A few days later she writes one long message.
I really need to talk to you. It’s Tristan. He wants to . . . He says he loves me. I like him a lot. But I don’t know. I need to talk to you! Please, you have to forgive me. I don’t have anybody else.
I scroll quickly to the next message. Three days later:
Never mind. It’s too late.
“Nooo!” I call out, startling Kat. She jumps from the bed. “No no no no no no.” Tears well up in my eyes. I wasn’t there for her. I was helping people on Instagram, but I wasn’t there for my best friend when she needed me. Yet she kept texting me. Almost every day.
She had nowhere else to go. She kept coming back to me, and I wasn’t there.
He told all his friends I’m a slut.
Nice, huh?
Always wanted a nickname. Yay.
Got my driver’s license. Drove Mom’s car to school today. Some guy asked me if I’d show him the back seat. Asshole.
I know you’re Vicurious, by the way. Nice cat.
I guess you don’t need me anymore. You have a million friends. Must be awesome.
I have nobody.
You’re my best friend.
You are, or you were.
You always were.
Vicky?
I can’t handle this without you.
The next date stamp catches my attention. It’s today. Less than an hour ago. I was in the kitchen with Mom, crying, and Jenna was texting me.
I don’t want to be here anymore.
I don’t want to be anywhere.
There’s a picture, too. A photograph of a cliff overlooking a lake. What does that mean?
I sit up, thumbs speeding over the keypad of my phone, and text a reply.
Jenna. I’m here.
My mom took away my phone weeks ago.
I am just seeing your messages.
I’M HERE JENNA. I love you. I’m here.
I press send after each line, but the little “delivered” notification doesn’t pop up. I switch from text to phone and find her number in my favorites. I press on her name and it’s ringing forever and a thousand years. Then it stops, and it’s not Jenna’s normal voice mail. It’s an automated voice that says, “The person you are calling is not available.”
I wait for the beep. “Jenna? It’s Vicky. Are you there? Call me, okay?” My voice breaks and I can’t talk anymore, not without crying. But not talking to Jenna is what started all this in the first place, so I blurt the rest out through my tears. “I’m sorry, Jenna. I’m so sorry. Please. I’m here. I’m . . . I hope this is your number. I’m here for you. I’m here . . .”
The call cuts off when my voice gets too soft to be heard, and I’m listening to a dial tone over my own shuddery breath. I sit on the edge of my bed, trying to figure out what to do next. There’s no time to hyperventilate or curl into a ball feeling sorry for myself. But my brain feels slow and dull. I don’t know what to do.
Then I remember how Jenna called me on our home line, that she probably has one, too. I text my mother:
Do you have Jenna’s home phone number?
She sends me a link to Jenna’s mom’s contact info without even giving me grief about texting her in the kitchen from my bedroom. I click on the home number and it rings four times and then goes to voice mail. I try to sound calm and normal but it’s not working.
“Jenna, it’s Vicky. Are you there? Please pick up. Jenna?” I start full-on crying and hold the phone away from my mouth until I can catch a breath. Then I quickly say, “Call me as soon as you get this,” and hang up.
It feels like I’m leaving messages on dandelion seeds and blowing them into the wind. They’ll never reach her. I open Instagram on my phone even though she hasn’t posted anything in weeks, but it’s the only other way I can think to find her. I pull up her jennaelizabethtanner page and leave a comment on the last photo she posted—the concert image that inspired my Foo Fighters posts.
vicurious Jenna, it’s me, V. I’m here. Please let me know you’re okay. I’m here.
I don’t spell out my name, but she knows who “V” is. And I could swear she’s justjennafied, too, so I click over to that page and leave another comment.
vicurious Is this Jenna of Wisconsin? I’m here, Jenna. It’s me, V. I just got your texts. Please call me.
It’s as close as I’ve come to identifying myself as Vicurious. Anyone who follows Jenna will know she had a friend named Vicky. But I’m counting on the fact that it’s such an old picture, it won’t pop up on anyone’s feed.
I toggle between the two posts for a while to see if she responds, but there’s nothing. It’s been over an hour now since I saw her text and I’m wasting valuable time, not finding her, not stopping her. I pace my room feeling closed-in and helpless, until I realize there’s only one thing to do. And it’s what I should’ve done first, and all along, with everything.
I walk to the kitchen. “Mom?”
My mother turns away from the computer to look at me. Her face twists into a knot. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”
“I need your help,” I say, the tears coming back. “You have to help me.”
Mom stands. “Of course. What is it?”
“It’s Jenna.” I explain what’s happened and show her the texts. “We haven’t spoken in weeks. I thought she dumped me for her new friends. She said I was pathetic, that she’d wasted all the years we’ve been friends. But she didn’t mean it, look. She’s been texting me all this time and I didn’t know it. You had my phone.”
My mother scrolls through the texts, her eyes wide. “Did you call her? Did you try calling?”
“I did, but she didn’t answer. What do I do?”
“Let’s try her parents.”
“I called their home number. There was no answer.”
“I’ve got their work numbers, and cell. Let me find them.” I pace the kitchen while Mom scurries around looking for numbers written in an address book, then gets her phone and dials. “It’s ringing,” she says. “Voice mail.”
She leaves a message on Mrs. Tanner’s line. All the time I’m reading and rereading Jenna’s texts. I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to be anywhere.
“We need to call 911,” I say when she hangs up.
“Let’s try her father first.”
She dials Jenna’s dad’s number but he doesn’t answer, either, and she leaves a slightly more frantic message.
She hangs up and we stare at each other for a moment, breathless.
“Call 911,” I say.
Mom blows out a sharp breath. “Okay. We’ll call 911.” Her hand is shaking as she dials and brings the phone to her ear.
The 911 operator answers, and Mom says, “I want to report a possible suicide in progress.”
Hearing her say that about Jenna makes all the air go out of my lungs. I press my fist to my mouth as tears roll down my cheeks. I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to her. Mom holds the receiver so I can hear what the operator is saying. “Do you have a location?”
“It’s in Wisconsin,” Mom says.
“She’s on a cliff,” I call out. “There’s a lake.”