All the Bright Places (20 page)

January 31. Method: None. On a scale of one to ten on the how-close-did-I-come scale: zero. Facts: The Euthanasia Coaster doesn’t actually exist. But if it did, it would be a three-minute ride that involves a climb nearly a third of a mile long, up to 1,600 feet, followed by a sheer drop and seven loops. That final descent and series of loops takes sixty seconds, but the 10 G centrifugal force that results from the 223-mile-per-hour loops is what kills you.

And then there is this strange fold in time, and I realize I’m not writing anymore. I’m running. I’m still wearing the black sweater and old blue jeans and sneakers and gloves, and suddenly my feet hurt, and somehow I’ve made it all the way to Centerville, which is the next town over.

I take off my shoes and pull off my hat, and I walk all the way back home because for once I’ve worn myself out. But I feel good—necessary and tired and alive.

Julijonas Urbonas, the man who thought up the Euthanasia Coaster, claims it’s engineered to “humanely—with elegance and euphoria—take the life of a human being.” Those 10 Gs create enough centrifugal force on the body so that the blood rushes down instead of up to the brain, which results in something called cerebral hypoxia, and this is what kills you
.

I walk through the black Indiana night, under a ceiling of stars, and think about the phrase “elegance and euphoria,” and how it describes exactly what I feel with Violet.

For once, I don’t want to be anyone but Theodore Finch, the boy she sees. He understands what it is to be elegant and
euphoric and a hundred different people, most of them flawed and stupid, part asshole, part screwup, part freak, a boy who wants to be easy for the folks around him so that he doesn’t worry them and, most of all, easy for himself. A boy who belongs—here in the world, here in his own skin. He is exactly who I want to be and what I want my epitaph to say:
The Boy Violet Markey Loves
.

In gym, Charlie Donahue and I stand on the baseball field, way beyond third base. We’ve discovered this is the best place to be if you want to have a conversation. Without even looking, he catches a ball that comes zinging our way and flings it back to home. Every athletic coach at Bartlett High has been trying to recruit him since he first walked through the school doors, but he refuses to be a black stereotype. His extracurriculars are chess, yearbook, and euchre club because, as he says, these are things that will make him stand out on college applications.

Right now, he crosses his arms and frowns at me. “Is it true you almost drowned Roamer?”

“Something like that.”

“Always finish what you start, man.”

“I thought it was a good idea not to get myself incarcerated before I have a chance to get laid again.”

“Getting arrested might actually increase your odds of getting laid.”

“Not the kind of odds I’m looking for.”

“So what’s up with you anyway? Look at you.”

“I wish I could take the credit, but let’s face it, the gym uniform is universally flattering.”

“Cheeky wanker.” He calls me this even though I’m no longer British. Good-bye, Fiona. Good-bye, flat. Good-bye, Abbey Road. “I mean, you’ve been Dirtbag Finch for a while now. Before that, you were Badass Finch for a couple weeks. You’re slipping.”

“Maybe I like Dirtbag Finch.” I adjust the knit cap, and it suddenly hits me—which Finch does Violet like? The thought burns a little, and I can feel my mind latch onto it.
Which Finch does she like? What if it’s only a version of the real Finch?

Charlie offers me a cigarette and I shake my head.

“What’s going on with you? Is she your girlfriend?”

“Violet?”

“Did you hit that yet, or what?”

“My friend, you are a total and complete pig. And I’m just having a good time.”

“Obviously not too good a time.”

Roamer comes up to bat, which means we have to pay attention, because not only is he the school’s star baseball player (second only to Ryan Cross), he likes to aim right at us. If it wouldn’t get him in trouble, he’d probably come over here
now and smash my head in with the bat for nearly drowning him.

Sure enough, the ball comes flying at us, and, cigarette between his teeth, Charlie steps backward once, twice, once more, as if he’s not in any hurry, as if he knows he’s got this. He holds out his glove and the ball falls right into it. Roamer yells about fifteen hundred expletives as Charlie sends it flying right back.

I nod over at Mr. Kappel, our teacher, who also happens to be the baseball coach. “You do know that every time you do that, you make him die just a little.”

“Kappy or Roamer?”

“Both.”

He flashes me a rare grin. “I do.”

In the locker room, Roamer corners me. Charlie is gone. Kappel is in his office. The guys who haven’t left yet fade away into the background, like they’re trying to go invisible. Roamer leans in so close, I can smell the eggs he had for breakfast. “You’re dead, freak.”

Much as I would love to kick the shit out of Gabe Romero, I’m not going to. 1) Because he’s not worth getting into trouble for. And 2) because I remember the look on Violet’s face at the river when she told me to let him go.

So I count.
One, two, three, four, five …

I will hold it in. I won’t punch him in the face
.

I will be good
.

And then he slams me into the locker and, before I can even blink, punches me in the eye, and then again in the nose. It’s all I can do to stay on my feet, and I am counting like hell now because I want to kill the son of a bitch.

I wonder, if I count long enough, whether I can go back in time, all the way to the beginning of eighth grade, before I was weird and before anyone noticed me and before I opened my mouth and talked to Roamer and before they called me “freak” and I was awake all the time and everything felt okay and somewhat normal, whatever normal is, and people actually looked at me—not to stare, not to watch for what I’d do next, but looked at me like,
Oh hey, what’s up, man, what’s up, buddy?
I wonder, if I count backward, whether I can go back and take Violet Markey with me and then move forward with her so we have more time. Because it’s time I fear.

And me
.

I’m afraid of me.

“Is there a problem here?” Kappel stands a couple of feet away, eyeing us. He’s got a baseball bat in his hand, and I can hear him at home telling the wife, “The trouble isn’t the freshmen. It’s the older ones, once they start working out and hitting those growth spurts. That’s when you gotta protect yourself, no matter what.”

“No problem,” I tell him. “No trouble.”

If I know Kappel like I know Kappel, he’s never going to take this to Principal Wertz, not when one of his best baseball players is involved. I wait to get blamed for it. I’m all set to hear the details of my detention or expulsion, even if I’m the only
one bleeding. But then Kappy says, “We’re done here, Finch. You can go.”

I wipe the blood off and smile at Roamer as I walk away.

“Not so fast, Romero,” I hear Kappy bark, and the sound of Roamer groveling almost makes the pain worth it.

I stop at my locker to get my books, and sitting on top of them is what looks like the Hoosier Hill rock. I pick it up, flip it over, and sure enough:
Your turn
, it says.

“What’s that?” Brenda wants to know. She takes it out of my hand and examines it. “I don’t get it. ‘Your turn’? Your turn for what?”

“It’s a private joke. Only the really sexy, really cool people know what it means.”

She punches my arm. “Then you must have no clue. What happened to your eye?”

“Your boyfriend. Roamer?”

She makes a face. “I never liked him.”

“Really?”

“Shut up. I hope you broke his nose.”

“I’m trying to rise above.”

“Wuss.” She walks with me, chatting away:
Are you totally into Violet Markey, like the forever kind or the she’s-interesting-for-right-now kind? What about Suze Haines? Didn’t you used to have a thing for her? What about the three Brianas and those macramé girls? What would you do if Emma Watson fell from the sky right now? Would you even want to feel her up or would
you tell her to leave you alone? Do you think my hair would look better purple or blue? Do you think I need to lose weight? Be honest. Do you think any guy will ever have sex with me or love me for who I am?

I answer, “Right,” “I don’t think so,” “Of course,” “You never can tell,” and all the while I’m thinking about Violet Markey, lock picker.

Mrs. Kresney folds her hands and smiles her too-broad smile. “How are you, Violet?”

“I’m fine, and you?”

“I’m fine. Let’s talk about you. I want to know how you’re feeling.”

“I’m good actually. Better than I’ve been in a long time.”

“Really?” She’s surprised.

“Yes. I’ve even started writing again. And riding in a car.”

“How are you sleeping?”

“Pretty well, I think.”

“Any bad dreams?”

“No.”

“Not even one?”

“Not in a while now.”

For the first time, it’s the truth.

* * *

In Russian lit, Mrs. Mahone assigns us a five-page paper on Turgenev’s
Fathers and Sons
. She looks at me, and I don’t mention anything about Extenuating Circumstances or not being ready. I copy down the notes like everyone else. Afterward, Ryan says, “Can I talk to you?”

Mrs. Mahone watches as I walk on by her. I give her a wave. “What’s up?” I say to Ryan.

We go out into the hallway and are swept along with the sea of people. Ryan takes my hand so he doesn’t lose me, and I’m like,
Oh God
. But then there’s a little break in the crowd and he lets go. “Where are you headed next?”

“Lunch.”

We walk together, and Ryan says, “So I just wanted to let you know that I asked Suze out. I thought you should hear it from me before it got all over school.”

“That’s great.” I almost say something about Finch, but then I’m not sure what to say because I don’t know what we are or if we’re anything. “Thanks for telling me. I hope Suze knows what a good guy you are.”

He nods, gives me his signature smile—I can see the dimple—and then says, “I don’t know if you heard, but Roamer went after Finch today in gym.”

“What do you mean ‘went after’?”

“Whatever. Banged him up a little. Roamer’s an asshole.”

“What happened? Like, to them? Did they get expelled?”

“I don’t think so. It was Kappel’s class, and he’s not going to report Roamer and risk losing him for practice. I gotta go.”
A few steps away, he turns. “Finch didn’t even try to defend himself. He just stood there and took it.”

In the cafeteria, I walk past my regular table, past Amanda and Roamer and the audience gathered there. I can hear Roamer talking, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.

I walk to the other side of the room, toward a half-empty table, but then behind me I hear my name. Brenda Shank-Kravitz is sitting with the three Brianas and a dark-haired girl named Lara at a round table by the window.

“Hey,” I say. “Do you mind if I join you?” I feel like I’m the new girl again, trying to make friends and figure out where I fit.

Brenda picks up her backpack and sweater and keys and phone and all the other things that are spilled across the table and dumps them onto the floor. I set my tray down and sit next to her.

Lara is so small, she looks like a freshman, even though I know we’re in the same class. She is telling the story of how, just five minutes ago, she accidentally, without meaning to, told her crush she loved him. Instead of crawling under the table, she just laughs and keeps eating.

Then the Brianas are talking about life after high school—one is a musician, one is planning to be a copy editor, and the other is practically engaged to her longtime boyfriend. She says she might run a cookie shop one day or write book reviews, but whatever she does, she’s going to enjoy everything she can while she can. The boyfriend joins us, and the two of them sit side by
side looking comfortable and happy and like they really might be together forever.

I eat and listen, and at some point Brenda leans over and says in my ear, “Gabe Romero is poison.” I raise my water bottle and she raises her soda can. We tap them together and drink.

By now, the wandering is really an excuse to drive somewhere and make out. I tell myself I’m not ready because to me sex is a Big Deal, even if some of my friends have been doing it since ninth grade. But the thing is, my body feels this strange, urgent tug toward Finch like it can’t get enough. I add a category to my
Germ
board—
Sex Life
—and write a few pages in our wandering notebook, which is slowly turning into my journal/sounding board/place to brainstorm material for the new webzine.

Before Amanda and I stopped being peripheral semi-friends, I remember sleeping over at her house and talking to her older brothers. They told us that girls who Do are sluts and girls who Don’t are teases. Those of us who were there that night took this to heart, because none of the rest of us had older brothers. When we were by ourselves again, Amanda said, “The only way around
it is to stay with one guy forever.” But does forever have a built-in ending …?

Finch picks me up Saturday morning, and he looks a little battered. We don’t even drive that far, just to the Arboretum, where we park the car, and before he reaches for me, I say, “What happened with Roamer?”

“How’d you hear about Roamer?”

“Ryan told me. And it’s kind of obvious you were in a fight.”

“Does it make me look hotter?”

“Be serious. What happened?”

“Nothing you need to worry about. He was being an asshole. Big surprise. Now, if we’re done talking about him, I’ve got other things on my mind.” He climbs into the back of Little Bastard and pulls me after him.