This is Not a Love Letter

by Kim Purcell

  “Holy shit.” I crossed my hands over my boobs, even though it was too late and you’d seen it all. I sank down in the brown water.

  You glanced toward the trail, like you were afraid someone was coming. Later, you told me it wouldn’t have looked good, a black guy with a white girl who was nearly naked and screaming. I thought it was silly at the time, but now I know you always have to think about that stuff.

  “Why are you stabbing me with a stick?” I said.

  “You weren’t moving! I thought you were dead.”

  “I was floating.”

  “You looked dead. You had no top. And I recognized your red hair.”

  “Tangerine,” I corrected. “The box says tangerine.”

  You gave me a funny look, like who cares if the box said tangerine. “I thought someone had…”

  “Raped and killed me?” I had to point out the lack of logic in your imaginary killer’s story. “And weirdly put my underwear back on?”

  You grinned. That’s when I noticed your dimple. “I wasn’t thinking straight.” You glanced toward my T-shirt and leggings resting on top of the bush and my bra hanging down. It was a huge old-lady bra but really supportive. I didn’t have the money to go to a fancy lingerie shop in Seattle, like the girls you hung out with. I figured all the bras you saw probably had lace on them and not one single hole.

  “Leave my clothes alone,” I said.

  “I’m not going to touch them.”

  “Guys think it’s funny to take a girl’s clothes.”

  “I don’t think it’s funny.”

  I tried to see if you had a cell phone on you. I worried you might take a picture of me, and it would be all over school the next day.

  “You shouldn’t be swimming here alone,” you said. “The river’s dangerous. A couple weeks ago, two kids—”

  “I know what happened,” I said. “The rapids are a ways downstream.”

  Two brothers had drowned. The younger one was being pulled downstream and he panicked. The older brother swam out to rescue him, but he didn’t get there before the rapids, and they both died. The search boat and the scuba divers were on the news. I watched, gripping my mouth the whole time. The TV reporter was a leech, asking the best friend all these questions.

  “Aren’t you worried?” you said.

  “I’m a lifeguard. I always swim in the river.”

  You studied me like you were trying to figure out if I was a crazy person. “Do you always go swimming with no clothes on?”

  “It’s the best way.” I shivered. “Except it’s a bit cold right now.”

  “I’ll get your clothes.” You stepped toward the bush.

  “No!” I said. “I can get them. Just turn around and go back to the trail.”

  “Okay, okay.” You let out a low chuckle and I worried I couldn’t trust you, but I didn’t have a choice. You disappeared under the Sitka spruce you later named Saber after a saber-toothed tiger because of its sharp needles. I hesitated for a second, but you seemed cool, so I rushed out of the water.

  It took forever to get dressed. I was dripping wet and my fingers were frozen and I couldn’t get on my damn bra, and then my leggings got stuck on my wet legs.

  You were so quiet.

  “Are you still there?” I called.

  “Still here.” A little laugh.

  I ran my hand through my wet hair, smoothed it back, and then grabbed my backpack and walked over to the trail, trying to summon a little dignity. You were holding my bike for me, with your back still turned.

  “Did you look?” I asked.

  “No way.”

  “You’re a real gentleman,” I said, sort of teasing.

  “I try to be.” You grinned back at me in the cutest way, like you were shy. That’s when I noticed the way your sweaty gray T-shirt was clinging to your lean chest. You have one of those rare, perfect bodies, but you aren’t arrogant about it. You don’t strut. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just, you’re understated.

  “I’m Jessie.”

  You shook my hand, softly, held it in yours, which felt unbelievably hot. I thought it was because my hands were so damn cold—I didn’t know then that your body is a human heater. “I know,” you said. “We’re in bio together. You sit at the back. You always know all the answers.” You gazed at me in that soft, quiet way of yours. “Of course I know your name.”

  “Bio is okay.” I tried not to smirk. Steph always tells me a guy says one nice thing to me, I’m his forever. “You should see me in French. It’s a disaster.”

  “Je m’appelle Chris,” you said, in the worst French accent ever.

  “Okay, maybe not that bad.” I grinned.

  You grinned back, and we were silent; maybe it was a little awkward. I saw an old chip bag on the ground, so I bent down, picked it up, and stuffed it in my backpack to throw out later. You gave me a funny look.

  “I like to clean up the trails. You know, if I see something, I think about the environment and it’s so beautiful here…” I trailed off, thinking, Oh my god, I’m such a nature nerd.

  You smiled at me. “Cool.” Then you gulped, and it was that action, at that moment, which made me realize that maybe you liked me a little.

  I glanced at the ridge in your chest, which I could make out through your damp T-shirt, and wondered what it would be like to run my finger along the curve of it. You saw me looking and you gave me this wide, little-boy smile, a yes-I-got-what-I-wanted-for-Christmas smile, and your brown eyes were so shiny, and bright and smart, and something about that smile, I don’t know, maybe it was your dimple, but that was it for me.

  This is how that first day went, and from that moment on, damn near perfect. You tease me because I think I have an audiographic memory and you say nobody can recount conversations exactly. But I can! I swear. Somehow, people’s words attach themselves to me, like ivy. I remember everything.

  9:45 AM Saturday, my house

  After Steph leaves, I sit on my sofa downstairs and text every damn person I know. Feel frantic. Someone has to know something. Most people are still asleep, but a couple text back, say they’ll ask around. I’m hoping you crashed at a friend’s house and you’re still sleeping.

  I stare across the downstairs rec room, which looks like a thrift shop that’s been ransacked. Would you rather live in a house filled with garbage or in a house with absolutely nothing, no furniture, no TV, no food, no dishes? Must choose. Oh man, I already miss playing Must Choose with you, the way your top lip quivers with laughter when you’ve made up a particularly hard one.

  I text Josh: Maybe he went to Seattle to watch the meet

  He doesn’t answer. He’s probably still riding the trails.

  I text again: Maybe he wanted to surprise you

  Text three: lmk when ur back

  I don’t want to go to work, but I need the money. So I pack my bag for the pool and I leave, without talking to my mom. You’d say I should tell her you’re missing, but if she doesn’t care enough to come down and ask me why people were at our house at seven in the morning, I’m not telling her shit.

  In the backyard, good old Ella is leaning against the metal fence. On that first day, you asked what my bike’s name was and I said it didn’t have one, and you said, “All vehicles must have names.” Like it was bad luck to be unnamed. You asked me who my favorite singer was and I hemmed and hawed, ’cause I thought you’d judge, but finally, I said Ella Fitzgerald. You said, no kidding, like it surprised you, and I said I liked singing along, and you laughed, and said, “So do I.” But you still looked at me funny. I wondered if maybe you thought I’d be into country or rock and roll, or maybe you thought I was lying to impress you, but then you said I should call my bike good old Ella after Ella Fitzgerald and so I did.

  I’m almost at the road with my bike when our meth neighbor steps out her front door and walks over to the metal fence. Her stringy blond hair looks like it needs a wash, but her eyes are alive, not all milky like usual.


  “Hey,” she says in a drawl. “You had some visitors this morning.”

  “Yep.” I think maybe she’s going to say I woke up her dogs, even though she hasn’t said more than hello to me since she moved in, so I keep walking.

  “Everything okay?” she asks.

  I look back at her, sharply. How is she the one who asks and not my mom? “My boyfriend is missing,” I find myself telling her. “He was running down by the river last night and he hasn’t made it home.”

  “Shiiiit.” She squints at me. Her eyes are little balls of amber—I never noticed that before, how pretty they are.

  “He’s a black guy, right?” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say. What does she mean by that? I get all stiff.

  “I saw him.” She takes a long drag on her cigarette, which I didn’t realize was in her hand until that moment.

  “What?” I breathe. “When?”

  “Last night. He was standing there, at the end of your driveway, like he was going to come in, but then he kept running.” She’s acting like she hasn’t just thrown a grenade at me.

  “What time was that?” I manage.

  She shrugs. “I was on my porch. Maybe around ten? It was dark.”

  That means she saw you last. Did you see her sitting there? Did you go to the river after or did you stop by my house on your way home? Did you run into someone else in the three blocks between my house and your house?

  “Where are you going now?” she asks, like maybe she wants to come. Her cheek twitches.

  “Work.” I’m gripping so tightly on my handlebars, the rubber gives.

  “You work at the pool, right?”

  “Yeah.” How does she know this?

  “My boyfriend died a year ago,” she offers. “Before my dad passed. That’s why I moved back here.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” Why is she telling me this?

  She takes another long drag of her cigarette. “Thanks.”

  I wonder how old she is. Her face is druggy-wrinkled, not old-person-wrinkled. Maybe thirty? I heard she was a meth head, that her parents hadn’t seen her for years, they sort of disowned her, or something, but she got the house when her dad died, so maybe not.

  “Your guy will show up, don’t worry,” she says. “He’s a good one.”

  “Thanks.” I think of how you’d be reaching across the fence, shaking her hand. “I’m Jessie, by the way,” I say, though I don’t reach my hand out.

  “Beth.” She smiles. Her teeth are crooked and rimmed with brown, but she has a full set at least, so maybe she’s not a meth head.

  “See you later.” I push my bike toward the street. I told you she’s a walking advertisement for why you shouldn’t do drugs, but she isn’t really all that bad, just maybe hurting, like we all are sometimes.

  1:58 PM Saturday, the pool

  I’m teaching my last private lesson to this cute little kid named Tony. I’m like a scientist in my laboratory, looking at his little body, trying to figure out how to help him move forward. He’s over-bending his knees and flexing his ankles. He holds on to the wall and I grab his feet. They twitch in my hands like little mice.

  “Point your toes,” I tell him. “Rub your legs like they’re two sticks and you’re making a fire.” He giggles and kicks all bent-kneed.

  He plays baseball, like you. Lots of ballplayers have a tough time swimming because their ankles are too tight. You need loose ankles for swimming. You told me the kick was the tough part for you and breathing to the side. Lots of people have lousy kicks and that messes up their body position, which makes it harder to breathe to the side. I think about how I should get you in the water to show you how the leg motion moves from the hip to the knees to the ankle, like a whip, the way the best pitchers throw a ball, only with the legs. I could definitely give you some tips.

  And then it’s like a siren going off in my brain: YOU ARE MISSING.

  Is it possible that you’re dead and I’m teaching a swimming lesson? This whole time, while I was teaching, I kind of forgot about you. That’s something about my brain. I have this fabulous ability to block out shitty things.

  But maybe you’re back. Maybe you’ve called. Maybe it’s all good.

  I’m still holding Tony’s twitchy little feet. The clock says I have two more minutes. Whatever. I let go of his feet and tell him he’s done. We don’t play popcorn like normal and he whines about it, but I leave him with his mom and run down to the change room to grab my phone out of my locker.

  No messages from you. Lots from other people, asking if I know anything.

  I text you a desperate, and slightly angry message: Look at your damn phone. If you’ve turned it off, turn it back on. CALL ME. Yes, I do know what a ridiculous message this is.

  Then, something weird happens; it’s like you’re answering me. I see a flash of you in our spot. You’re standing on the grass, your bare chest glistening, your face peaceful and your eyes closed, like you’re enjoying the warmth of the sun. Why would your chest be bare? Maybe you’re sending me a brain message to meet you at our spot. Maybe we can read each other’s minds. I told you that if there was one power I wish I could have, it would be the ability to read minds.

  I text Steph: Going to the river

  Steph: Noooooo

  Me: Don’t worry

  Steph: I’m at work. It’s slow. Maybe I can leave…

  Me: I’ll be fine. Going right now

  Steph: That’s stupid. Don’t go

  Me: Whatever

  Steph: Seriously

  Me: I’ll text you when I get there

  Steph: You are so stubborn

  I grab my bag and run out of the change room. Michael is at the top of the stairs, about to start his guarding shift.

  “What’s up, beautiful?” He smiles and reaches his arms out for a hug.

  I fall into him, breathe in the smell of his sweat mixed with his day-old cologne, from his date after work last night with some new guy he wanted to impress. He doesn’t teach swim lessons, so he smells like a normal person instead of a swimming pool. You say you like my smell, but half the time, I smell like a school bathroom after the janitor has come through. You appreciate every goddamn awful thing about me. It chokes me up, just thinking about it.

  Michael jerks back and stares into my eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Chris is missing.” When I say those words, it feels like someone has taken a needle and stuck it through the soft, fleshy part of my throat.

  I tell him everything I know.

  “You think he was upset after he saw us?” he says. “Maybe he took off.”

  My lip quivers, I can feel it, wiggling like a worm on my face. “It’s not like him to take off without telling anyone. I think some guys might have jumped him down there.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s going to jump him.”

  “They already did. A few weeks ago,” I say. “He didn’t fight back. He doesn’t believe in violence. He says it just causes more violence.”

  “Really?” He says it like he’s surprised, like he’s reevaluating you. And then: “I got jumped once.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “Yeah, well.” He lifts one shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “That sucks.”

  “Whatever.” He makes a face. “I hope he shows up.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “If I can do anything—”

  “Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

  I turn and run-walk across the deck. In my mind, I see you, standing, glimmering, by the edge of the riverbank.

  Maybe you’re standing in our spot waiting for me. Or is this just wishful thinking? Oh my god, I hope you’re okay.

  Would you give up your nonviolent principles and fight if someone was going to throw you into the rapids? I don’t mean to judge, but Pendling is like any other small town. Sometimes you have to fight.

  Please tell me you’d fight.

  2:10 PM Saturday, the trail

&
nbsp; Good old Ella flies down the trail. My arms are loose, butt balanced above the seat, weight on the balls of my feet. I’ve never ridden so well, ever. No joke, I’m jumping my bike over fallen branches like they’re nothing. I could probably lift a car if you were trapped under it.

  My panting fills the air. “Chris!” I yell, every hundred feet or so.

  I call to you in my mind, hope you can hear me, wherever you are.

  I’m coming, baby!

  ESP is the one magical power that I can’t help thinking is real, that it’s possible to develop, if you try hard enough. I’ve been trying all day. You claim you can do it. And there was one moment at that bush party in April, when I thought, Whoa, maybe he’s right. But I didn’t say anything.

  Remember when I went to the other side of the fire to get some spiked hot chocolate from Steph’s thermos? You stayed with Tim. After a few minutes, I felt something jerk at my mind, like someone was poking my shoulder (with a stick, ahem). I smiled at you across the flames and we walked toward each other and left without saying a single word. We never talked about it, but I thought it was cool and a little freaky, if you want to know the truth.

  Maybe we can get that mind-reading thing happening again. ESP, like you call it. Maybe if you’re in great pain, you have more ESP power. Maybe if you focus real hard, and I focus hard, our thoughts will meet and you can tell me where you are.

  It’s possible you’re not gleaming in the sun. Maybe you’re bleeding to death, but maybe it’s not too late and I can save you. I fly down the trail, hopping over fallen branches like they’re nothing.

  No response.

  I yell out, “Chris!”

  Two more turns in the path. I brake hard by our spot.

  I leap off my bike. “Chris?”

  There’s a strange sound, a crack, like a branch breaking. I freeze. When I’m lifeguarding, I listen for sounds that are out of place, sounds of danger. Like a kickboard being slapped on the water, because it’s usually followed by a kickboard being slammed on a head.

  Maybe that was you, pacing back and forth across the grass, your shoe breaking a stick on the ground. “Chris?”