Brooke jangled her car keys in her pocket. “It’s kinda late.”
“Look,” Jule said, “we’ve had a misunderstanding about Immie, and I’m glad you came over. Let’s just go somewhere neutral and talk it out. My apartment is not the best place.”
“I don’t know if I want to talk to you.”
“You showed up early,” said Jule. “You want to talk to me.”
“Okay, we’ll talk it out, hug it out, all that,” said Brooke. “It’ll make Immie happy.” She handed over the keys.
People were stupid when they drank.
Two days before Christmas it was too cold for the convertible, but the top of Brooke’s car was down anyway. Brooke insisted. Jule wore jeans, boots, and a warm wool sweater. Her backpack was in the trunk, and in it were her wallet, a second sweater and a clean T-shirt, a wide-mouth water bottle, a packet of baby wipes, a black garbage bag, and the lion statue.
Brooke took a half-empty bottle of vodka out of her shoulder bag but didn’t actually drink from it. She went to sleep almost immediately.
Jule drove up through the city. By the time they got to the Golden Gate Bridge, she was antsy. The quiet drive was unnerving. She nudged Brooke awake. “The bridge,” she said. “Look.” It loomed above them, orange and majestic.
“People love to kill themselves on this bridge,” said Brooke thickly.
“What?”
“It’s the second most popular suicide bridge in the world,” said Brooke. “I read it somewhere.”
“What’s the first?”
“A bridge on the Yangtze River. I forget the name. I read up on stuff like that,” said Brooke. “People think it’s poetic, to jump off a bridge. That’s why they do it. Whereas, let’s say, killing yourself by bleeding out in a bathtub, that’s just messy. What are you supposed to wear to bleed out in a bathtub?”
“You don’t wear anything.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.” Jule wished she hadn’t engaged Brooke on this topic.
“I don’t want people to see me naked when I’m dead!” yelled Brooke into the air beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. “But I don’t want to wear clothes in the bathtub, either! It’s very awkward!”
Jule ignored her.
“Anyway, they’re building a barrier now, so people can’t jump,” Brooke went on. “Here on the Golden Gate.”
They drove off the bridge in silence and turned toward the park.
Eventually Brooke added: “I shouldn’t have brought that up. I don’t want to give you ideas.”
“I don’t have ideas.”
“Don’t kill yourself,” said Brooke.
“I’m not killing myself.”
“I’m being your friend right now, okay? Something is not normal with you.”
Jule didn’t answer.
“I grew up with very normal, stable people,” Brooke continued. “We acted normal all day long in my family. So normal I wanted to stab my eyes out. So I’m like an expert. Andyou? You are not normal. You should think about getting help for it, is what I’m saying.”
“You think normal is having a shit-ton of money.”
“No I don’t. Vivian Abromowitz is on full scholarship at Vassar and she’s normal, that witch.”
