her seat. I wish she didn’t sound quite so interested. I’m too exhausted to bother resisting, so I show her.

  “Wait, he’s not still . . . ,” she starts to say.

  I shake my head. I write back: he’s not my boyfriend anymore

  I feel a squeezing in my chest. I try to remind myself that the Ryan I thought I loved doesn’t actually exist. I didn’t know him, not the real him. But that is not much comfort at all.

  I get another message a few seconds later: good.

  Are you okay? I type back. Can you meet after school?

  I need to see him, to tell him what Ashling showed me. He deserves to know.

  “That dude is weird.” Krista is still staring. She has a little smile on her face. “Do you think there’s any chance that Ryan is right, though? That maybe he did do something?”

  “No,” I say. “I told you what happened.”

  Krista shrugs. “Okay, but let’s say for a second he did though, right? Do you think it would be that he’s crazy and was in some weird altered state so he doesn’t even totally know that he did it, and that’s why he asked for your help? Maybe he has a split personality. Or was really high. Or was in so much denial . . . I don’t know. I’m trying to think about what the reasons would be if this was a movie or whatever . . .”

  I hate how excited Krista looks now. I turn my back to her and stare down at my phone.

  The announcements start and end. I wait for another message, but it doesn’t come. I wonder if Jeremiah knows how little I’ve trusted him. I feel a stab of guilt about that, but then again, didn’t I have good reasons to be a little suspicious?

  I can feel Krista’s questions sinking into my skull and spreading like a fungus. I’ve been working so hard to figure all of this out, it’s like my brain doesn’t remember how to stop. Why was Jeremiah looking for Delia’s murderer if he was the one who did it? Well, maybe that’s not really what he was doing after all. Maybe all along he was trying to answer a different question—not who killed her, but who was she cheating with. And he was using me to help him do it.

  I shake my head. This is my brain wanting to keep figuring; this is my brain afraid to rest in the grief that I know is coming. Jeremiah didn’t do anything. Even though Ryan said . . .

  This is crazy. Why would I trust Ryan at all? Why would I listen to him ever again?

  Just as I’m walking out of homeroom, Jeremiah finally texts back.

  can’t

  All day my brain won’t stop. Jeremiah. Ryan. Jeremiah. Ashling. I don’t know who to trust. Maybe I don’t trust any of them. I don’t even trust myself.

  Lunchtime I get a text from Ryan. For a split second my body has the old reaction—a lifting, a fizzle of joy. It drains away.

  I stayed home from school today have you thought about what I said??? Have you seen jeremiah? should we call the police?

  It seems so insane that he could still think there’s a “we” to make decisions, but also that up until only a few days ago, there was.

  No. I write. Definitely not.

  Before last period I spot Jeremiah down at the end of the hall. I watch him, moving slowly, all alone, pain radiating off of hi
m like a stench. I can smell it from here. And just like that, the doubt is gone.

  I call out to him, but he doesn’t turn. A moment later he disappears into a classroom.

  I send him a text. I need to talk to you.

  No answer.

  Five minutes before the final bell I slip out of class. I walk to the parking lot. I remember his car—the big green station wagon with a UMass bumper sticker. I find it and stand there and wait. I hear the bell ringing in the distance, and then a few seconds later the sound of hundreds of students leaving school.

  I turn and look into the window of his car. There’s a tube of Bacitracin on the passenger seat, a bottle of Advil, bandages, gauze. I remember Ryan’s words. What do you think happened to Jeremiah’s hand?

  I try to picture his hands. Surely I’ve seen them before, haven’t I? But maybe one was always hidden, in gloves or behind his back, in his pocket . . . This is crazy. I know what happened to Delia, I have the answer now. It is time to stop investigating, to stop churning, to stop resisting, to really feel this.

  I close my eyes, open them, and when I look up, there he is, lumbering toward his car, left hand tucked in his coat pocket.

  I feel a tingling in my gut.

  I know this is ridiculous, I know it is, but still I step back so he won’t see me. I slip between cars until I reach my own, three rows away. I get in and watch him through the window. People are all around him, but his face registers no expression, like he’s sleepwalking or in a trance.

  When he starts his car up, I start mine too. And when he eases out of the parking lot, I follow.

  He makes his way down Oak Avenue and up Two Bridge Place. He glances in the rearview mirror a couple of times, but I don’t think he sees me. . . .

  He pulls into the parking lot of a CVS, gets out, and walks inside. I park a few spaces over. I wonder if I should move farther away in case he comes out and spots my car, but just then a big white van pulls up and parks between us. Good.

  I follow him in, straight back to the pharmacy. The store is mostly empty. I pause in front of the deodorants. I hear him talking to the pharmacist, a gray-haired woman with a smooth young face.

  “It hurts a lot,” he is saying. “I thought it would have stopped by now. But it hasn’t, and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Has the skin blistered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me have a look . . .”

  For a moment there is silence and then she lets out a quiet gasp.

  “You really need to see a doctor about this,” she says. “When did this happen?”

  “A few days ago.”

  Jeremiah’s back is to me. I creep closer. And then, I see it: Jeremiah’s hand. His flesh is raw, red, wet-looking, dotted with blisters oozing puss. I raise my fingers to my lips, feel my stomach curdling. This is a burn.

  “How did this happen?” the pharmacist asks.

  Jeremiah pauses only for a second. “It was an accident,” he says.

  My heart is hammering so hard I cannot breathe.

  She shakes her head. “This is much too severe to treat on your own.”

  “Okay, but until then,” Jeremiah says, “what can I use in the meantime?”

  The pharmacist starts leading him toward the first-aid aisle. I turn my back as they go by.

  They stop a few feet from me. I make my way quickly toward the door as the thoughts click into place:

  Jeremiah was jealous when Delia got phone calls.

  Jeremiah answered Delia’s phone.

  Jeremiah “found” Delia’s phone and wanted to unlock it.

  Jeremiah almost beat up that guy at the party.

  Jeremiah did beat up Ryan.

  Jeremiah was alone in the woods watching everyone.

  Delia died in a fire.

  And Jeremiah has a burned hand.

  This is too big, too much for me now. I can’t breathe. My heart is drumming hard and fast.

  Out the door, I’m halfway to my car when my phone rings. I hit ignore. It rings again. I look down. Ashling.

  Footsteps. Jeremiah walks right past me. Shit. He stops for a moment, just stands there like he’s considering something. He’s between me and my car now. Did he see me?

  I turn and I run, around the side of the building, out toward the Dumpsters in back. I lean against the wall panting. My phone rings a third time. Ashling again. I pick up.

  “Where are you?” she says. “I came to look for you at school. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “Listen,” I say. “Jeremiah . . . His hand is burned. . . .”

  Ashling’s answer is drowned out by the sound of a car pulling up behind me.

  “Hello?” I say. “Ashling?” She doesn’t answer. “Did you hear me?”

  I step back, then suddenly I feel a pair of strong arms wrapping around my waist. I try to turn, but something is shoved over my head, and everything goes dark.

  I start to scream.

  Hot adrenaline surges in my spine. I reach for my face—there’s cloth, so thick I can barely feel my fingers through it. My arms are wrenched behind my back, my wrists bound together. I keep screaming, but the sound is muffled by the fabric against my mouth and nose.

  I feel myself lifted off the ground. I kick my legs. The toe of my boot connects with something hard, and my knee sinks into flesh. I hear a sharp intake of breath, but no words. I’m placed facedown on a cold flat surface. The floor of a van, maybe. My ankles are held together, hard, tied tight. I am still screaming, throat raw, eyes tearing with the effort. What the fuck is happening?

  Part of the bag is lifted from my head, and I feel warm breath against my cheek. And a voice, so quiet, I can barely hear it over the beating of my heart: “If you want to find out what happened to Delia, don’t struggle.”

  Chapter 27

  We are moving now, speeding fast, blasting dance music drowns out the sound of my screaming. I feel cold metal against the bare skin of my back where my jacket and shirt have ridden up. Through the fabric over my face I can make out only flickering light.

  “JEREMIAH?” I shout. Could it be? “RYAN? TIG?”

  I wrench my arms, kick my legs, strain my wrists and ankles against the bindings, but they’re far too tight.

  Whoever killed Delia, they’re taking me somewhere so they can kill me, too.

  With this thought my heart explodes, but I force myself to lie still. I take a slow breath, and then another one. Now is not the time to struggle. I must be quiet, curl into myself. Save every bit of strength I have. Eventually the van will stop, and they’ll come back here and I’ll be ready for them. Whoever did this to her, they’re not bringing me down without a fight.

  A few minutes later the van comes to a halt. I lurch forward and then back. The music shuts off. I hear quiet voices. And then the slam of two car doors.

  The back of the van is opened. Whatever is over my face is lifted off. There’s a blast of cool air, and I’m blinking at two masked figures in the late afternoon sun. They’re both tall, dressed in all black. One leans in toward me and unties my legs. The other unties my arms. I look around, take in all I can: We’re at the edge of a patch of woods. I have no idea where we are. We could be anywhere.

  They take me by the arms and lead me forward. I clench my jaw, grit my teeth. I’m waiting for my moment. There are two of them, and I know I can’t take them both. But I can run. And I’m fucking fast.

  I breathe in. Dead leaves crunch under my feet. I don’t bother asking any questions. I feel the muscles tensing in my legs. I’m ready to go. Ready to start, and then . . .

  . . . standing there, right in front of me, is Delia.

  My heart stops, starts again, stops. She’s staring right at me. Her eyes are bright.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper. I feel a flood of happiness, relief, then pure
ice-cold fear. I have no idea what is going on.

  “Hey, J,” Delia says softly.

  The wind is blowing against my cheek, I am flying through space, hurtling toward earth.

  “Oh my God,” I say again. Am I insane? Is she a ghost? Am I dreaming?

  My eyes feel full, my cheeks suddenly wet.

  For a moment she just stares at me. Then she holds out her arms and I tumble forward, sink against her. My entire body is shaking. She wraps me up. I feel my heart open wide.

  “You’re always jumping to the wrong conclusions,” Delia says in my ear. Sounds escape through my lips, bubbled up from inside. I don’t know if I’m crying or laughing now.

  “Hey,” she says, so quiet. “Shhh, Junie, it’s okay.” She sounds like she used to, she sounds like my best friend.

  I close my eyes. But a moment later she lets me go. She pulls back and she looks away. The sun is going down. Soon I won’t be able to see her at all.

  “So clearly you can see that no one killed me.” Her tone is different now. “You can go back to your life.”

  Your life. Everything outside of this moment feels like something I made up. Only this is real.

  “What about you?” I say.

  I look at the two masked figures, still watching us. I want to ask her if she’s okay, only they’re too close, they’ll hear us.

  But suddenly I know what to do. I put my pinky to my mouth and run my fingertip across my bottom lip. This is our code—has been for years—we used to do it at parties when one of us was trapped talking to some random guy. Do you need to be rescued? I feel a frizzle of connection when our eyes meet. She remembers.

  But she doesn’t answer the way she’s supposed to, with an ear scratch or a bitten lip. She says out loud, “No, I do not.” And then, “I already have been.”

  Her answer offers no relief. Sometimes the people who most need saving don’t have any idea.

  She shakes her head, like she’s reading my mind. Then she reaches out and takes my hands. “Seriously, go home, Junie,” she says. “Forget about me.”