All the Bright Places

Part of the writing is taking stock of everything in my life, like I’m running
down a checklist: Amazing girlfriend—check. Decent friends—check. Roof
over my head—check. Food in my mouth—check.
I will never be short and probably not bald, if my dad and grandfathers are
any indication. On my good days, I can outthink most people. I’m decent on
the guitar and I have a better-than-average voice. I can write songs. Ones that
will change the world.
Everything seems to be in working order, but I go over the list again and
again in case I’m forgetting something, making myself think beyond the big
things in case there’s something hiding out behind the smaller details. On the
big side, my family could be better, but I’m not the only kid who feels that
way. At least they haven’t thrown me out on the street. School’s okay. I could
study more, but I don’t really need to. The future is uncertain, but that can be
a good thing.
On the smaller side, I like my eyes but hate my nose, but I don’t think my
nose is what’s making me feel this way. My teeth are good. In general, I like
my mouth, especially when it’s attached to Violet’s. My feet are too big, but at
least they’re not too small. Otherwise I would be falling over all the time. I
like my guitar, and my bed and my books, especially the cut-up ones.
I think through everything, but in the end the weight is heavier, as if it’s
moving up the rest of my body and sucking me down.
The bell rings and I jump, which causes everyone to laugh except Violet,
who is watching me carefully. I’m scheduled to see Embryo now, and I’m
afraid he’ll notice something’s up. I walk Violet to class and hold her hand
and kiss her and give her the best smile I can find so that she won’t watch me
that way. And then, because her class is on the opposite side of school from
the counseling office and I’m not exactly running to get there, I show up five
minutes late to my appointment.
Embryo wants to know what’s wrong and why I look like this, and does it
have something to do with turning eighteen soon.
It’s not that, I tell him. After all, who wouldn’t want to be eighteen? Just
ask my mom, who would give anything not to be forty-one.
“Then what is it? What’s going on with you, Finch?”
I need to give him something, so I tell him it’s my dad, which isn’t exactly
a lie, more of a half-truth because it’s only one part of a much bigger picture.
“He doesn’t want to be my dad,” I say, and Embryo listens so seriously and
closely, his thick arms crossed over his thick chest, that I feel bad. So I tell
him some more truth. “He wasn’t happy with the family he had, so he decided
to trade us in for a new one he liked better. And he does like this one better.
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His new wife is pleasant and always smiling, and his new son who may or
may not actually be related to him is small and easy and doesn’t take up much
space. Hell, I like them better myself.”
I think I’ve said too much, but instead of telling me to man up and walk it
off, Embryo says, “I thought your father died in a hunting accident.”
For a second, I can’t remember what he’s talking about. Then, too late, I
start nodding. “That’s right. He did. I meant before he died.”
He is frowning at me, but instead of calling me a liar, he says, “I’m sorry
you’ve had to deal with this in your life.”
I want to bawl, but I tell myself: 
Disguise the pain. Don’t call attention.
Don’t be noticed
. So with every last ounce of energy—energy that will cost
me a week, maybe more—I say, “He does the best he can. I mean he did.
When he was alive. The best sucks, but at the end of the day, it’s got more to
do with him than me. And I mean, let’s face it, who couldn’t love me?”
As I sit across from him, telling my face to smile, my mind recites the
suicide note of Vladimir Mayakovski, poet of the Russian Revolution, who
shot himself at the age of thirty-six:
My beloved boat
is broken on the rocks of daily life
.
I’ve paid my debts
and no longer need to count
pains I’ve suffered at the hands of others
.
The misfortunes and the insults
.
Good luck to those who remain
.
And suddenly Embryo is hunched over his desk staring at me with what
could only be called alarm. Which means I must have said this out loud
without meaning to.
His voice takes on the slow, deliberate tone of a man talking someone off a
ledge. “Were you in the bell tower again today?”
“Jesus, do you guys have, like, security cameras up there?”
“Answer me.”
“Yes, sir. But I was reading. Or trying to. I needed to clear my mind, and I
couldn’t do it down below with all the noise.”
“Finch, I hope you know I’m your friend, and that means I want to help
you. But this is also a legal matter, and I have an obligation.”
“I’m fine. Believe me, if I decide to kill myself, you’ll be the first to know.
I’ll save you a front-row seat, or at least wait till you’ve got more money for
the lawsuit.”
Note to self: Suicide is not a laughing matter, particularly for authority
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figures who are in any way responsible for you
.
I rein myself in. “Sorry. Bad taste. But I’m fine. Really.”
“What do you know about bipolar disorder?”
I almost say, 
What do
you 
know about it?
But I make myself breathe and
smile. “Is that the Jekyll-Hyde thing?” My voice sounds flat and even. Maybe
a little bored, even though my mind and body are on alert.
“Some people call it manic depression. It’s a brain disorder that causes
extreme shifts in mood and energy. It runs in families, but it can be treated.”
I continue to breathe, even if I’m not smiling anymore, but here is what is
happening: my brain and my heart are pounding out different rhythms; my
hands are turning cold and the back of my neck is turning hot; my throat has
gone completely dry. The thing I know about bipolar disorder is that it’s a
label. One you give crazy people. I know this because I’ve taken junior-year
psychology and I’ve seen movies and I’ve watched my father in action for
almost eighteen years, even though you could never slap a label on him
because he would kill you. Labels like “bipolar” say 
This is why you are the
way you are. This is who you are
. They explain people away as illnesses.
Embryo is talking about symptoms and hypomania and psychotic episodes
when the bell rings. I stand more abruptly than I mean to, which sends my
chair clattering into the wall and onto the floor. If I’m suspended above the
room, looking down, I can see how this would be mistaken for a violent act,
especially as large as I am. Before I can tell him it was an accident, he is on
his feet.
I hold up my hands in a gesture of surrender, and then hold out my hand—
an olive branch. It takes him a good minute or two, but he shakes it. Instead of
letting go, he jerks my arm forward so we are almost nose to nose—or, given
our height difference, nose to chin—and says, “You are not alone.” Before I
can tell him, 
Actually I am, which is part of the problem; we are all alone,
trapped in these bodies and our own minds, and whatever company we have
in this life is only fleeting and superficial
, he tightens his grip until I worry
my arm will snap off. “And we are not done discussing this.”
The next morning, after gym, Roamer walks by and says, “Freak,” under his
breath. There are still a lot of guys milling around, but I don’t care. To be
more accurate, I don’t think. It just happens.
In a flash, I have him up against the locker, my hands around his throat, and
I’m choking him until he turns purple. Charlie is behind me, trying to pull me
off, and then Kappel is there with his bat. I keep going, because now I’m
fascinated by the way Roamer’s veins are throbbing, and the way his head
looks like a lightbulb, all lit up and too bright.
It takes four of them to get me off him because my fist is like iron. I’m
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thinking: 
You put me here. You did this. It’s your fault, your fault, your fault
.
Roamer drops to the floor, and as I’m being dragged away, I lock eyes with
him and say, “You will never call me that again.”
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