All the Bright Places

VIOLET
May—weeks 1, 2, and 3
At school, the entire student body seems to be in mourning. There is a lot of
black being worn, and you can hear sniffling in every classroom. Someone
has built a shrine to Finch in one of the large glass cases in the main hallway,
near the principal’s office. His school picture has been blown up, and they
have left the case open so that we can all post tributes around it
—Dear Finch,
they all begin. 
You are loved and missed. We love you. We miss you.
I want to tear them all down and shred them up and put them in the pile
with the rest of the bad, false words, because that’s exactly where they
belong.
Our teachers remind us there are just five more weeks of school, and I
should be happy, but instead I feel nothing. I feel a lot of nothing these days.
I’ve cried a few times, but mostly I’m empty, as if whatever makes me feel
and hurt and laugh and love has been surgically removed, leaving me
hollowed out like a shell.
I tell Ryan we can only ever be friends, and it’s just as well because he
doesn’t want to touch me. No one does. It’s like they’re afraid I might be
contagious. This is part of the suicideby-association phenomenon.
I sit with Brenda, Lara, and the Brianas at lunch until the Wednesday after
Finch’s funeral, when Amanda walks over, sets her tray down, and, without
looking at the other girls, says to me, “I’m sorry about Finch.”
For a minute, I think Brenda is going to hit her, and I kind of want her to,
or at least I want to see what would happen if she did. But when Bren just sits
there, I nod at Amanda. “Thanks.”
“I shouldn’t have called him a freak. And I want you to know I broke up
with Roamer.”
“Too little, too late,” Brenda mutters. She stands suddenly, knocking into
the table, making everything rattle. She grabs her tray, tells me she’ll see me
later, and marches off.
On Thursday, I meet with Mr. Embry because Principal Wertz and the school
board are requiring all friends and classmates of Theodore Finch to have at
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least one session with a counselor, even though The Parents, as my mother
and father refer to Mr. Finch and Mrs. Finch, are insisting it was an accident,
which, I guess, means we’re free to mourn him out in the open in a normal,
healthy, unstigmatized way. No need to be ashamed or embarrassed since
suicide isn’t involved.
I ask for Mr. Embry instead of Mrs. Kresney because he was Finch’s
counselor. From behind his desk, he frowns at me, and I suddenly wonder if
he’s going to blame me like I blame myself.
I should never have suggested we take the A Street Bridge. What if we’d
gone the other way instead? Eleanor would still be here
.
Mr. Embry clears his throat. “I’m sorry about Finch. He was a good,
screwed-up kid who should have had more help.”
This gets my attention.
Then he adds, “I feel responsible.”
I want to send his computer and books crashing to the floor. 
You can’t feel
responsible. I’m responsible. Don’t try to take that from me
.
He continues, “But I’m not. I did what I felt I could do. Could I have done
more? Possibly. Yes. We can always do more. It’s a tough question to answer,
and, ultimately, a pointless one to ask. You might be feeling some of the same
emotions and having some of these same thoughts.”
“I know I could have done more. I should have seen what was going on.”
“We can’t always see what others don’t want us to. Especially when they
go to great lengths to hide it.” Mr. Embry plucks a thin booklet off his desk
and reads: “ ‘You are a survivor, and as that unwelcome designation implies,
your survival—your