All the Bright Places

I’m most afraid of
Just be careful. 
I’m most afraid of the Long
Drop. I’m most afraid of Asleep and
impending, weightless doom. 
I’m most
afraid of me
.
“I’m not.” I take her hand, and together we leap through the air. And in that
moment there’s nothing I fear except losing hold of her hand. The water is
surprisingly warm and, below the surface, strangely clear and, well, blue. I
look at her, hoping her eyes are open, and they are. With my free hand, I point
below, and she nods, her hair fanning out like seaweed. Together, we swim,
still linked, like a person with three arms.
We head down, where the bottom would be if there was one. The deeper we
go, the darker the blue becomes. The water feels darker too, as if the weight
of it has settled. It’s only when I feel her tug at my hand that I let myself be
pulled back up to the surface, where we break out of the water and fill our
lungs. “Jesus,” she says. “You can hold your breath.”
“I practice,” I say, suddenly wishing I hadn’t said it at all, because it’s one
of those things—like 
I am make-believe
—that sounds better in my own head.
She just smiles and splashes me, and I splash her back. We do this for a
while, and I chase her around the surface, ducking under, grabbing her legs.
She slips through my grasp and breaks into a breaststroke, clean and strong. I
remind myself that she’s a California girl and probably grew up swimming in
the ocean. I suddenly feel jealous of all the years she had before meeting me,
and then I swim after her. We tread water, looking at each other, and suddenly
there’s not enough water in the world to clean away my dirty thoughts.
She says, “I’m glad we came.”
We float on our backs, holding hands again, faces to the sun. Because my
eyes are closed, I whisper, “Marco.”
“Polo,” she answers, and her voice sounds lazy and far away.
After a while, I say, “Do you want to go look for the bottom again?”
“No. I like it here, just like this.” Then she asks, “When did the divorce
happen?”
“Around this time last year.”
“Did you know it was coming?”
“I did and I didn’t.”
“Do you like your stepmother?”
“She’s fine. She has a seven-year-old son who may or may not be my
dad’s, because I’m pretty sure he was cheating with her for the past few years.
He left us once, when I was ten or eleven, said he couldn’t deal with us
anymore. I think he was with her then. He came back, but when he left for
good, he made it clear it was our fault. Our fault he came back, our fault he
had to leave. He just couldn’t have a family.”
“And then he married a woman with a kid. What’s he like?”
The son I will never be
. “He’s just a kid.” I don’t want to talk about Josh
141

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Raymond. “I’m going in search of the bottom. Are you okay here? Do you
mind?”
“I’m good. You go. I’ll be here.” She floats away.
I take a breath and dive, grateful for the dark of the water and the warmth
against my skin. I swim to get away from Josh Raymond, and my cheating
father, and Violet’s involved parents who are also her friends, and my sad,
deserted mother, and my bones. I close my eyes and pretend it’s Violet who
surrounds me instead, and then I open my eyes and push myself down, one
arm out like Superman.
I feel the strain of my lungs wanting air, but I keep going. It feels a lot like
the strain of trying to stay awake when I can feel the darkness sliding under
my skin, trying to borrow my body without asking so that my hands become
its hands, my legs its legs.
I dive deeper, lungs tight and burning. I feel a distant twinge of panic, but I
make my mind go quiet before I send my body deeper. I want to see how far I
can go.