All the Bright Places

VIOLET
142 days to go
Two a.m. Wednesday. My bedroom.
I wake up to the sound of rocks at my window. At first I think I’m
dreaming, but then I hear it again. I get up and peek through the blinds, and
Theodore Finch is standing in my front yard dressed in pajama bottoms and a
dark hoodie.
I open the window and lean out. “Go away.” I’m still mad at him for
getting me detention, first of my life. And I’m mad at Ryan for thinking we’re
going out again, and whose fault is that? I’ve been acting like a tease, kissing
him on his dimple, kissing him at the drive-in. I’m mad at everyone, mostly
myself. “Go away,” I say again.
“Please don’t make me climb this tree, because I’ll probably fall and break
my neck and we have too much to do for me to be hospitalized.”
“We don’t have anything else to do. We’ve already done it.”
But I smooth my hair and roll on some lip gloss and pull on a bathrobe. If I
don’t go down, who knows what might happen?
By the time I get outside, Finch is sitting on the front porch, leaning back
against the railing. “I thought you’d never come,” he says.
I sit down beside him, and the step is cold through my layers. “Why are
you here?”
“Were you awake?”
“No.”
“Sorry. But now that you are, let’s go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He stands and starts walking to the car. He turns and says too loudly,
“Come on.”
“I can’t just take off when I want to.”
“You’re not still mad, are you?”
“Actually, yes. But look at me. I’m not even dressed.”
“Fine. Leave the ugly bathrobe. Get some shoes and a jacket. Do not take
time to change anything else. Write a note to your parents so they won’t
worry if they wake up and find you gone. I’ll give you three minutes before I
come up after you.”
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We drive toward Bartlett’s downtown. The blocks are bricked off into what
we call the Boardwalk. Ever since the new mall opened, there’s been no
reason to come here except for the bakery, which has the best cupcakes for
miles. The businesses here are hangers-on, relics from about twenty years ago
—a sad and very old department store, a shoe store that smells like mothballs,
a toy store, a candy shop, an ice cream parlor.
Finch parks the Saturn and says, “We’re here.”
All the storefronts are dark, of course, and there is no one out. It’s easy to
pretend that Finch and I are the only two people in the world.
He says, “I do my best thinking at night when everyone else is sleeping. No
interruptions. No noise. I like the feeling of being awake when no one else
is.” I wonder if he sleeps at all.
I catch sight of us in the window of the bakery, and we look like two
homeless kids. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
The air is crisp and clean and quiet. In the distance, the Purina Tower, our
tallest building, is lit up, and beyond it the bell tower of the high school.
Outside Bookmarks, Finch pulls out a set of keys and unlocks the door.
“My mother works here when she’s not selling houses.”
The bookstore is narrow and dark, a wall of magazines on one side, shelves
of books, a table and chairs, an empty counter where coffee and sweet things
are sold during working hours.
He stoops behind the counter now and opens a refrigerator that’s hidden
behind it. He digs around until he comes up with two sodas and two muffins,
and then we move over to the kids’ area, which has beanbags and a worn blue
rug. He lights a candle he found near the register, and the light flickers across
his face as he carries it from shelf to shelf and trails his fingers along the
spines of the books.
“Are you looking for something?”
“Yes.”
Finally, he sinks down beside me and runs his hands through his hair,
making it go off in all directions. “They didn’t have it at the Bookmobile Park
and they don’t have it here.” He picks up a stack of children’s books and
hands me a couple. “They do, thank goodness, have these.”
He sits cross-legged, wild hair bent over one of the books, and immediately
it’s as if he’s gone away and is somewhere else.
I say, “I’m still mad at you about getting me detention.” I expect some fast
reply, something flirty and flip, but instead he doesn’t look up, just reaches for
my hand and keeps reading. I can feel the apology in his fingers, and this
takes the wind out of me, so I lean into him—just a little—and read over his
shoulder. His hand is warm and I don’t want to stop holding it.
We eat one-handed and read our way through the stack, and then we start
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reading aloud from Dr. Seuss—