All the Bright Places

“Let us wander
whirling to the gilt chairs.… Are we not acceptable, moon? Are we not
lovely sitting together here …?”
162

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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.
At some point, I get up and go to the bathroom, mainly just to clear my
head and text Violet, who comes home today. I sit waiting for her to text me
back, flipping the faucets on and off. I wash my hands, wash my face,
rummage through the cabinets. I am starting in on the shower rack when my
phone buzzes. 
Home! Should I sneak over?
I write: