Page 22 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“I got married.”

My knees buckled. “I don’t understand what you just said.”

“I got married. Yesterday. Her name is Sujin. I don’t love her like I love you, but I got her pregnant, and I had to do the right thing. I’m sorry, Maggie. I’m really, really?—”

I dropped the phone, lowered myself to the floor, buried my head in my hands, and cried my broken teenage heart out.

FOURTEEN

Lizzie scooped me off the floor and practically carried me to my bedroom.

“He dumped you, right?” she said, not waiting for me to regain my composure.

“Worse,” I said and sobbed out the news.

“Boys suck,” she said. “Men suck. Anything with a penis sucks.”

“Except Dad and Grandpa Mike,” I said.

“Yeah, but they probably sucked when they were Van’s age,” she said, wrapping her arms around me. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I got you. Just tell me what you need.”

“Matches. I’m going to burn every letter he ever sent me.”

“Screw the letters. You’ll feel better if you burn a joint and put yourself into a drug-induced state of self-pity.”

“Mmmmm, sounds good. You got one?”

“Me? Honey, you’re my weed dealer. I’m just the innocent little sister you corrupt. Call Johnny. He’s always selling.”

“I can’t call. He changes his cell phone number every couple of months.”

“So go over to his place. Get stoned. I’ll tell Dad you’re not coming into work today. All I have to do is say, ‘Maggie has lady problems,’ and he’ll wave his hands in front of his face and say, ‘Spare me the details.’”

“Thanks.”

“And don’t worry,” Lizzie said. “You’ll be okay. There are plenty of other guys out there.”

“I thought you said anything with a penis sucks.”

“Oh, I’m not going back on that, but if we’re going to preserve the species, some have got to suck less than others. It’s just that it’s impossible to tell the good ones from the bad ones.”

Johnny Rollo was the perfect case in point. He was foul-mouthed, quick to throw hands, and no stranger to the Heartstone Police Department. But there were times when he could be the sweetest, most caring guy on earth.

I remember saying that to Lizzie once, and her response was, “Yeah. Just like Michael Corleone before he had his brother Fredo whacked.”

Johnny lived in the old Marian Motel, a run-down, two-story stretch of connected rooms that dodged the wrecking ball in the late eighties and was reborn as the Marian Arms, an apartment complex where people paid their rent by the week.

Johnny supposedly lived there with his mother, although in the few times I’d been there to score weed, I’d never seen her. I remember asking him once where she was.

“She’s on sabbatical,” he said, his eyes serious, his voice earnest. “She’s a visiting professor at Crack University.”

I never asked again.

Johnny was not a morning person, so I waited till noon before I drove over. I parked, locked my car, went upstairs to unit 209, put my ear to the door, and instinctively jumped back when I heard the gunfire.

And then I remembered who I was dealing with. Johnny spent a good chunk of his time playing video games. I banged on the door.

“Nobody home,” the voice yelled from inside.

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