Suicide Notes from Beautiful Girls - Lynn Weingarten

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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?

      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.

      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

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