There's not much love lost between me and Dick's posse of drooling morons. Okay, boys, so you lost a ringleader. First to my evil clutches and then to the rival biker gangs' little grudge. Sure, some may claim it's ironic that the poor, little rich boy went for a walk along the wire with his good friend Jack and only died when some over-zealous teens pulled him down (apparently rescuing him from his self-inflicted demise) and kicked his back and chest and head until a passing motorist stopped to find him not breathing.
I used to think that the stereotypes in Neptune were all wrong. That the PCHers weren't unredeemable criminals, that the over-privileged, white boys of the 09 zip weren't all dramas queens with death wishes. I guess I was wrong. So much for your intuition, Veronica.
When daily visits to the school counselor and Clemmons' office aren't torture enough there's always the off-chance that you'll be dragged into the Sheriff's office for questioning about your ex-boyfriend's apparent murder.
In this highly-tuned den of justice they're—as the posters claim—tough on CRIME. Shame they stole their slogan from a detergent box. Crime, grime—get it? I guess when you get called in as much as I have lately you have to find some way to pass the hours. Hell, they may as well install spinning doors for me, it'd be a courtesy considering the number of times I'm in and out of here every week.
Never let it be said that the universe doesn't like to mess with me. Months after it all went down, hundreds of trips to the same therapist I saw after Lilly died later, two days after my eighteenth birthday—Logan's flask washes up on some beach. Now I like presents as much as the next girl, but there's nothing like a reminder of how helpless we are. That it didn't really matter which side of that bridge he came down on, he wasn't going to walk away. Most days I can't help but feel like that's my fault.
When I'm not blaming myself it all seems—Who am I kidding? I might as well have climbed up there and pushed him off.
Relations between me and our local Hell's Angels wannabes have been… tense, at best. Lookie here boys, you kill my boyfriend? Don't expect a cookie after.
Weevil maintains he was unconscious during the whole attack but really, if you can still associate with the people who did that—who killed Logan on second-hand, circumstantial evidence—then maybe you go on my list too. I should be less surprised about how much my list grew this summer.
Here's an equation for you. If your best friend, who you didn't tell that you were running away to Cuba, secretly starts dating your ex, who you dumped more than a year ago, then gets beaten to death by a biker gang before you have the chance to resolve any of these issues, what is the square root of X? Duncan's parents decided to leave him here in Neptune, ensconced in the home comforts of the Neptune Grand's presidential suite to work that one out. Nothing like the support of your family, right?
Me and Duncan, we don't talk. At this point we have about two things in common: one is that we're both made up of over seventy-percent water. The other is Logan. The conversations we could have.
Unlike Duncan, some of us don't have the good fortune to live in a hotel, and that means washing the dishes is a necessity, right next to vacuuming and taking out the garbage. One of those tedious everyday things that you have to do because you're alive…God, Veronica, get a grip—it sucks, but it hardly warrants tears. It's not like I've cried over anything else lately.
I doubt Logan's washed a dish in his life.
Joni was right; you really don't know what you've got till it's gone. Life would be a lot simpler if Logan had been petty enough to throw himself off that bridge—a bridge plastered with suicide hotline numbers no less. Then I could be righteously angry. I've got a good handle on angry, ask around.
Having Keith Mars in office would afford me access to lots of nifty resources that would have made my investigation of Lilly's murder last year cake. But there's no mystery this year, unless you're curious about exactly whose foot delivered the fatal blow, and I doubt even the Sheriff's resources could tell you that.
It's a shame, makes this whole 'getting even' thing so much more work. Well, the careers adviser did want me to set myself challenges and accomplish my goals—I think she'd be proud.
When Lilly died I used to see her everywhere: school, my closet, my nightmares. I've never seen Logan; not that I'm holding my breath. He always was a jackass and it's not like I expect him to breech the boundaries of time and space just to say 'hi'.
Some dead poet said that dwelling on goodbyes only prolongs the parting, not the time that you were together. Maybe she's right, it's probably time to stop dwelling on things that I can't solve. There's no mystery here, no ghosts, no boyfriend.
So, alright, Logan, if you want to stay dead then that's fine. I'll just have to take some of your own advice. I won't feel guilty about moving on.