All the Bright Places

me
for 
me
was. She goes
on: “This is the girl with the blog, the one that actress Gemma Sterling likes?
The one who saved her ‘crazy classmate’ from jumping? Well, screw her and
her skinny, skinny ass.” Bren hates all girls who aren’t at least a size twelve.
As she rattles on, about Violet, about Gemma Sterling, about the 
Bartlett
Dirt
, I don’t say anything else. I suddenly don’t want Bren or Charlie to talk
about Violet, because I want to keep her to myself, like the Christmas I was
eight—back when Christmases were still good—and got my first guitar,
which I named No Trespassing, as in no one could touch it but me.
Finally, though, I have no choice but to interrupt Bren. “She was in that
accident last April with her sister, the one where they drove off the A Street
Bridge.”
“Oh my God. That was her?”
“Her sister was a senior.”
“Shit.” Bren cradles her chin in her hand and taps it. “You know, maybe
you should play it a little safer.” Her voice is softer. “Think Ryan Cross. You
see how he dresses. We should go to Old Navy or American Eagle, or better
yet, to Abercrombie over in Dayton.”
Charlie says to Brenda, “She’s never gonna go for him. Doesn’t matter
what he wears. No offense, man.”
“None taken. And fuck Ryan Cross.” I use that word for the first time in
my life. It feels so liberating that I suddenly feel like running around the store.
“Fuck him.” I decide the new Finch swears whenever and however he wants
to. He’s the kind of Finch who would stand on a building and think about
jumping just because nothing scares him. He is seriously badass.
“In that case.” Charlie yanks a jacket off its hanger and holds it up. It’s
pretty badass too. All scuffed, worn-out leather, like something Keith
Richards might have worn way, way back in the day.
It’s pretty much the coolest jacket I’ve ever seen. I’m pulling it on as Bren
sighs, walks away, and comes strolling back with a giant pair of black Beatles
boots. “They’re size fourteen,” she says. “But the way you grow, you’ll fill
them out by Friday.”
By lunch, I’m starting to dig Badass Finch. For one thing, girls seem to like
him. A cute underclassman actually stops me in the hall and asks if I need
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help finding my way. She must be a freshman, because it’s clear she has no
idea who I am. When she wants to know if I’m from London, I say 
cheers
and
aye up
and 
bangers and mash
, in what I think is a pretty convincing accent.
She alternately giggles and flips her hair as she guides me to the cafeteria.
Because BHS has some two thousand students, they have us divided into
three different lunch periods. Brenda skips class today to eat with Charlie and
me, and I greet them with a 
cheerio
and 
’ello, mates
, and 
you’re the dog’s
bollocks
, and such. Bren just blinks at me, then blinks at Charlie. “Please tell
me he’s not British.” He shrugs and keeps eating.
I spend the rest of lunch hour talking to them about my favorite spots back
home—Honest Jon’s, Rough Trade East, and Out on the Floor, the record
shops I hang out in. I tell them about my mean but sexy Irish girlfriend,
Fiona, and my best blokes, Tam and Natz. By the time lunch is through, I’ve
created a universe I can see down to the last detail—the Sex Pistols and Joy
Division posters on my wall, the fags I smoke out the window of the flat
Fiona and I share, the nights spent playing music at the Hope and Anchor and
the Halfmoon, the days devoted to cutting records at Abbey Road studios.
When the bell rings and Charlie says, “Let’s go, you todger,” I feel homesick
for this London I left behind.
Yes, sir
. As I walk through the halls, there’s no telling what Badass British
Finch might do. Take over the school, take over the town, take over the world.
It will be a world of compassion, of neighbor loving neighbor, of student
loving student or at least treating one another with respect. No judgments. No
name-calling. No more, no more, no more.
By the time I get to U.S. Geography, I’ve almost convinced myself this
world exists. Until I see Ryan Cross, all gold, flowing, his hand on the back of
Violet’s chair as if he’s the host at the Macaroni Grill. He is smiling at her and
talking, and she is smiling at him with her mouth closed, gray-green eyes
wide and serious behind her glasses, and just like that, I am Indiana-born
Theodore Finch in a pair of secondhand boots. Guys like Ryan Cross have a
way of reminding you who you are, even when you don’t want to remember.
As I try to catch Violet’s eye, she’s too busy nodding and listening to Ryan,
and then Roamer is there and Amanda Monk, who fixes me with a death glare
and snaps, “What are you looking at?” Then Violet is swallowed by them, so
all I can do is stare in the direction of where she once was.
Mr. Black wheezes to the front of the room as the bell rings and asks if
anyone has questions about the project. Hands go up, and one by one he
addresses the concerns. “Get out there and see … your state. Go to
museums … and parks … and historic sites. Get yourselves … some
culture … so that when you do leave … you can take it with you.”
In my very best British, I say, “But I thought you can’t take it with you.”
Violet laughs. She is the only one. As soon as she does, she turns away
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from everyone and stares at the wall beside her right shoulder.
When the bell rings, I walk past Ryan Cross and Roamer and Amanda until
I’m standing so close to Violet that I can smell her flower shampoo. The thing
about Badass Finch is that guys like Ryan Cross don’t intimidate him for
long.
Amanda says, “Can we help you?” in her nasally little-girl voice.
In my regular, non-British accent I say to Violet, “It’s time to start
wandering.”
“Where?” Her eyes are cold and a little wary, as if she’s afraid I might out
her right here, right now.
“Have you been to Hoosier Hill?”
“No.”
“It’s the highest point in the state.”
“I’ve heard.”
“I thought you might like it. Unless you have a fear of heights.” I cock my
head.
Her face goes blank and then she recovers, the corners of her perfect mouth
turning up in a perfect fake smile. “No. I’m okay with them.”
“She saved you from jumping off that ledge, didn’t she?” This is from
Amanda. She waves her phone, where I can just make out the headline from
the 
Bartlett Dirt
.
Roamer mumbles, “Maybe you should go back up there and try again.”
“And miss the opportunity to see Indiana? No thanks.” Their eyes bore into
me as I look at Violet. “Let’s go.”
“Right now?”
“No time like the present, and all that. You of all people should know we’re
only guaranteed right now.”
Roamer says, “Hey, asshole, why don’t you ask her boyfriend?”
I say to Roamer, “Because I’m not interested in Ryan, I’m interested in
Violet.” I say to Ryan, “It’s not a date, man. It’s a project.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Violet says, and Ryan looks so hurt that I almost
feel bad for him, except that it’s impossible to feel bad for a guy like him. “I
can’t skip class.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not a delinquent.” Her tone is clear
—not like you
—and I tell
myself she’s only putting it on for the crowd.
“I’ll wait for you in the parking lot after school.” On the way out, I pause.
“ ‘Come,’ I say, ‘come.’ ”
It might be my imagination, but she almost smiles.
“Freak,” I hear Amanda mutter as I walk out. I accidentally whack my
elbow against the doorframe, and, for good luck, whack the other.
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