All the Bright Places

by Jennifer Niven

I see his SUV before I see him. I almost drive on past my house and just keep going who knows where, but something makes me stop the car and walk on in.

  “I’m here,” I yell. “Come and get me.”

  My dad barrels out of the living room like a battering ram, Mom and Rosemarie fluttering behind him. My mom is apologizing to me or to him, it’s hard to tell. “What was I supposed to do?… The phone rings at two a.m., there must be some emergency.… Kate wasn’t home.… I didn’t have a choice.…”

  My father doesn’t say a word to me, just sends me flying across the kitchen and into the door. I stand up, shake it off, and the next time he raises his arm, I laugh. This throws him so much that the arm stops in midair, and I can see him thinking, He’s crazier than I thought he was.

  I say, “Here’s the thing. You can spend the next five hours or five days beating me to dust, but I don’t feel it. Not anymore.” I let him try to get in one last whack, but as his hand moves toward me, I grab it by the wrist. “Just so you know, you will never do that again.”

  I don’t expect it to work, but there must be something in my voice, because he suddenly drops his arm. I say to Mom, “Sorry we worried everyone. Violet’s home and she’s safe, and I’m going to my room.”

  I wait for my father to come after me. Instead of locking the door and pushing the dresser in front of it, I leave it open. I wait for my mother to check on me. But no one comes because, in the end, this is my house, which means you don’t go out of your way to engage.

  I write Violet an apology. I hope you’re okay. I hope they’re not too hard on you. I wish that hadn’t happened, but I don’t regret anything that came before.

  She writes back: I’m okay. Are you okay? Did you see your dad? I don’t regret it either, even though I wish we could go back and get me home on time. My parents don’t want me seeing you anymore.

  I write: We’ll just have to convince them to change their minds. By the way? For what it’s worth, you showed me something, Ultraviolet—there is such a thing as a perfect day.

  The next morning I’m at Violet’s, ringing the bell. Mrs. Markey answers, but instead of letting me in, she stands in the doorway, the door pulled close around her. She smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry, Theodore.” She shakes her head, and that one gesture says it all. I’m sorry that you will never be allowed near our daughter again because you are different and strange and a person who cannot be trusted.

  I can hear Mr. Markey from inside. “Is that him?”

  She doesn’t answer. Instead, her eyes run over my face, as if she’s been told to check for bruises or maybe something deeper and even more broken. It’s a kind gesture, but something about it makes me feel like I’m not really there. “Are you all right?”

  “Sure. I’m fine. Nothing to see here. I’d be even better, though, if I could talk to you and explain and say I’m sorry and see Violet. Just for a couple minutes, nothing more. Maybe if I could just come in …” All I need is the chance to sit down with them and talk and tell them it’s not as bad as they think, that it’ll never happen again, and they weren’t wrong to trust me.

  Over his wife’s shoulder, Mr. Markey frowns at me. “You need to go.”

  Just like that, they shut the door, and I am on the step, locked out and alone.

  At home, I type in EleanorandViolet.com and get a message: Server not found. I type it again and again, but each time it’s the same thing. She’s gone, gone, gone.

  On Facebook, I write: Are you there?

  Violet: I’m here.

  Me: I came to see you.

  Violet: I know. They’re so mad at me.

  Me: I told you I break things.

  Violet: This wasn’t you—this was us. But it’s my fault. I wasn’t thinking.

  Me: I’m lying here wishing I could count us backward to yesterday morning. I want the planets to align again.

  Violet: Just give them time.

  I write: That’s the only thing I don’t have. And then I erase it.

  FINCH

  How to survive quicksand

  That night, I move into my walk-in closet, which is warm and cozy, like a cave. I push my hanging clothes to one corner and lay the comforter from my bed on the floor. I set the jug of Mudlavia healing water at the foot and prop Violet’s picture against the wall—a shot of her at the Blue Flash—along with the license plate I took from the scene of the accident. Then I turn off the light. I balance my laptop on my knees and stick a cigarette in my mouth unlit because the air’s too close in here as it is.

  This is Finch Survival Boot Camp. I’ve been here before and know the drill like the back of my too-large hand. I will stay in here as long as I need to, as long as it takes.

  The MythBusters say there is no way to drown in quicksand, but tell that to the young mother who went to Antigua for her father’s wedding (to wife number two) and was sucked into the beach as she watched the sunset. Or the teenage boys who were swallowed whole by a man-made quicksand pit on the property of an Illinois businessman.

  Apparently, to survive quicksand, you should stay perfectly still. It’s only when you panic that you pull yourself under and sink. So maybe if I stay still and follow the Eight Steps to Surviving Quicksand, I’ll get through this.

  1. Avoid quicksand. Okay. Too late. Moving on.

  2. Bring a large stick when going into quicksand territory. The theory here is that you can use the stick to test the ground in front of you, and even pull yourself out of it if you sink. The problem with this theory is that you don’t always know when you’re entering quicksand territory, not until it’s too late. But I like the idea of preparedness. I figure I’ve just left this step and have gone on to:

  3. Drop everything if you find yourself in quicksand. If you’re weighed down by something heavy, you’re apt to get pulled to the bottom faster. You need to shed your shoes and anything you’re carrying. It’s always best to do this when you know ahead of time that you’re going to encounter quicksand (see number 2), so, essentially, if you’re going anywhere that might even possibly have quicksand, go naked. My removal to the closet is part of the dropping everything.

  4. Relax. This goes back to the stay-perfectly-still-soyou-don’t-sink adage. Additional fact: if you relax, your body’s buoyancy will cause you to float. In other words, it’s time to be calm and let the Jovian-Plutonian gravitational effect take over.

  5. Breathe deeply. This goes hand in hand with number 4. The trick, apparently, is to keep as much air in your lungs as possible—the more you breathe, the more you float.

  6. Get on your back. If you start sinking, you simply fall backward and spread yourself out as far as you can as you try to pull your legs free. Once you’re unrooted, you can inch yourself to solid ground and safety.

  7. Take your time. Wild movements only hurt your cause, so move slowly and carefully until you’re free again.

  8. Take frequent breaks. Climbing out of quicksand can be a long process, so be sure to take breaks when you feel your breath running out or your body beginning to tire. Keep your head high so that you buy yourself more time.

  VIOLET

  The week after

  I go back to school, expecting everyone to know. I walk through the halls and stand at my locker and sit in class and wait for my teachers and classmates to give me a knowing look or say, “Someone’s not a virgin anymore.” It’s actually kind of disappointing when they don’t.

  The only one who figures it out is Brenda. We sit in the cafeteria picking at the burritos some Indiana kitchen worker has attempted to make, and she asks what I did over the weekend. My mouth is full of burrito, and I am trying to decide whether to swallow it or spit it out, which means I don’t answer right away. She says, “Oh my God, you slept with him.”

  Lara and the three Brianas stop eating. Fifteen or twenty heads turn in our direction because Brenda has a really loud voice when she wants to. “You know he’ll never say a word to anyone. I mean, he’s a gentleman. Just in case you were wonde
ring.” She pops the tab on her soda and drinks half of it down.

  Okay, I’ve been wondering a little. After all, it’s my first time but not his. He’s Finch and I trust him, but you just never know—guys do talk—and even though the Day Of wasn’t slutty, I feel a little slutty, but also kind of grown up.

  On our way out of the cafeteria, mostly to change the subject, I tell Brenda about Germ and ask if she’d like to be a part of it.

  Her eyes go narrow, like she’s trying to see if I’m joking or not.

  “I’m serious. There’s a lot left to figure out, but I know I want Germ to be original.”

  Bren throws back her head and laughs, kind of diabolically. “Okay,” she says, catching her breath. “I’m in.”

  When I see Finch in U.S. Geography, he looks tired, like he hasn’t slept at all. I sit beside him, across the room from Amanda and Roamer and Ryan, and afterward he pulls me under the stairwell and kisses me like he’s afraid I might disappear. There’s something forbidden about the whole thing that makes the electric currents burn stronger, and I want school to be over forever so we don’t have to come here at all. I tell myself that we can just take off in Little Bastard and head west or east, north or south, till we’ve left Indiana far behind. We’ll wander the country and then the world, just Theodore Finch and me.

  But for now, for the rest of the week, we see each other only at school, kissing under stairwells or in dark corners. In the afternoons we go our separate ways. At night we talk online.

  Finch: Any change?

  Me: If you mean my parents, no.

  Finch: What are the odds of them forgiving and forgetting?

  The truth is, the odds aren’t very good. But I don’t want to say this because he’s worried enough, and ever since that night, there’s something pulled in about him, as if he’s standing behind a curtain.

  Me: They just need time.

  Finch: I hate to be all Romeo and Juliet about this, but I want to see you alone. As in when we’re not surrounded by the entire population of Bartlett High.

  Me: If you came over here and I sneaked out or sneaked you in, they really would lock me in the house forever.

  We go back and forth for the next hour thinking up wild scenarios for seeing each other, including a faked alien abduction, triggering the citywide tornado alarm, and digging an underground tunnel that would stretch from his side of town to mine.

  It’s one a.m. when I tell him I have to get some sleep, but I end up lying in bed, eyes open. My brain is awake and racing, the way it used to be before last spring. I turn on my light and sketch out ideas for Germ—Ask a Parent, book playlists, monthly soundtracks, lists of places where girls like me can get involved. One of the things I want to create is a Wander section where readers can send in pictures or videos of their favorite grand, small, bizarre, poetic, nothing-ordinary sites.

  I email Brenda and send Finch a note, in case he’s still awake. And then, even though it’s jumping the gun a little, I write to Jordan Gripenwaldt, Shelby Padgett, Ashley Dunston, the three Brianas, and reporter Leticia Lopez, inviting them to contribute. Also Brenda’s friend Lara, and other girls I know who are good writers or artists or have something original to say: Dear Chameli, Brittany, Rebekah, Emily, Sa’iyda, Priscilla, Annalise … Eleanor and I were EleanorandViolet.com, but as far as I’m concerned, the more voices here, the better.

  I think about asking Amanda. I write her a letter and leave it in my drafts folder. When I get up the next morning, I delete it.

  On Saturday, I eat breakfast with my parents and then I tell them I’m going to ride my bike over to Amanda’s house. They don’t question me about why I want to hang out with this person I barely like or what we’re planning to do or when I’ll be back. For some reason, they trust Amanda Monk.

  I ride past her house and continue across town to Finch’s, and the whole thing is so easy, even though I have this weird stitch in my chest because I just lied to my parents. When I get there, Finch makes me crawl up the fire escape and climb in the window so I don’t run into his mom or sisters.

  “Do you think they saw?” I brush the dust off my jeans.

  “I doubt it. They’re not even home.” He laughs when I pinch his arm, and then his hands are on my face and he’s kissing me, which makes the stitch disappear.

  Because his bed is stacked with clothes and books, he drags a comforter out of his closet and we lie on the floor, the blanket wrapped around us. Under the covers, we get naked and heated, and afterward we talk like children, the blanket up over our heads. We lie there whispering, as if someone might hear us, and for the first time I tell him about Germ. “I think this could actually be something, and it’s because of you,” I say. “When I met you, I was finished with all this. I didn’t think it mattered.”

  “One, you worry about everything being filler, but the words you write will still be here when you’re gone. And two, you were finished with a lot of things, but you would have come around whether you met me or not.”

  For some reason, I don’t like the way this sounds, as if a universe could exist in which I wouldn’t know Finch. But then we’re under the blanket again discussing all the places in the world we want to wander, which somehow turns into all the places in the world we want to Do It.

  “We’ll take this show on the road,” says Finch, tracing lazy circles on my shoulder, down my arm, over to my hip. “We’ll wander every state, and after we check them off, we’ll go across the ocean and start wandering there. It will be a Wander-athon.”

  “Wander-mania.”

  “Wander-rama.”

  Without consulting the computer, we list the places we might go, taking turns. And then for some reason I have that feeling again, as if he’s stepped behind a curtain. And then the stitch returns and I can’t help thinking of all I’m doing to be here—sneaking around behind my parents’ backs, for one, lying to them, for another.

  At some point I say, “I should probably go.”

  He kisses me. “Or you could stay a little longer.”

  So I do.

  VIOLET

  Spring break

  Noon. NYU campus, New York, New York.

  My mom says, “Your father and I are glad to have this time with you, honey. It’s good for all of us to get away.” She means away from home, but I think, more than that, she means away from Finch.

  I’m carrying our wandering notebook so that I can make notes on the buildings and the history and anything interesting that I might want to share with him. My parents are discussing how I can apply for spring admission next year and transfer from whatever school I choose for fall.

  I’m more worried about why Finch hasn’t answered my last three texts. I wonder if this is the way it will be next year if I come to New York, or wherever I go—me trying to concentrate on college, on life, when all I’m doing is thinking about him. I wonder if he’ll come with me, or if our built-in ending is high school.

  My mom says, “It’ll be here before we know it, and I’m not ready. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”

  “Don’t start crying, Mom. You promised. We’ve still got lots of time to go, and we don’t know where I’m going to end up.”

  My dad says, “Just an excuse to come see her and spend time in the city.” But his eyes go damp too.

  Even though they don’t say it, I can feel all the expectation and weight surrounding us. It comes from the fact that they didn’t get to do this with their older daughter. They never got to take her to college and wish her a good freshman year, be safe, come home and see us, don’t forget we’re always a phone call away. It’s just one more moment they were cheated of, and one more I have to make up for because I’m all that’s left.

  Before the three of us lose it right there, in the middle of campus, I say, “Dad, what can you tell us about the history of NYU?”

  I have my own room at the hotel. It is narrow, with two windows, a dresser, and a giant TV cabinet that looks as if it might fall on you and
crush you while you sleep.

  The windows are closed tight, but I can still hear the noises of the city, which are so different from the ones I hear in Bartlett—sirens, yelling, music, garbage trucks rattling up and down.

  “So, do you have a special boy back home?” my mom’s agent asked over dinner.

  “No one in particular,” I answered her, and my parents exchanged a look of relief and conviction that yes, they did the right thing by chasing Finch away.

  The only light in the room is from my laptop. I skim through our notebook, thick with words, and then through our Facebook messages—so many now—and then I write a new one, quoting Virginia Woolf: “Let us wander whirling to the gilt chairs.… Are we not acceptable, moon? Are we not lovely sitting together here …?”

  FINCH

  Day 64 of the awake

  On the last Sunday of spring break it snows again, and for an hour or so, everything is white. We spend the morning with Mom. I help Decca in the yard, building a half-snow, half-mud man, and then we walk six blocks to the hill behind my grade school and go sledding. We race each other, and Decca wins every time because it makes her happy.

  On the way home she says, “You better not have let me win.”

  “Never.” I throw an arm around her shoulders and she doesn’t pull away.

  “I don’t want to go to Dad’s,” she says.

  “Me neither. But you know deep down it means a lot to him, even though he doesn’t show it.” This is something my mother has said to me more than once. I don’t know that I believe it, but there’s a chance Decca might. As tough as she is, she wants to believe in something.

  In the afternoon, we head over to my father’s house, where we sit inside, scattered around the living room, hockey playing on yet another giant flat screen that has been implanted into the wall.

  Dad is alternately shouting at the television and listening to Kate talk about Colorado. Josh Raymond sits at my father’s elbow staring at the game and chewing each mouthful forty-five times. I know because I’m so bored, I start counting.