All the Bright Places

Violet Markey accepted your friend request,
it says.
And now we are friends.
I want to shout and jog around the house, maybe climb up onto the roof and
spread my arms wide but not jump off, not even think about it. But instead I
hunch closer to the screen and browse through her photos—Violet smiling
with two people who must be her parents, Violet smiling with friends, Violet
smiling at a pep rally, Violet smiling cheek to cheek with another girl, Violet
smiling all alone.
I remember the picture of Violet and the girl from the newspaper. This is
her sister, Eleanor. She wears the same clunky glasses Violet had on today.
Suddenly a message appears in my inbox.
Violet: 
You ambushed me. In front of everyone.
Me: 
Would you have worked with me if I hadn’t?
Violet: 
I would have gotten out of it so I didn’t have to do it to begin
with. Why do you want me to do this project with you anyway?
Me: 
Because our mountain is waiting.
Violet: 
What’s that supposed to mean?
Me: 
It means maybe you never dreamed of seeing Indiana, but, in
addition to the fact that we’re required to do this for school, and I’ve
volunteered—okay, ambushed—you into being my partner, here’s what I
think: I think I’ve got a map in my car that wants to be used, and I think
there are places we can go that need to be seen. Maybe no one else will
ever visit them and appreciate them or take the time to think they’re
important, but maybe even the smallest places mean something. And if
not, maybe they can mean something to us. At the very least, by the time
we leave, we know we will have seen it, this great state of ours. So come
on. Let’s go. Let’s count for something. Let’s get off that ledge.
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When she doesn’t respond, I write: