Suicide Notes from Beautiful Girls

I follow Jeremiah back to the road. What the hell am I doing?

I feel like I’m in a dream. I think, This guy is crazy with grief. I shouldn’t be following him.

We get in our cars.

We make our way on narrow twisty roads. Up Beacon, down McKenna, onto leafy Red Bridge. It seems like we’re heading to Delia’s house, but instead of pulling up in front, Jeremiah makes a sharp right and pulls into the cul-de-sac that connects to the woods behind it. He parks. I pull in behind him.

For a moment I sit there in the silent dark, the only light the yellow circle from someone’s front porch. I press my hand to my chest. I haven’t been anywhere near Delia’s house in over a year, but I used to come here nearly every day. This was more my home than my actual house was.

I open the door and step out. Jeremiah is waiting for me. I will the memories to stay away. I can’t handle them now.

“It’s down through the woods,” he says quietly.

He holds up his phone again, flips on the blue light. He steps up onto the grass between houses and disappears among the trees. I follow.

We’re surrounded by darkness. The leaves crunch beneath our feet. I breathe heavy. In, out, in. And that’s when I smell it: this strange scent I cannot understand. It’s weak at first, but as we reach the edge of the trees, it hits me like a punch in the face. There’s burnt wood and leaves, scorched rubber, melted plastic, gasoline. I pull my scarf up over my mouth and nose. But it doesn’t matter – the stench is so strong.

“What the hell is that?” I say.

We are standing at the edge of Delia’s backyard now. Jeremiah points his phone toward the remains of a structure out in the grass. I can’t tell what it is.

“How they say she did it,” he says.

“How she . . .” I stop. Then I remember: This is where Delia’s stepfather’s shed is supposed to be. He uses it to drink and jerk off, Delia had said. And what I’m looking at now is what’s left of it – half of a wall, a metal frame, and a pile of burnt things.

Jeremiah turns toward me. “This is how they’re saying Delia killed herself. That she burned herself to death in there.”

I breathe in. I can taste it. My legs start to shake.

“There was firewood inside. She doused it in lighter fluid, herself too, and lit it up. Whoosh. So they say.”

I can feel the heat crawling up from my stomach. Images flash. Delia trapped, fire all around. She’s scared, screaming.

And it’s real now. I can’t breathe. Delia, who was so tough, who would say anything, do anything, go anywhere, wasn’t brave about everything. Memories come – Delia shrinking away from a tiny bonfire on the night she first confessed it. Delia flipping out because a guy was playing around with a lighter too close to her. I remember the look in her eye when she told me about her nightmares of nothing but flames. If I have one while you’re here, she had said, squeezing my hands tight, you must promise, promise you will come and wake me up.

Delia was scared of just one thing. This was it.

“There’s no way she did this,” I say. And I know in that moment that what I’m saying is true.

Jeremiah nods. He turns toward me, out there in the dark.

“So now you understand,” he says, “why I need your help.”

We’re up by my car now, Jeremiah and I. And I’m this close to losing it entirely.

“We can go back to the police,” I say. “Maybe we can tell them . . .” I am desperate, grasping for anything.

“They’ve already seen this place. There’s no point in going to them until we can tell them something they don’t already know.”

“I haven’t . . . I hadn’t spent time with her in so long, I don’t know anything about . . . Where would we even start?”

Jeremiah turns away. “I might have an idea.” He raises his gloved hand and puts his finger on the window. “I did something a few weeks ago that I’m not very proud of.” He traces a circle in the condensation on the glass. “She got a lot of phone calls when we were together, but she didn’t always pick them up. I guess maybe I was a little jealous. She wasn’t always the easiest person to have as a girlfriend, you know.” The words are tumbling out of his mouth, faster now. “Usually she’d bring her phone with her when she went to the bathroom, but this one time a couple weeks ago she forgot, I guess. The phone was ringing, it had been ringing all afternoon. So I don’t know, I didn’t even really mean to, but then . . . I answered it. It was a guy, and he said, ‘There’s no point in trying to avoid me, I know your friends, I know where you hang out. I’ll find you.’ He was all crazy mad sounding. I asked who he was, what he wanted, but he hung up. I checked, and the name on the phone was Tigger. When Delia came back from the bathroom, I didn’t say anything. I knew if I did she’d get pissed at me for snooping and I didn’t want her to be mad at me. I’m such an idiot. I should have said something. I should have . . .” Jeremiah pauses then. He rubs the circle off the glass with his fist and looks up. “If we need somewhere to start, I think he’s it.”

I am silent. But all of a sudden, I realize something:

Tigger. Tig.

My breath catches in my throat.

Tigtuff ?

Not on me, thank fuck.

The pieces are clattering together, bits of memory arranging themselves into a shape.

“What?” Jeremiah says. He is staring at me, jaw set, head tipped to the side. “What is it?”

Down by the water they weren’t talking about “tigtuff ” but “Tig’s stuff.”

I open my mouth to tell him, I’m stopped by a thought. Can I trust him? This guy who I’ve never spoken to before, who spent tonight hiding out in the dark, watching, who answered Delia’s phone and never told her about it?

“Nothing,” I say. I press my lips together. But what’s Tig’s stuff ? It’s the sort of stuff guys like the ones down by the water might bring out for a night of getting fucked up. It’s the sort of stuff one would very much want to hide from the cops.

And as I understand this, I understand something else: just what that makes Tig . . .

CHAPTER 8

Before the sun rose, I was already there, sitting in my car in the parking lot of Bryson High. I haven’t been to sleep. For five hours I drove, thinking about Delia. It was like over Christmas when I was alone, only this time I was kept company by images I couldn’t escape. Every time I blinked, there was the shed, charred and crumbling. Every time I took a breath, there was that stench. I turned the radio up loud and forced myself to sing along. Scream along. It’s what I had to do to keep the tears from coming.

Now I sit huddled in my coat and scarf, watching as the sky turns from black to gray to clear, cold blue. At 7:20 I get out and walk toward the school, waiting for the students to arrive. If this were a regular day, I’d be nervous knowing I’m about to have to talk to so many people I don’t know, to ask them for something. But as it turns out, there are many worse things to be scared of.

Finally, they begin to trickle in – two tall girls in fuzzy boots and pea coats, a small guy with an enormous backpack, three huge dudes in football jackets.

I’m not sure who I’m looking for, exactly, and I could barely see them last night, but Delia’s type of person is never that hard to spot.

There’s a girl in all black with short dark hair. I walk up to her. “Did you know Delia Cole?” I say.

“Who?” the girl tips her head to the side, confused. She smiles slightly. I ask her again. She shakes her head.

I ask a guy with a skateboard and two girls wrapped together in one very long scarf, a kid with a Mohawk and a dozen more people after that. They all say no, but it doesn’t even matter, because someone who knows her is here somewhere and I’m not giving up until I find them.

Three guys are walking toward me now. Two are tall and lanky, one is shorter and sturdier; they’re dressed in black and green and gray. I feel a tingling in my gut.

I make a half circle and come up behind them. They don’t notice me. They’re talking. I listen.

“. . . appear in court,” says one of them.

“I can’t believe you’re even here today.”

“My mother bailed me out at two in the morning. Then stood over my bed at six and told me to get up for school.”

“That’s rough.”

“Yup.” The first one snorts. “Thanks so much for backing me up.”

“Well you’re the one who brought the vodka up to them. What did you think they were going to do, make you a martini?”

These are the guys from last night.

I walk faster, fall in with their steps. “Hey.”

They turn toward me. One of them smiles slightly, looks me quickly up and down, the way guys do. I can feel my hair blowing around my face. I’ve never thought I looked like very much – average height, kind of curvy, eye-shaped eyes, nose-shaped nose, dark blond hair that falls right below my chin.

Delia always insisted I was hotter than I realized. “Everyone else who looks at you sees something you don’t,” is what she used to tell me. But she was the type of person who would say that anyway, would actually think it anyway, because she loved you. Only maybe these guys are seeing something now – I can tell by the way they’re looking at me, smiling slightly. They’re glad I’m there until I say, “You’re Delia’s friends.” And then all of their expressions change.

They start walking a little faster. I keep their pace.

“I saw you last night,” I say.

“Oh,” says the tallest one. He stops then and looks right at me. “What’s up?”

He has dark hair gathered into a topknot, smooth cheekbones, a strong jaw, and full lips. Up close I get a sour whiff of last night’s alcohol seeping through skin. I remember them down there, drinking, laughing.

“Tigger?” I say, in case he’s one of them.

They’re all silent for a moment. “What’s that?” Topknot asks.

I pause. “I’m looking for Tigger.”

“Bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing?” Topknot says slowly. “Fun fun funfunfun?”

“Check Pooh’s corner,” says one of the others, grinning. This one is scruffy-faced, with a black wool hat pulled down low. He smiles.

I grit my teeth and force myself to smile back.

“I’m looking for Tigger the person,” I say. “I thought you might know him.”

Scruffy and Topknot glance at each other.

“Nope, don’t think so,” Scruffy says. But he’s lying. His voice is gravelly and low. I recognize it. He’s the one who said Delia was trouble.

I feel my palms begin to sweat. I have an idea. “I need a hookup,” I say. “Delia was always the one who went to him, for both of us. And I don’t know where else to go now. I need a little . . .” I pause. “Help.”

They stare at me, wary, all of them.

I reach into my pocket. There’s a folded twenty I keep in there for emergencies. I pull it out and thrust it forward. “For your trouble,” I say.

Topknot and Scruffy exchange another look, and I know this was the wrong move. Now they’re even warier. “Sorry, can’t help you,” Scruffy says. “Have a good day.” Scruffy and Topknot turn and keep walking.

But the shorter one, he hesitates. He is broader than the other two, and his face looks softer, younger. Maybe he can hear in my voice how desperate I am. Maybe he really needs the money. He looks back at his friends, who have realized he isn’t with them and have stopped a few feet away. They’re watching him. He reaches out and takes the bill.

“Listen,” he says softly. He dips his hand into his black canvas messenger bag and pulls out a chewed-up pencil and little green notebook. There’s a tiny sticker on the cover, a fluffy chick with a parasol. He opens the notebook and starts to write. “There’s a party tonight at his house. If you need something, you can get it then.” He looks me in the eye. “But you probably shouldn’t mention Delia.”

I force myself to breathe slowly, to try to keep my voice from shaking. “Why’s that?”

“They weren’t always on the best terms.”

“Oh really,” I say. “Delia never mentioned . . .”

The guy shrugs. “I don’t really know the deal. I think she might have stolen something from him, not too long ago? All I’m saying is if you drop her name, he might try to jack up the price. He can be a dick like that.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“Don’t tell Tig I told you that. Or about the party either, actually.”

“No problem,” I say. And then, “I don’t even know who you are.”

He bites his lip as he hands me the folded-up notebook paper. There on the back of his wrist, where a watch would be, is something I’ve seen before, something I remember from a night with Delia a long time ago – an infinity sign inked in black. I remember when this tattoo was fresh, and I first saw it by a bonfire. I remember how scared I was then, that fear a very different fear than what I’m feeling now. Warmth spreads across my cheeks. When I look up, he is staring.

“No,” Infinity says. He looks me straight in the eye and smiles ever so slightly. Does he remember? “I guess you don’t.”

I unfold the paper. There’s the address – Pinegrove Industrial Park, Building 7. And there’s my folded up twenty.

“It’s in Macktin, down by the water, he says.”

“Thanks,” I say.

Infinity nods. “Good luck.” He turns to walk away, then stops and turns back. “Be careful. Tig . . . isn’t always the nicest guy.”

“I can handle it,” I say. And I shrug, more confident than I feel.

He gives me a half wave and goes back to his friends. I start the long cold trek back to my car.

What the hell had Delia gotten herself into?

CHAPTER 9

2 YEARS, 4 MONTHS, 17 DAYS EARLIER

Delia and June lay on their backs on the grass, fingers intertwined between them, staring up at the big blank sky.

“Imagine floating off into that,” Delia said. Her voice sounded dreamy and wistful, the way it did when she was fucked up, which she currently was.

“If I ever get the chance to go to space,” Delia went on, “I’m definitely going.”

June laughed. But she closed her eyes. She didn’t even want to look at it.

“I’m serious. I’d go in a second. Everything down here is meaningless . . .”

June wasn’t high like Delia. She was sober as ever. She hated the idea of so much emptiness, above them, around them, everywhere.

“. . . but nothing bad has happened out there yet.” Delia finished. “It’s all brand new.” Delia inhaled deeply like she was sucking in the sky. “And if I go, you’re coming with me.”

Without even meaning to, June inhaled also. She felt Delia’s feelings curling into her body with her breath.

And when June opened her eyes again, she saw only soft velvet soft blackness, endless possibilities. It was beautiful.

CHAPTER 10

It’s night-time again and I’m alone, driving down the dusty streets in Macktin, where I’ve never been before. It’s a strange and uninhabited place full of sprawling industrial buildings, mostly deserted.

I pull into a parking lot. The building next to it looks like a prison. The fear I’ve been trying to squelch starts bubbling up again. I can take care of myself, but I’m not an idiot. Maybe this isn’t really the place, and Infinity was messing with me. Maybe I should have asked Ryan to come too. Or even told him where I was going at all.

Except I couldn’t. I get out of the car and remind myself that telling him would have just made him worry. Earlier this afternoon I brought up the idea that someone might have done something to Delia. Ryan shook his head, worry lines between his eyes. “The whole thing is really, really sad, but that doesn’t mean there’s a mystery here,” he said. He put his hand on my cheek, so softly, talking to me like I was someone he had to be careful with. He’d never acted like that before, and it made me feel embarrassed. To him I am tough. He likes that. I like it too. “She was a very messed-up girl who did a lot of messed-up things,” he went on. “It’s why you stopped being friends with her in the first place. You said so yourself.”

He was right; I had. Maybe I even halfway thought it at the time. But it wasn’t the whole truth.

I didn’t press it after that. And really, it’s better that I’m alone for the exact reason that I’m wondering if it’s smart to be: I’m unintimidating. Not a threat. People tell me things sometimes without really meaning to.

Maybe someone will tonight.

I’m up at the door now. It’s propped with a brick. I let myself inside.

There are bare bulbs dangling from the ceiling, leading the way down a long hallway. At the end is a set of stairs, a piece of paper stuck to the railing, on which is written MAYHEM: THIS A’WAY over a bright pink arrow pointing up. And so I climb and climb until, legs burning, I’m finally on the top floor. There’s another door there. I can feel my pulse in my ears, my temples, my throat.

I open the door and look out into an enormous open loft.

It’s eerily beautiful. I’ve never been anywhere like this.

There are only thirty or so people here, but the place could hold hundreds. Dozens of tiny white lights dangle from the ceiling, and dozens of white pillar candles sit in clusters on the concrete floor. The music is an otherworldly rumbling that rattles the inside of my chest. The air smells like plaster and wax.

In one corner of the loft there’s a modern kitchen, all white lacquer and chrome. There are rows of glass bottles piled up on the white kitchen island and a handful of people standing around pouring themselves drinks.

I start to make my way toward them, but I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder. I turn. There’s a man in a suit holding on to me. He has a big round head and a space between his two front teeth.

“What’s the password?” he says. His voice is a growl.

Password?

“I . . .” I start. I think fast. “My friends are already in here.” I point toward two girls walking past. They’re a few years older than me, wearing short sheer dresses, high shoes. I’m still in jeans and Delia’s sweater. “I think they forgot to . . .”

The guy shakes his head. “No one gets in without a password. I’m going to have to ask you to leave, then.”

But I can’t leave yet. And the idea of someone trying to get me to go makes me brave. You’re the sweetest little honey pie, Delia said once, until someone tells you that you can’t do something.

I clear my throat. “Be careful what you say, now. Tig’s expecting me, and if you stop me I doubt he’ll . . .”

The guy puts his hands on his hips and sets his jaw. And then, suddenly . . . he bursts out laughing, like this is the funniest joke he’s ever heard in his life. “Ah, I’m only messing with you, dolly.” He looks me right in the eye. His pupils are enormous. “It’s the suit, right? Makes me look like I get to make the rules.” He winks and steps aside. “Have a big ol’ blast!”

I feel a flood of relief, because I’m in. And then right behind that, ice-cold fear, because I’m in. I grit my teeth. It’s time to do this.

I make my way forward. I’m the youngest person here. Everyone looks like they’re in costume – colored fishnets on their arms, top hats, jewel-toned tuxedos, tiny glittering dresses. Delia would have loved this place. Maybe she did.

I look out at the rest of the room. It’s all raw open space. There are three enormous white sculptures off to the side – a ten-foot-tall head, a dancer with no arms, two bodies entwined. At the back of the room is an entire wall of windows, looking out over dark buildings and beyond that a cold white moon that looks carved too.

“For me?” a voice says.

I turn. There are two girls standing next to me: one tall and thin with a huge glittery choker, the other shorter, her eyes lined in green. Choker hands Eyeliner a small white pill. Eyeliner raises her perfectly arched eyebrows.

“Yup,” Choker says. “His very finest.”

They place the pills on the tips of their tongues and swallow them dry.

I stare at them, like I want what they have. “Hey, do you know where I can find Tig?”

Eyeliner gives me a puzzled look, then points toward the back corner of the room. A doorway. “Where else would he be?”

I force myself to inhale slowly, to exhale slowly. I pass a couple swaying against each other. I pass three girls laughing.

This is it.

I look through the doorway now; it leads to another room, much smaller than the first. In the center of the room is an enormous old-fashioned sleigh bed covered in pillows. And in the center of the bed is a guy sitting cross-legged, head shaved smooth.

Tig.

A girl with long bleached-white hair climbs on Tig’s lap and presses her lips to his. I step back. He looks up. He pulls away from the kiss.

“Come on in,” he says. His voice is high and breathy. He points at me and curls his finger. I walk forward.

Tig’s face is thin, lit from below by the small stainedglass lamp on the nightstand. He could be any age at all.

He is on the bed stroking the girl’s hair like she’s a cat. His shirt is half unbuttoned, revealing a hard, pale chest. “And how may I help you, pretty girl?”

“I was hoping you could hook me up,” I say. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Fear rises from my stomach.

Tig tips his head to the side. “What are you looking for?”

“Something . . . fun,” I say.

Tig twists his mouth to the side. “I don’t know you. Who are you here with?”

“No one.”

Tig licks his lips and smiles, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “So what the hell are you doing in my house?”

Another wave of fear washes over me. But I hold his gaze.

“I’m here because . . .” Because I want to know if you killed my friend. “Because I heard there was a party.”

“Like fuck, you did.” He shakes his head. “Tell me or get out.”

A jolt of electricity shoots up my spine. I think of Infinity and my promise, I think of my dead best friend and how no one can hurt her anymore. I think of the fact that someone did. I clench my fists. “Delia sent me.”

Tig raises one eyebrow ever so slightly. “Ah-ha, a message from the underworld, then.” He whispers to the girl on his lap. She pulls herself up off the bed, smooths her small white skirt, and heads for the door. When the girl is gone, his smile fades. “Save your bullshit,” he says. “What do you want?”

Maybe Delia’s ghost really is here, because Delia wouldn’t have been scared of this guy for a second, and suddenly neither am I.

“I want to know what she stole from you,” I say. But really, I just want to get him talking.

“So she told you about that, did she?” He clenches his jaw.

“She told me a lot of things.”

“Well then you know a hell of a lot more than me.” Something in the room shifts.

“What did she take from you? And what did you do to try to get it back?”

“Well, well,” Tig says. “Are you here to avenge your poor dead friend?” He purses his lips into a frowny little pout. “How sweet.”

Something inside me bursts. I open my mouth, and then it’s like I can’t stop. “I know where you live, and I know what you do. And if you did something to Delia . . .”

“Are you really threatening me?” His eyes don’t look right. I realize then that he’s on something – lots of things, probably. “That would be an extremely silly thing to do.”

I want to turn and run. I exhale through my nose. “I’m not making a threat,” I say. “I’m stating some facts.”

“Well, then I’ll state some facts too. You shouldn’t be poking other people’s beehives. But you have balls, and I like that in a girl.” He pauses. “So I’ll do you a favor and tell you a little thing about your friend: She was up to some fucked-up stuff that even I wanted no part of, and that is really saying something. But I didn’t do anything to her, if that’s what you’re here to find out. She told me she needed it for protection – that was her excuse.”