Lynn Weingarten - Suicide Notes from Beautiful Girls

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.