This is Not a Love Letter

by Kim Purcell

  Sunset, Last Thanksgiving, Making Love

  I’m just going to say it straight out.

  Here’s the truth: It was my first time. Not just my first time with you. My first time ever. I’m so sorry.

  On that night, we walked down the path along the river with our basket and you sang that Dobie Gray song, “All I Want to Do Is Make Love to You.” I grinned at you, like it was no big deal, making love, even though it was.

  I knew it wasn’t your first time. We were seniors for god’s sake. You assumed I’d had lots of boyfriends, loads and loads of sex, piles of it, so many guys I didn’t even remember them all. Didn’t people tell you I was a slut because I’d dated a couple older guys?

  Maybe I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to make a big deal. I wanted it to be normal. I didn’t want you to keep saying, “Is it okay?” every two minutes, or “Does it hurt?” And maybe, if I’m being real, I didn’t want you to be able to say that you were my first if we ever broke up.

  So we packed our cheese and our grapes and our cheap-ass wine and our blanket and our two condoms in a basket, and we made our way down the trail at sunset. The sunset was all purples and bright orange.

  The gnats were going crazy—they kept going up your nose. You kept pinching at it, making that funny gargle sound. And the mosquitos were feasting on you too. We kept having to smack at them. They loved your scent. (I do too.) Remember how we were giggling?

  We pulled off our clothes, fast, kind of avoided looking at each other. It was really happening. I was nervous.

  “Come over here,” you said.

  The way you kissed me. You pressed both hands on my cheeks. Your lips wrapped around mine. My whole body unzipped.

  We dropped down onto the blanket, but it was all rough wool and itchy. I sat on top of your legs, so that only my knees were touching the scratch wool. You undid my bra.

  “Boing,” you said.

  I slid off your boxers.

  “Boing,” I said.

  You didn’t know it was my first time, but you were slow and careful, kind of like how you are with everything, even when you wash your truck. You put on the condom, like you’d had practice doing it. Once it was on, you didn’t go right to it. Instead, your fingers tickled down my body. And then your tongue. And you kept saying, “Is this okay?” And I kept saying, “Yes.” Finally, I couldn’t stand it. And I said, “Come on!”

  So you did.

  It was a little painful, I’ll admit. And after, I hid the blood. Which is kind of shitty. You had this real soft look on your face, the tension drained out. You said it was the best Thanksgiving ever. Thank you, you said. Thank you.

  I said, “Thank you.”

  And you know how you say we have to be grateful? I did feel grateful. It was real special, having that first time be with you. That’s more than most girls can say. But I should have told you.

  9:16 PM Sunday, the whistler

  I wake up to Little Man pecking at my hand. I let out a scream and jerk back. Don’t know where I am. Little Man jumps back a few steps and tilts his head at me, then flies away, into the bush. I sit up and rub my eyes. What am I doing here?

  YOU ARE MISSING!

  It startles me like a horn blasting. Shit. I drop my head back on the grass. I’m here because of you.

  It’s got to be late—around nine? The sun is down already and the sky is a beautiful blend of orange and pink and purple, the colors all twisting into one another.

  If you were here, you’d say, “Wow.” You act like every sunset is a goddamn miracle, even though it’s just pollution. I sit up and stare at the sky. It’s real beautiful. Are you seeing this sunset? Are you saying “Wow” somewhere?

  People are going to be worried. Steph, especially, is going to be freaking out. I told her that I’d be back no later than six. I said we could order in pizza.

  Normally, I could probably go missing for a day and nobody would notice. Definitely, nobody would get calls in the middle of the night. But it’s different now. Nobody knows if there’s a killer on the loose. Or if some sick freak has you tied you up in a cabin and is torturing you.

  Okay, here’s a super power message. If someone has gagged you and tied you up, do what you need to escape. If you have to, kill them.

  Is it bad to send someone a mental kill message? I don’t know and I don’t care. I’d kill them for you if I knew where you were.

  You’ve been missing forty-eight hours. We’re heading into Night Three, and we know nothing. It scares the crap out of me.

  It’s getting dark. If I don’t leave now, I’m going to be in the woods really late. I stand up.

  A crunch. Someone is out there. Moving toward me.

  My ears are alive.

  The sound gets closer. Heavy boots are crunching down on old, soggy leaves. The crack of a branch. Someone is walking carefully through the woods, trying not to make a sound. Closer now. And then, a slow, airy whistle.

  It’s not normal whistling, it’s more like someone who’s learning to whistle, high-pitched and breathy.

  I stay very still. Wait for the guy to walk by. But the footsteps stop. He must have heard me.

  Some birds squawk in the trees. I hold my breath. They always say killers come back to the scene of a crime. And what’s up with that whistle? Does he know I’m here? Is he trying to scare me?

  Maybe it’s Johnson. Maybe he followed you here the other night and he killed you and now he’s coming back to make sure there’s no evidence.

  Another branch cracks. He’s going to come into the clearing!

  I grab my backpack and slide down the bank. I’m not quiet. Pebbles follow me, call out plink, plink, plink, which in rapist language means “Hello, rapist, there’s a girl here, with a vagina.” Oh god, I don’t know why I’m joking about this. Maybe joking makes shit less scary. I’m on the verge of a panic attack. Baby, I need you.

  I press myself against the crumbly dirt bank. Friggin dirt is dropping down into the back of my shirt. My breathing sounds like Darth Vader.

  The birds are totally quiet. They get quiet when a predator is near. This is how I know it’s still dangerous. He’s listening, just like I am.

  Maybe Little Man’s mom and dad will take a dislike to the guy; maybe they’ll start diving at him.

  “Hello?” It’s a male voice.

  Oh shit. Does he sound familiar? Sort of. It’s deep, but is it as low as Johnson’s? I need him to say more. Hello is not enough.

  I slide my head up to see. The bushes rustle. Hands appear through the brush. The guy is pushing his way into the clearing, right by my bike. I duck back down, way low, hiding behind the bank. My heart bumps against my chest.

  The dark river rushes by my shoes. I could jump in, but I don’t want to, not yet. I’m too scared. It’s dark. Can’t see anything. And it’s cold.

  His breathing is above me. The river screams past.

  Does he know I’m here? Is he about to jump on top of me? I’m pressed to the dirt, the bank curving over my head. I look up so I can see what’s coming. My body is shaking. I don’t think I could fight him off. I don’t think I could dive into that dark water and do my lifeguard moves.

  Some rustling comes from behind me. What is he doing? A crack of another branch. A scream fights inside me, but I hold it there, and it echoes in my mind. Then the footsteps continue down the trail, squishing down on the moist leaves.

  His airy whistling fades down the trail. I can’t tell which way he went, to the left or to the right. I stay there for a long time.

  He had to have seen my bike. He knows I’m here. Or that someone is here.

  Why did he come in the clearing?

  The smartest move now would be to swim down the river, just a little ways. But I’d have to leave my bike. And it’s really dark now.

  The brown water is rushing by my shoes. It’s faster than normal from all the runoff. I can’t do it.

  I climb up the bank and creep across the clearing. Good
old Ella is still leaning against the bush. I crouch by Saber and listen for breathing. The whistler knows I’m here. When I come out, if he’s waiting, he’ll just grab me.

  It sounds like he’s gone.

  I take in a breath and climb under Saber and step out onto the dark path. The trail is quiet, peaceful even, which makes it creepier, like in those horror movies with children’s music playing. Am I that girl in the movie who the audience is yelling at? “No, don’t go that way, you stupid fool! Stay by the water, you idiot! You have a rape plan! Go back, go back.”

  I don’t see anyone down the trail, not that this means anything. It’s too dark to see. The sky is now that shade of blue right before it goes black.

  I flick on my light, swing my leg over the seat, and then I ride as goddamn fast as I can. Maybe he won’t be able to grab me.

  Soon, my legs are burning. My breath is clawing out of me. I can see a yard or two in front and to the sides, but otherwise, the path is now totally dark.

  At the big log near the end of the trail, I hesitate because if I were a killer, I’d be on the other side. I stop and lean over to look at the other side.

  Nobody’s there. I let out a sigh of relief, heave my bike over the log and ride the last bit of the trail before the parking lot. My tires hit the gravel. The highway is up ahead, all lit up like a Christmas tree. I’m starting to feel a little silly. You always say I’m dramatic.

  Then, a bright light shines in my eyes. There. Is. A. Car. The killer is waiting to run me over. I ride as hard as I can. My tires spin out on the rocks. My bike twists, and I scream and crash to the ground. I fall on my bad arm. The pain is blinding.

  All I can do is lie there and wait for his wheels to crush me. The last time I hurt my arm this bad, you were there to rescue me. But there’s nobody here to save me now.

  9:45 PM Sunday, the parking lot

  “Jessie?” The killer knows my name. He’s standing above me with a flashlight in my eyes. His body is in shadow.

  “Don’t hurt me.” I’m cringing on the ground, squinting in the bright light. So much for the tough girl.

  “It’s Detective McFerson.”

  He pulls the bike off of me, and then slowly, I sit up. “Oh my god,” I say. “You freaked the shit out of me.”

  “I’m sorry.” He helps me up. “Are you okay?”

  I stretch my bad arm out. It hurts, but it’s just bruised. “I guess so.” That’s a relative term. “Why were you whistling like that? You freaked me out.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You were whistling.”

  He lets out a perfect whistle. “Like this?”

  “No.”

  “Did you bump your head, Jessie?”

  “Someone was whistling on the trail,” I say.

  “I wasn’t on the trail.”

  “What?” I breathe. “Someone was there. A guy. He was whistling.”

  “What are you talking about? Back up, Jessie.”

  “Okay, I was in this spot where Chris and I always go and I fell asleep and—” I pause, feel around on my back. “Oh shit, I forgot my backpack.”

  “Where?”

  I’m panting hard, thinking about how maybe he’s hiding out there, maybe he’ll come back and see my backpack and then he’ll find my ID and my keys and he’ll hunt me down. The detective is staring at me. Like I’m a maniac. “There was this guy. In the woods. Whistling. I thought he was going to kill me.”

  “Because he was whistling?”

  Maybe it sounds dumb, but he wasn’t there. “It was creepy whistling.”

  “Jessie, what are you doing here so late?” he asks. He says it softly, trying not to act suspicious, but he definitely is.

  I feel flustered. I can’t help it. Cops freak the crap out of me. Even nice ones. Especially nice ones.

  “N-Nothing.”

  He cocks his head. “Nothing?”

  “I was riding the trails all afternoon, and then I went to this spot where Chris and I go? It’s our special place. I missed him, so I went there and then I watched the sunset like we do and I stayed too late and fell asleep, that’s all. Really.” Why can’t I talk like a normal person?

  “Were you meeting someone, Jessie?”

  It makes me mad. “Who the hell would I meet?”

  “A guy. Maybe Chris.”

  “I fell asleep! I wasn’t meeting anyone, and definitely not Chris. I wish I were meeting him. For god’s sake, I would kill to meet him.” Why did I just say kill to a police officer? Am I a crazy person? “Maybe you should try to look for a guy who can’t whistle.”

  He studies me. “You shouldn’t be out here this late.”

  “No kidding,” I say.

  “Jessie, I’m here to help you.”

  “Really?” I glare at him. “How about organizing a search? We don’t even have dogs looking for him. I shouldn’t have to be searching out here by myself.”

  He sighs. “I promised you I’d talk to the police chief, and I did, but he says we don’t have the resources.”

  “You think he vandalized Johnson’s car dealership and then took off, so you aren’t even going to look for him.”

  “I’m trying. Believe me.”

  “You’re not trying hard enough.” I think of the blue paint on Tamara’s arm. “You should talk to Tamara Bell. She had blue paint on her arm yesterday.”

  His eyebrows dart up. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.” I grab my bike. “Thanks for the heart attack.”

  He gives me this funny look like he’s trying to figure me out, or maybe he thinks that I’m guilty of something. Then, I ride off, acting like I really am guilty of something. Because that’s what I do when I’m around cops.

  It’s true, I guess. I am guilty. I’m guilty of all sorts of things, but mostly, I’m guilty of being a bitch to you, the guy I love most in the whole wide world.

  I don’t know why I had to act like that, to you, of all people. If it weren’t for me being a bitch, you wouldn’t have come running down here, that’s for sure. So I am to blame, no matter what’s happened.

  I ride fast up the highway. A carload of kids passes me, music blaring. I wonder if they’re kids from school. One guy sticks his head out the window and yells, “Nice ass!” I don’t know why guys think that’s a compliment.

  You would never say that to a girl, never. You’re so different from other guys in our town, and not just cause you’re black and from Brooklyn. When you showed up at school at the beginning of sophomore year, everyone assumed you were a tough kid from the streets of Brooklyn, but you grew up in an artsy part of Brooklyn. No street fights. No gangs.

  You said it was three-quarters white, but most people didn’t look at you twice. You said it was weird coming here, especially for the first year. You said the color of your skin was the first thing people saw. I even looked twice at you on that first day. I didn’t tell you that. I’m not proud of it, but I remember thinking, What’s a black kid doing here?

  Ever since I hit puberty, my ass and my boobs are sometimes the first and only thing guys notice about me. They are body parts. I am not my body. I am me. And you are you. You’ve always made me feel that while you liked those parts, you liked me more. I hope I’ve made you feel the same. I hope you feel that I see you, your beautiful heart, your swirling soul.

  I turn into our neighborhood and then I pass your street, and I can’t help it, I look toward your truck sitting at the end of your driveway in front of your duplex.

  “Hoo boy,” I whisper to myself.

  And a wave of sadness hits me. The first time you heard me say that, you repeated, “Hoo boy?” And then laughed, like you thought my hick expressions were charming. Thank you for that. Thanks for making me feel special. For making me feel like my insides were important.

  As I ride down the street, I stare into people’s homes, at shadows shifting behind curtains, at backs of heads watching TV, at all the houses with trucks parked in yards, duplexes filled
with cigarette smoke, people who will fight to make sure things stay exactly how they are. They hate new ideas. They don’t question anything. They see body parts and skin color, and they think what’s on the outside is what matters.

  But when people don’t look at the inside of others and they don’t look at the inside of themselves, they’re missing practically everything.

  10:20 PM Sunday, the news crew

  When I glide down my street, I see a news van is parked in front of my house, Komo 4 News splashed on the side, and one of those satellite dishes stuck to the roof.

  I jump off my bike and walk cautiously toward my driveway. Beth is sitting on her steps. Her porch light shines from behind. Her face is in shadow. She lifts up the hand holding her glowing cigarette. I lift my hand back.

  Is the news crew inside my house, filming our disaster? Our windows are dark. Are they downstairs?

  Then, the door of the van opens. A bleach-blond woman gets out, holding a mic. A sketchy, shaggy-haired cameraman follows right behind her holding a big-ass news camera. The streetlight shines down on them.

  No way. She’s the same damn woman who interviewed the friend of those brothers who drowned! Her hair is in the same perfect bob, and she’s wearing too much makeup, especially eyeliner. It makes her look like a bloodhound. She takes short, purposeful steps toward me, in her tight suit. I could outrun her.

  The cameraman turns on the light. It shines in my eyes. The reporter woman extends the mic toward my face.

  “Jessie Doone? Are you the ex-girlfriend of Chris Kirk?”

  Ex-girlfriend? The camera’s little red light is on.

  “No, I’m his girlfriend. Not ex-girlfriend.”

  “People were saying you broke up and then he went missing?” She keeps her mouth open, for dramatic effect. Her lipstick is bleeding into the wrinkles around her lips, giving her the look of someone who’s been sucking on a bloody deer carcass.

  “No, that’s not true,” I say. “We’re together, I mean, we were taking a break, but we’re still together.”

  Please don’t put me on TV looking like this. I have no makeup, I’m wearing a helmet, and I’m not making any sense.