All the Bright Places

VIOLET
133 days to go
Six o’clock. Living room of my house. My parents sit across from me, their
brows creased and unhappy. It seems Principal Wertz called my mother when
I failed to come back for the rest of third period, or show up for my fourth-,
fifth-, sixth-, and seventh-period classes.
My dad is still dressed in the suit he wore to work. He does most of the
talking. “Where were you?”
“Technically, just across the street from school.”
“Where across the street?”
“The river.”
“What in the hell were you doing at the river during school, during
winter
?”
In her even, calm voice, Mom says, “James.”
“There was a fire alarm, and we were all outside, and Finch wanted me to
see this rare Asian crane …”
“Finch?”
“The boy I’m doing the project with. You met him.”
“How much is left to do on this project?”
“We have to visit one more place and then we need to put everything
together.”
Mom says, “Violet, we’re very disappointed.” This is like a knife in my
stomach. My parents have never believed in grounding us or taking away our
phones or computers, all the things Amanda’s parents do to her when she gets
caught breaking the rules. Instead, they talk to us and tell us how disappointed
they are.
Me, I mean. They talk to me.
“This isn’t like you.” Mom shakes her head.
Dad says, “You can’t use losing your sister as an excuse to act out.” I wish,
just once, they’d send me to my room.
“I wasn’t acting out. That wasn’t what it was. It’s just—I don’t cheer
anymore. I quit student council. I suck at orchestra. I don’t have any friends
or a boyfriend, because it’s not like the rest of the world stops, you know?”
My voice is getting louder, and I can’t seem to do anything about it.
119

---

“Everyone goes on with their lives, and maybe I can’t keep up. Maybe I don’t
want to. The one thing I’m good at I can’t do anymore. I didn’t even want to
work on this project, but it’s kind of the only thing I have going on.”
And then, because they won’t do it, I send myself to my room. I walk away
from them just as my dad is saying, “First of all, kiddo, you are good at many
things, not just one.…”
* * *
We eat dinner in almost-silence, and afterward my mother comes up to my
bedroom and studies the bulletin board above my desk. She says, “What
happened to EleanorandViolet.com?”
“I let it go. There wasn’t any point in keeping it.”
“I guess not.” Her voice is quiet, and when I look up, her eyes are red. “I
don’t think I’ll ever get used to it,” she says, and then she sighs, and I’ve
never heard anything like it. It’s a sigh full of pain and loss. She clears her
throat and taps the paper that reads