Kitabı oxu: «Suicide Notes from Beautiful Girls»
First published in paperback in Great Britain 2015
by Electric Monkey, an imprint of Egmont UK Limited
The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN
First published in the USA in 2015 by Simon Pulse,
an imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
Text copyright © 2015 Lynn Weingarten
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
First e-book edition 2015
ISBN 978 1 4052 7157 8
Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1493 8
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
About the Author
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 something 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. 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?” It’s 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 three sinks away, juniors like me. 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 highpitched 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.
The 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.”
Ryan turns slowly, the smile gone from his face. “Wait, like, are you saying she . . .?”
I nod. “Did it herself.”
“Jesus. How?”
I don’t know. “But . . . there’s something else.” My heart is racing. I need to get this out. “She called me two days ago.” I hate hearing myself say this. I hate so much that it’s true. “But I just let it ring. She left me a voicemail. I didn’t listen to it at the time because I . . .” I stop. I didn’t because I couldn’t. Because I had worked so hard to try and put her out of my mind.
“What did she say?” he asks.
“I still haven’t played it yet.”
Ryan exhales slowly. “Maybe you don’t need to. Maybe it will only make things worse.”
“But how can things be worse than they already are?”
He just shakes his head, looks down, then leans back and holds out his arms in this way that I love, when I’m capable of feeling anything. Which right now I’m not.
I lean against him anyway, and he squeezes me tight. We stay that way, until the front door opens a few minutes later and Ryan’s mother and sister Marissa come in. We spring apart. I stand up.
“Junie, sweetheart!” Ryan’s mother. “We missed you over Christmas.” She puts her keys and her fancy purse down on the counter.
His sister waves to me as she walks up the stairs.
“Marissa told me what happened at your school today,” Ryan’s mom says. She frowns. “Such a terrible shame, a tragic waste. Did either of you know the girl?”
I don’t want Ryan’s mother to make a fuss, the way I know she will if she finds out the full truth. “I kinda used to, a while ago,” I say. “Not anymore.”
“Oh, honey, that’s still awful. I’m so sorry.”
She reaches over and gives me a hug. I know if she holds on too long, I will break apart entirely, because all of a sudden it turns out I am just barely holding myself together. I have to get out of here.
I pull away awkwardly. “I need to use the bathroom.” I feel Ryan watching me go.
Once I’m safely inside, I turn on the faucet and slide down to the floor, my back against the door.
I cannot wait any longer. I fish my phone out of my pocket and dial voicemail. I hold my breath.
First the automated recording. “Message received Tuesday, December thirty-first, three fifty-nine p.m.” And then Delia. “Hey, J, it’s me, your old pal.” Her voice sounds at once completely familiar and like I’ve never heard it before in my life. “Give me a call, okay?” She pauses. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
That’s it. That’s all there is.
Suddenly, I feel the edge of the door pressing into my back. Someone is trying to come in.
“One second,” I call out. My voice cracks.
I slip my phone back into my pocket, pull myself shakily to my feet. I splash water on my face and pat it dry with one of their soft towels.
I’d assumed there would be something in her voice to make this all make sense, but all that’s here is Delia sounding exactly the way she always did. She doesn’t sound like a girl who is getting ready to die.
Except . . . she was. It was the day before; she must have known. Did she call to tell me? Did she call so I could stop her?
I open the door. Marissa is standing there in the hallway, smiling at her phone. “Sorry,” she says without looking up. “I thought you were with Ry. He’s in his room.”
I walk down to the end of the hallway. He’s waiting for me on his bed, his blue plaid comforter bunched up behind him.
“Did you listen?” he asks.
I nod. “She said there was something she needed to tell me. But that was it. She always did like to keep people in suspense. Guess I will be forever now.” I try to choke out a laugh. Delia would have liked that joke. But the laugh gets mangled on its way out and comes out like a cough and a sob. I won’t let the tears come. I can’t.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper.
Ryan shakes his head, he clenches his jaw. “It’s beyond understanding.” And he looks like he is going to cry too.
“Junie?” Ryan’s voice jolts me out of my trance. It’s later. We haven’t been sleeping, just lying in bed, holding on to each other. The sun has gone down and the room is dark.
Now he holds something out in front of him. “Your present.”
It’s a tiny snow globe, a perfect winter ski scene behind glass. When I look closer, I realize the person on the slope is a rabbit.
“It’s Alva,” he says. “Or Adi.” He smiles. “When they went on vacation.”
I try to smile back, but my mouth won’t work right. “Thank you,” I say. “It’s perfect.” And I think about the rabbit wallet I have for him back home, how I ordered it custom from an Etsy shop and was so excited when it came. How I spent a long time wondering whether buying him a present referring to our private joke was somehow too much, too serious. And I thought for a long time about whether to get one rabbit or two.
I remember the girl who only had that to worry about. It all seems like a million years ago now.
We make our way back downstairs. The kitchen is warm and bright and smells like sweet cooking onions. There’s music coming out of the sleek speaker on the counter behind the sink – happy instrumental stuff with lots of percussion. Marissa sits at the kitchen table with her laptop open. Ryan and Marissa’s older brother, Mac, is there now too, standing at the kitchen island. There’s a tangle of peppers and onions sizzling in front of him in a pan.
Mac is nineteen and is different than the rest of his family. They all fit so easily into this world of happy family dinners, easy smiles. Even Ryan does, though on some level I think he probably wishes he didn’t. It’s a really good world to visit, but I’ve always only felt like a visitor. Sometimes it seems like maybe Mac kinda feels that way too. He graduated high school last year, and then went to Europe with his band. He came back a couple months ago and is starting a company with his friends, something to do with technology and filmmaking that’s supposed to be a secret. He lives in an apartment in downtown Philly with a few other guys, but he comes here sometimes for dinners and things. I always get the sense that he has some kind of secret life, maybe part of the world I used to belong to before I met Ryan. When my whole life was wrapped up with Delia.
“Mom’s at some exercise thing and Dad’s working late,” Mac says. “Here’s food if you guys want it.” He hands us each a plate piled with grilled shrimp and peppers and onions. He puts a platter of tortillas in the center of the coffee table and surrounds them with sour cream and homemade guacamole. Mac is a good cook, but the idea of eating seems absurd to me.
But not as absurd as the idea that Delia could be dead, which makes no sense at all.
I sit with my plate in my lap, barely moving.
Delia devoured life in greedy, gulping bites. She never had it easy – there was hard stuff with her family, and hard stuff maybe wired into her brain. But no matter how bad things got, she would never have chosen to leave the world when there was still the chance that things could change, and things could always change. There’s always hope. And the Delia I knew knew that.
So what the hell happened?
No one talks much at dinner. Ryan takes the onions off my plate and gives me the guacamole off his. I eat one bite. When the three of them are done eating, Ryan takes our dishes to the kitchen to load the dishwasher, and Marissa goes upstairs to her room. Then it’s just me and Mac. He comes over to the couch where I sit and leans in, voice low. “They’re having something for her tonight,” he says. “Her friends from Bryson, I mean.”
I stare at Mac. I wonder if he is purposely not saying this in front of Ryan. I wonder, maybe, if somehow Ryan told him what happened all that time ago.
“Where?” I ask.
Mac shakes his head. “Sorry, I wish I could tell you. I only heard that they were meeting at her favorite place. And I don’t know what that is.”
But I just nod and almost smile, because the thing is, I do.
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
