was the water?” June asked. She tried to make her question sound casual, but what she was hoping beyond anything was that Delia would somehow figure out all that June wasn’t saying. And fix it.
Delia raised her pinky up to her mouth and ran it back and forth across her bottom lip. She was staring straight at June.
June scratched her ear. Their code.
A second later Delia glanced down at her phone, then said loudly in a voice only June would know was fake, “Oh shit. We have to go home now. Sorry Junester, my mom just realized we’re not at home. She’s totally going to kill me.”
June scrambled to her feet.
“That sucks,” said Shirtless.
“Parents, man,” said one of the others.
“So I’ll see you back here sometime?” Striped Shirt asked June. And June nodded, not meaning it, not even looking at him.
Silently they walked away. Delia held June’s hand the whole way home. She never brought it up again.
When I get home, the apartment is dark, but I can hear the TV blaring through my mother’s bedroom door. It’s after nine and she’s not at work tonight, which means she’s drunk, and what is there really to say about that. I’ve long since gotten used to things being the way they are; in general I just try not to think about it. But as I climb up the narrow stairs, for one weak second I let myself imagine what it would be like if I could knock on her door and tell her what happened. I imagine her wrapping me up like Ryan’s mom did. I imagine her telling me everything is going to be okay. I feel a wave of something then, longing, maybe. I shake it away. My mother wouldn’t do it. And even if she did, I wouldn’t believe her.
I go into my room, kneel down, and start pulling things from my drawers. In this moment I am calm again, a strange, faraway kind of calm, like I’m not really here at all.
Ryan tried to convince me to stay the night. “My parents won’t mind,” he said. “Considering everything . . .” His voice was soft and sweet, and even though I could hardly feel anything, I knew that if all of this hadn’t happened, it would have made me happy that he wanted me to. And a part of me wished so much that I could say yes, that I could curl up on his family’s couch where everything is safe and warm and good. When his dad got home he’d make bad puns and turn on the news. He’d kiss Ryan’s mother on the lips and Ryan would jokingly roll his eyes. Then Marissa would make popcorn with tons of this butter spray she loves, and we’d all sit together. I’d let their normalness swirl around me and envelop me. And I’d pretend like none of this had happened.
“I should go home,” I told Ryan, “to be alone for a while, I think.” And he seemed to understand, or at least he thought he did. He walked me out to my car and stood there watching as I drove away. Alone. I felt bad for lying to him. But what choice did I have?
Now, here in my room, I get undressed. I pull out a pair of thick black wool tights. I put the tights on and my jeans back over them. I slip on my dark gray leather boots and lace them up. I am trying so hard not to think about anything, not to think about where I am going and why.
I rifle through my drawers until I find what I’m looking for. The sweater – so soft, dark green with delicate gold threads. This was Delia’s. I haven’t worn it in a very long time. She gave it to me back when things were still good with us. “It makes me look diseased,” Delia had said, throwing it at me. “Please save me.” Delia was always so generous and acted like it was nothing. Acted like you were doing her a favor accepting whatever she gave you.
It is the nicest sweater I own, by far. I put it on, my jacket over it, and a black scarf as big as a blanket, because it’s January and I know it will be cold down by the water.
I park in the little alcove at the side of the road and get out. It’s been years since I’ve been here, but I know the route by heart. There’s a car right in front of the hole in the fence around the reservoir, and I shake my head. You’re supposed to park far away. This is trespassing. No one is supposed to know that anyone is out here.
I squeeze through the hole and walk down the narrow dirt path. My stomach turns over and over. I hear quiet murmurs, and as I get closer the murmurs turn to words.
“You can’t start a fire, man. It’s too cold.”
“Fuck off. I was a Boy Scout. I have skills.”
“Oh yeah?” A few people laugh. “They give out patches for rolling a jay?”
I can see them now, a small group huddled in a circle around the bonfire spot. Someone is bent down, flicking a lighter over a pile of twigs. They smolder weakly, thin ribbons of smoke curl up.
My eyes start to adjust, and by the light of the big bright moon I can make out thick coats, army jackets, hats, gloves. Their breath white in the icy air.
I walk up behind them, my heart beating fast. I don’t belong here, here among her friends. “Hey,” I say. A couple of people half turn.
I work my way into the circle between a tall wiry guy and a tall girl with short dark hair and lips so red I can see them in the moonlight.
Someone takes out a bottle of vodka, the cheap kind that comes in a big plastic jug. “To Delia,” one of the guys says. “A girl who could really fucking drink.”
“To Delia,” the others say back. And then there’s a splashing sound as someone tips the bottle over the ground. And I feel a deep wave of sadness – this is it, this is her goodbye, a few people standing out on a cold January night, pouring shit booze onto frozen earth. They pass the bottle, taking long gulps. Who were they to her? How well did they know her? How much do they care?
When the bottle gets to me, I hold it far from my face so I won’t have to smell it. I don’t know how to begin, but I know it might be my only chance for answers. So I just blurt it out.
“Was she in some kind of trouble?” My voice sounds strange and hollow.
A guy turns toward me. “What are you talking about?”
“Was Delia in trouble?” I say.
“Who even are you?”
“I’m June,” I say. “A friend.” And I feel like a liar.
There is a silence.
“Delia wasn’t in trouble,” the guy says. “She was trouble.” He sounds pleased with himself, like he thinks this is a very clever line. I hate him, whoever he is.
Someone lets out a laugh. I keep going. “But something must have been really wrong,” I say. “For her to . . .”
“Well, obviously,” another guy says. “People who are fine don’t generally off themselves.”
“It’s not like she would have said what it was though.”
“If you knew her at all, you’d know that.” Someone reaches out and takes the bottle from my hands. “Delia didn’t tell anyone personal stuff about her life.”
But she did, I want to shout. She always told me.
“Listen,” another voice says. This one is female, kinder than the others, slightly southern sounding. Only before she can say any more, a bright light is slicing through the trees, lighting up our faces one by one. Two car doors slam and the beams from two flashlights shine out into the night.
“Shit,” someone says. “Cops.”
“Tigtuff ?” one of the guys asks.
Tigtuff ?
There’s another voice then, gravelly and low. “Not on me, thank fuck.”
And all at once there’s frantic motion, everyone