All the Bright Places (12 page)

“Who’s this boy you saved?” my dad wants to know.

“He’s just a boy I go to school with. He’s okay now.”

My mother and father glance at each other, and in that one shared look, I can see what they’re thinking: our daughter isn’t as hopelessly lost as we thought. They will start expecting things, beginning with a newer, braver Violet who isn’t afraid of her own shadow.

Mom picks up her fork again. “The reporter left her name and number and asked that you call her when you have a chance.”

“Great,” I say. “Thanks. I will.”

“By the way …” My mom’s voice turns casual, but there’s something in it that makes me want to hurry and finish so I can get out of there fast. “How does New York sound for spring break? We haven’t taken a family trip in a while.”

We haven’t taken one since before the accident. This would be our first trip without Eleanor, but then there have been lots of firsts—first Thanksgiving, first Christmas, first New Year’s
Eve. This is the first calendar year of my life that she hasn’t been in.

“We can take in some shows, do a little shopping. We can always stop by NYU and see if there are any interesting lectures.” She smiles too brightly. Even worse, my dad is smiling too.

“It sounds great,” I say, but we all know I don’t mean it.

That night, I have the same nightmare I’ve been having for months—the one where someone comes at me from behind and tries to strangle me. I feel the hands on my throat, pressing tighter and tighter, but I can’t see who’s doing it. Sometimes the person doesn’t get as far as touching me, but I know he’s there. Other times, I can feel the breath going out of me. My head goes light, my body floats away, and I start to fall.

I wake up, and for a few seconds I don’t know where I am. I sit up and turn on a light and look around my room, as if the man might be lurking behind the desk or in the closet. I reach for my laptop. In the days Before, I would have written something—a short story or a blog post or just random thoughts. I would have written till it was out of me and on the page. But now I open a new document and stare at the screen. I write a couple words, erase them. Write, erase. I was the writer, not Eleanor, but there is something about the act of writing that makes me feel as if I’m cheating on her. Maybe because I’m here and she’s not, and the whole thing—every big or small moment I’ve lived since last April—feels like cheating in some way.

Finally, I sign onto Facebook. There’s a new message from
Finch, 1:04 a.m.
Did you know the world’s tallest woman and one of the world’s tallest men were from Indiana? What does that say about our state?

I check the current time: 1:44 a.m. I write,
We have greater nutritional resources than other states?

I watch the page, the house quiet around me. I tell myself he’s probably asleep by now, that it’s just me who’s awake. I should read or turn out the light and try to get some rest before I have to get up for school.

Finch writes:
Also the world’s largest man. I’m worried that our nutritional resources are actually damaged. Maybe this is one reason I’m so tall. What if I don’t stop growing? Will you want me just as much when I’m fifteen feet nine inches?

Me:
How can I want you then when I don’t want you now?

Finch:
Give it time. The thing I’m most concerned with is how I’m going to ride a bike. I don’t think they make them that big.

Me:
Look on the bright side—your legs will be so long that one of your steps will be the same as thirty or forty of a regular person’s.

Finch:
So you’re saying I can carry you when we wander.

Me:
Yes.

Finch:
After all, you’re famous.

Me:
You’re the hero, not me.

Finch:
Believe me, I’m no hero. What are you doing up, anyway?

Me:
Bad dreams.

Finch:
Regular occurrence?

Me:
More than I’d like.

Finch:
Since the accident or before?

Me:
Since. You?

Finch:
Too much to do and write and think. Besides, who would keep you company?

I want to say I’m sorry about the
Bartlett Dirt
—no one really believes the lies they print; it’ll all die down eventually—but then he writes:
Meet me at the Quarry
.

Me:
I can’t.

Finch:
Don’t keep me waiting. On second thought, I’ll meet you at your house.

Me:
I can’t.

No answer.

Me:
Finch?

I throw rocks at her window but she doesn’t come down. I think about ringing the doorbell, but that would only wake the parents. I try waiting her out, but the curtain doesn’t move, and the door doesn’t open, and it is really fucking cold, so finally I climb into Little Bastard and go home.

I’m up the rest of the night making a list called “How to Stay Awake.” There’s the obvious—Red Bull, caffeine, NoDoz and other drugs—but this isn’t about skipping a couple hours’ sleep, it’s about staying up and staying here for the long haul.

The next morning. My house. I walk out the door to find Finch lying on the front lawn, eyes closed, black boots crossed at the ankle. His bike rests on its side, half in and half off the street.

I kick the sole of his shoe. “Were you out here all night?”

He opens his eyes. “So you did know I was here. Hard to tell when a person’s being ignored while standing, I may add, in the freezing arctic cold.” He pulls himself to his feet, shoulders his backpack, picks up his bike. “Any more nightmares?”

“No.”

While I get Leroy from the garage, Finch rides up and down the driveway. “So where are we headed?”

“School.”

“I mean tomorrow when we wander. Unless you’ve got big plans.”

He says this as if he knows I don’t. I think about Ryan and the drive-in. I still haven’t told him yes or no. “I’m not sure I’m free tomorrow.” We push off toward school, Finch sprinting forward, doubling back, sprinting forward, doubling back.

The ride is almost peaceful, until he says, “I was thinking that, as your partner and the guy who saved your life, I should know what happened the night of the accident.”

Leroy wobbles and Finch reaches out and steadies the bike and me. The electric currents start shooting through me, just like before, and there goes my balance again. We ride for a minute with his hand on the back of the seat. I keep my eyes open for Amanda or Suze because I know exactly how this will look.

“So what happened?” I hate the way he brings up the accident just like that, like it’s okay to talk about. “I’ll tell you how I got my scar if you tell me about that night.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I like you. Not in a romantic, let’s-get-it-on way, but as a fellow student of U.S. geography. And because it might help you to talk about it.”

“You first.”

“I was playing this show over in Chicago with these guys I met at a bar. They were like, ‘Hey, man, our guitar player just walked out, and you look like you know your way around a stage.’ I got up there, no clue what I was doing, what they were doing, but we threw it down. I mean, threw. It. Down. I was hotter than Hendrix—they knew it, and the original guitar player knew it. So the sonuvabitch climbed up after me and cut me open with his guitar pick.”

“Did that really happen?” The school’s in sight. Kids are getting out of their cars and hanging around on the lawn.

“There may have also been a girl involved.” I can’t tell by the look on his face if he’s bullshitting me or not, but I’m pretty sure he is. “Your turn.”

“Only after you tell me what really happened.” I take off and fly toward the parking lot and the bike rack. When I come to a stop, Finch is right behind me, laughing his head off. In my pocket, my phone is buzzing and buzzing. I pull it out and there are five texts from Suze, all with the same message:
Theodore Freak?!! WTF?!
I look around but she isn’t anywhere.

“See you tomorrow,” he’s saying.

“Actually, I’ve got plans.”

He glances at my phone and then at me, giving me a look that’s hard to read. “All right. That’s cool. Later then, Ultraviolet.”

“What did you call me?”

“You heard me.”

“School’s that way.” I point toward the building.

“I know.” And away he goes in the other direction.

Saturday. My house. I am on the phone with Jerri Sparks, the reporter from the local paper, who wants to send someone out to take my picture. She says, “How does it feel to know you’ve saved someone’s life? I know, of course, about the terrible tragedy you suffered last year. Does this in any way give you closure?”

“How would this give me closure?”

“The fact that you couldn’t save your sister’s life, but you were able to save the life of this boy, Theodore Finch …”

I hang up on her.
As if they are one and the same, and besides, I’m not the one who saved a life
. Finch is the hero, not me. I’m just a girl pretending to be a hero.

I am still seething by the time Ryan shows up, five minutes early. We walk to the drive-in because it’s only a mile from my house. I keep my hands in the pockets of my coat, but we walk with our arms bumping. It’s like a first date all over again.

At the drive-in, we find Amanda and Roamer, who are parked in Roamer’s car. He drives an enormous old Chevy Impala, which is as large as a city block. He calls it the Party Car because it can fit about sixty-five people at once.

Ryan opens the back door for me and I get in. Because the Impala is parked, I’m fine being in there, even though it smells like smoke and old fast food and, faintly, of pot. I’m probably incurring years of secondhand smoke damage just sitting here.

The movie is a Japanese monster movie double feature, and before it starts, Ryan, Roamer, and Amanda talk about how awesome college will be—they’re all going to Indiana University. I sit thinking about Jerri Sparks and New York and spring break and how bad I feel about blowing off Finch and for being rude to him when he
saved my life
. Wandering with him would be more fun than this. Anything would be more fun than this.

The car is hot and fumy, even though the windows are open, and when the second movie starts, Roamer and Amanda lie down flat in the enormous front seat and go almost completely
quiet. Almost. Every now and then I hear a slurping, smacking sound as if they’re two hungry dogs lapping at the food bowl.

I try watching the movie, and when that doesn’t work, I try writing the scene in my mind.
Amanda’s head pops up over the seat, her shirt hanging open so that I can see her bra, which is baby blue with yellow flowers. Like that, I can feel the image burning into my retinas, where it will remain forever.…

There are too many distractions, and so I talk over the noise to Ryan, but he’s more interested in sneaking his hand up my shirt. I’ve managed to make it seventeen years, eight months, two weeks, and one day without having sex in the backseat of an Impala (or anywhere, for that matter), so I tell him I’m dying to see the view, and I push open the door and stand there. We are surrounded by cars and, beyond that, cornfields. There is no view except up. I tilt my head back, suddenly fascinated by the stars. Ryan scrambles after me, and I pretend to know the constellations, pointing them out and making up stories about each one.

I wonder what Finch is doing right now. Maybe he’s playing guitar somewhere. Maybe he’s with a girl. I owe him a wander and, actually, a lot more than that. I don’t want him to think I blew him off today because of my so-called friends. I make a note to research where we should go next as soon as I get home. (Search terms:
unusual Indiana attractions, nothing ordinary Indiana, unique Indiana, eccentric Indiana
.) I should also have a copy of the map so I make sure I don’t duplicate anything.

Ryan puts his arm around me and kisses me, and for a minute I kiss him. I’m transported back in time, and instead of
the Impala, it’s Ryan’s brother’s Jeep, and instead of Roamer and Amanda, it’s Eli Cross and Eleanor, and we’re here at the drive-in seeing a double feature of
Die Hard
.

Then Ryan’s hand is snaking its way up my shirt again, and I pull away. The Impala is back. Roamer and Amanda are back. The monster movie is back.

I say, “I hate to do this, but I have a curfew.”

“Since when?” Then he seems to remember something. “Sorry, V.” And I know he’s thinking it’s because of the accident.

Ryan offers to walk me home. I tell him no, I’m good, I got this, but he does it anyway.

“I had a great time,” he says on my front step.

“Me too.”

“I’ll call you.”

“Great.”

He leans in to kiss me good night and I turn just slightly so he’ll get my cheek instead. He’s still standing there as I let myself inside the house.