Dear Jordan,
Writing to a dead girl isn’t normal. Even for me. But maybe getting these words out will help. It’s been three years, but every fifth of November I think of you and wonder at all that could have been. For a while, I thought you were haunting me. I’d awake with a start—heart pounding and breathless—and search my room for a culprit only to find nothing. No Incubus. No Sandman. No Mare—only a lingering image in my head of you and me as girls playing a game on the playground. “X marks the spot, circle and a dot”.
I’m sitting outside Haversham’s Books writing before I’m interrupted by the smokers—Trent, the cute one with Emo-black hair and tattoo sleeves, or the chubby lesbian with brown shelf bangs who has a detached Barbie head on her keychain. I never learned her name. Sometimes, she’ll sit out here and burn the matted doll hair with her lighter. The smell makes me gag; plus it’s a little weird. Maybe she thinks its weird that I sit out here and never smoke. I should be okay out here for a while at least. The employees here are all wrapped in Guy Fawkes Day and preparing the annual after-work bonfire. I can’t really get into the mood, and everyone keeps asking why. I could tell them the truth: this day haunts me because it’s the day someone I used to know died. But I won’t. My place among my co-workers is the mysterious, quiet one, and I’d like to keep it that way. See Jordan, I haven’t changed much since we were kids.
***
When I first heard what happened, it was Christmas 2010. Our old schoolmate, Mel, called to wish me a “Merry Christmas” and an “Oh did you hear”. I didn’t believe it at first. I went to my computer and typed your name in the Internet search bar. After scrolling through several queries, I clicked on a link to our old hometown newspaper and there it was: Jordan Sweeney, 23, student, died, Nov 5th. Services 12pm. Memorial Park. Tulsa, OK.
Your life summed up in ten words or less. I didn’t believe my friend, but I believed Google.
While I was working and celebrating some random holiday and surrounded by co-workers in Fawkes-themed apparel, you were hanging from your own noose. While I wondered why I hadn’t heard from you, your spirit had already gone and floated somewhere aloft or heaven or hell. I think of that often. What I want to say is I’m so sorry I didn’t know.
***
Trent discovered me out here a while ago. I’m glad it was him and not Barbie lighter. When he asked what I was doing, I said ‘writing to a ghost’ and he responded with ‘heavy’. He is the only co-worker to whom I’m close. We shared a cigarette once and bonded over our love of Nick Cave. While we were smoking, he asked about the scars on my right forearm but I ignored him even though I wanted so much to tell him. For some reason, I think he’d understand and not judge. But ever since then, we’ve had an ongoing flirtation that neither of us has officially acted on. I’m still a bit shy, I guess. You were never shy.
In first grade, you tackled Chance—a cute, chubby-cheeked new boy—and kissed him. In third grade in the middle of a lesson, you announced to our entire class that you wanted to be Ren from Ren & Stimpy. In sixth grade, you showed up to school on picture day in neon green mini-skirt and white button down shirt—blatantly violating dress code. Even when we were young, you commanded attention. With my soft voice and tendency to cower when too many eyes were on me, people often forgot I was around, even my parents.
In high school, I moved away, but you still wrote letters to me and communicated via various social networks. You told me about the prom, the high school pranks, and the crazy graduation parties. You sent pictures of road trips and Spring break cabo-cations. I always told you I was fine and things were going great in my new life. I left out all the real issues—bad breakups, my parents divorce, and my self-inflicted scars. I didn’t think you could understand my kind of pain. Maybe you could have.
***
Trent has asked me to the makeshift bonfire every year since I started. I always say ‘no’. Wearing a Fawkes pin is as far as I take it. Our Anglophile boss, Lou, is the only reason that our store has a Guy Fawkes celebration. It’s a British holiday, and most of the customers have never heard of it. Here’s a little background: the infamous Fawkes hatched a plan to blow up the house of Parliament in 1575, but he was foiled and captured on November 5th 1542. Traditionally on the fifth, Brits make bonfires or have firework displays in commemoration. Our store staff usually dons Fawkes’ mask or t-shirts or some other accessory with his caricature on them. Lou always wears the mask and 16th century-ish apparel while talking in a mock British accent. I don’t think Lou even realizes that the holiday is a celebration of Fawkes’ capture and not the man himself. V for Vendetta has him confused. But I’ll never tell.
Everyone needs something.
A couple months after you were gone; I called some our old friends who kept up better with you than I. My pretense was that I was catching up, but I really just wanted to see if they knew something I didn’t.
Was it drugs? No, we smoked pot a few times in high school. But Jordan was no druggie, they said.
Was it depression? She was pretty bummed after her dad died, but you remember she was. Nothing ever fazed her for long.
I remember how close you were to your dad. I’m sure that must have been heartbreaking, and the “With Sympathy” card I sent wasn’t enough; but you replied and thanked me anyway. In that letter you also wrote to me about nursing school and how you were excited about going and how you wanted to make a difference. A nurse, Jordie. Your profession would have been much nobler than mine. I still haven’t capitalized on my history degree. Mostly, I’m full of random facts that are helpful to no one. Your life would’ve had so much more purpose than mine, but then again we all play our parts.
***
It’s almost closing time. I took a break to go back inside for a while and pretend to work. I narrowly escaped dancing with Lou, who tried to coax me into going to the bonfire. ‘Come with us dear Amelia ‘O tan of skin ‘O dark of hair’ he sang as he waltzed around me. It was a bit eerie staring into his masked face with the pointy-chin and squinty eyes. I laughed and avoided giving him an answer. Trent winked at me before I came back here, so I know he’ll cover for me. He always does. I wonder if he understands secret battles.
***
So here it is. I’m thinking of you, but I haven’t reached any conclusions. Just like the year before. I can only imagine that you were waging some secret inner battle that no one knew about—like me and the scars on my arm. I just wish I would’ve had the courage to tell you about mine. Perhaps, we could’ve helped each other.
I think I’ll stop writing this now. I will go inside and finally take Trent up on his offer. This letter will be my effigy to burn.
15 Feb 2013 
Staff Writer 
