All the Bright Places

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.
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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: