All the Bright Places

There is this sign, which is a good thing,
because otherwise you would never know you’re looking at the highest point
in Indiana.…
I would have thought up an entire backstory for the kids,
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something epic and exciting. Now they’re just Indiana farm kids hanging on a
fence.
I say, “I think this is the ugliest place I’ve ever seen. Not just here. The
whole state.” I hear my parents telling me not to be negative, which is funny
because I’ve always been the happy one. It’s Eleanor who was moody.
“I used to think that. But then I realized, believe it or not, it’s actually
beautiful to some people. It must be, because enough people live here, and
they can’t all think it’s ugly.” He smiles out at the ugly trees and the ugly
farmland and the ugly kids as if he can see Oz. As if he can really, truly see
the beauty that’s there. In that moment I wish I could see it through his eyes. I
wish he had glasses to give me. “Also, I figure while I’m here, I might as well
get to know it, you know—see what there is to see.”
“Wander Indiana?”
“Yeah.”
“You look different than you did the other day.”
He glances at me sideways, eyes half closed. “It’s the altitude.”
I laugh and then stop myself.
“It’s okay to laugh, you know. The earth’s not going to split open. You’re
not going to hell. Believe me. If there’s a hell, I’ll be there ahead of you, and
they’ll be too busy with me to even check you in.”
I want to ask what happened to him. Is it true he had a breakdown? Is it
true he OD’d? Where was he at the end of last semester?
“I’ve heard a lot of stories.”
“About me?”
“Are they true?”
“Probably.”
He shakes the hair out of his eyes and stares at me good and hard. His gaze
trails slowly down my face to my mouth. For a second, I think he’s going to
kiss me. For a second, I want him to.
“So we can cross this one off, right? One down, one to go. Where to next?”
I sound like my dad’s secretary.
“I’ve got a map in my backpack.” He doesn’t make a move to get it.
Instead he stands there, breathing it in, looking all around. I want to get to the
map because that’s how I am, or used to be, ready for the next thing once I’ve
got it in my mind. But he’s not going anywhere, and then his hand finds mine
again. Instead of snatching it back, I make myself stand here too, and actually
it’s nice. The electric currents are racing. My body is humming. The breeze is
blowing, rustling the leaves on the trees. It’s almost like music. We stand side
by side, looking out and up and around.
And then he says, “Let’s jump.”
“Are you sure? It is the high point of Indiana.”
“I’m sure. It’s now or never, but I need to know if you’re with me.”
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“Okay.”
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
“On three.”
We jump just as the kids ramble up. We land, dusty and laughing. In the
Australian accent Finch says to them, “We’re professionals. Whatever you do,
don’t try this at home.”
The things we leave behind are some British coins, a red guitar pick, and a
Bartlett High keychain. We store them in this hide-a-key fake rock that Finch
found in his garage. He wedges it in among the stones that surround the high
point. He brushes the dirt off his hands as he stands. “Whether you want to or
not, now we’ll always be a part of here. Unless those kids get in there and rob
us blind.”
My hand feels cold without his. I pull out my phone and say, “We need to
document this somehow.” I start taking pictures before he nods okay, and we
take turns posing on the high point.
Then he gets the map out of his backpack along with a college-ruled
notebook. He hands me the notebook and a pen, and when I say, “That’s
okay,” he tells me his handwriting is like chicken scratch and it’s up to me to
keep the notes. The thing I can’t say is I’d rather drive all the way to
Indianapolis than write in this notebook.
But because he’s watching me, I scrawl down a few things—location, date,
time, a brief description of the place itself and the kids by the fence—and
afterward, we spread the map out on the picnic table.
Finch traces the red highway lines with his index finger. “I know Black
mentioned picking two wonders and running with them, but I don’t think
that’s enough. I think we need to see all of them.”
“All of what?”
“Every place of interest in the state. As many as we can cram into the
semester.”
“Only two. That’s the deal.”
He studies the map, shakes his head. His hand moves over the paper. By the
time he’s done, he’s made pen marks across the entire state, circling every
town he knows of where there’s a wonder—Dune State Park, the World’s
Largest Egg, Home of Dan Patch the racehorse, the Market Street Catacombs,
and the Seven Pillars, which are a series of enormous limestone columns,
carved by nature, that overlook the Mississinewa River. Some of the circles
are close to Bartlett, some are far away.
“That’s too many,” I say.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
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Early evening. Finch’s driveway. I stand with Leroy as Finch shoves his bike
into the garage. He opens the door to go inside, and when I don’t move, he
says, “We have to get your bag.”
“I’ll wait here.”
He just laughs and goes away. While he’s gone, I text my mom to tell her
I’ll be heading home soon. I picture her waiting at the window, watching for
me, even though she would never let me catch her at it.
In a few minutes, Finch is back and standing too close, looking down at me
with blue-blue eyes. With one hand, he brushes the hair out of them. It’s been
a long time since I’ve been this close to a boy other than Ryan, and I suddenly
remember what Suze said about Finch knowing what to do with a girl.
Theodore “Freak” or no freak, he is lean and good-looking and trouble.
Like that, I feel myself pulling back in. I drop Eleanor’s glasses onto my
face so that Finch looks warped and strange, like I’m seeing him in a fun-
house mirror.
“Because you smiled at me.”
“What?”
“You asked why I wanted to do this with you. It’s not because you were up
on the ledge too, even though, okay, that’s part of it. It’s not because I feel this
weird responsibility to keep an eye on you, which is also part of it. It’s
because you smiled at me that day in class. A real smile, not the bullshit one I
see you give everyone all the time where your eyes are doing one thing and
your mouth is doing another.”
“It was just a smile.”
“Maybe to you.”
“You know I’m going out with Ryan Cross.”
“I thought you said he wasn’t your boyfriend.” Before I can recover, he
laughs. “Relax. I don’t like you like that.”
Dinnertime. My house. My father makes chicken piccata, which means the
kitchen is a mess. I set the table as Mom ties her hair back and takes the plates
from Dad. In my house, eating is an event accompanied by the right music
and the right wine.
My mom takes a bite of chicken, gives my dad a thumbs-up, and looks at
me. “So tell me more about this project.”
“We’re supposed to wander Indiana, as if there’s anything interesting to
see. We have to have partners, so I’m working with this boy in my class.”
My dad raises an eyebrow at my mother and then me. “You know, I was
terrific at geography back in the day. If you need any help with that project
—”
Mom and I cut him off at the same time, telling him how good the food is,
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asking if we can have more. He gets up, pleased and distracted, and my
mother mouths to me, “Close one.” My dad lives to help with school projects.
The problem is he ends up taking them over completely.
He comes back in saying, “So, this project …” just as my mom is saying,
“So this boy …”
Except for wanting to know my every move, my parents act pretty much
like they always did. It throws me when they’re the parents of Before,
because nothing about me is like it used to be.
“Dad, I was just wondering,” I begin, my mouth full of chicken. “Where
did this dish begin? I mean, how did they come up with it?”
If there’s anything my dad likes more than projects, it’s explaining the
history of things. For the rest of the meal, he talks nonstop about ancient Italy
and the Italians’ love for clean, simple cooking, which means my project and
this boy are forgotten.
Upstairs, I scroll around Finch’s Facebook page. I’m still his only friend.
Suddenly a new message appears.