Two days before Christmas it was too cold for the convertible, but the top of Brooke's car was down anyway. Brooke insisted. Gemma 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.
Gemma 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." Gemma 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!"
Gemma 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."
Gemma 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. And you? 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."
"You think it's normal to get what you want all the time," said Gemma. "For things to be easy. But it isn't. Most people don't get what they want, like, ever. They have doors shut in their faces. They have to strive, all the time. They don't live in your magical land of two-seater cars and perfect teeth and traveling to Italy and fur coats."
"There," said Brooke. "You proved my point."
"How?"
"It's not even normal to say stuff like that. You walked back into Will's life after not seeing her for years, and within days you've moved into her house, you're borrowing her stuff, you're swimming in her effing pool and letting her pay for your haircuts. You went to freaking Stanford, and boo-hoo, you lost your scholarship, but don't make out like you're some voice of the effing ninety-nine percent. Nobody is shutting any doors on you, Gemma. Also, no one wears fur coats because, hello, that's not even ethical. I mean, maybe someone's grandma would, but not a regular person. And I have never said jack about your teeth. Sheesh. You need to learn how to relax and be a human being if you want to have any actual friends and not just people who tolerate you."
Neither of them said anything for the rest of the drive.