Suicide Notes from Beautiful Girls. Lynn WeingartenЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 . . .
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