All the Bright Places (19 page)

I set her glasses down on her dresser. “Thanks for the loan,” I say. “But they make my head hurt. And they’re ugly.” I can almost hear her laughing.

The next morning when I come downstairs, Theodore Finch is sitting at the dining-room table with my parents. His red cap is hooked on the back of his chair and he’s drinking orange juice, an empty plate in front of him. His lip is split and there’s a bruise on his cheek.

“You look better without the glasses,” he says.

“What are you doing here?” I stare at him, at my parents.

“I’m eating breakfast. The most important meal of the day. But the real reason I came is that I wanted to explain about yesterday. I told your parents it was my idea and that you didn’t want to cut class. How you were only trying to keep me from getting in trouble by talking me into going back.” Finch helps himself to more fruit and another waffle.

My dad says, “We also discussed some ground rules for this project of yours.”

“So I can still work on it?”

“Theodore and I have an understanding, don’t we?” Dad serves me a waffle and passes my plate down.

“Yes, sir.” Finch winks at me.

My dad fixes him with a look. “An understanding not to be taken lightly.”

Finch composes himself. “No, sir.”

Mom says, “We told him we’re putting our trust in him. We appreciate that he’s gotten you back in the car again. We want you to have fun, within reason. Just be safe, and go to class.”

“Okay.” I feel like I’m in a daze. “Thank you.”

My father turns to Finch. “We’ll need your phone number and contact info for your parents.”

“Whatever you need, sir.”

“Is your father the Finch of Finch Storage?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ted Finch, former hockey player?”

“That’s the one. But we haven’t spoken in years. He left when I was ten.”

I’m staring at him as my mom says, “I’m so sorry.”

“At the end of the day, we’re better off without him, but thank you.” He gives my mom a sad and wounded smile, and unlike the story he’s telling her, the smile is real. “My mother works at Broome Real Estate and Bookmarks. She isn’t home much, but if you have a pen, I’ll give you her number.”

I’m the one who brings him the pen and the paper, setting it down beside him, trying to catch his eye, but his dark head is bent over the notepad and he’s writing in straight block letters:
Linda Finch
, followed by all her numbers, work, home, and cell,
and then
Theodore Finch, Jr.
, followed by his own cell. The letters and numbers are neat and careful, like they were drawn by a child expecting to be graded. As I hand the paper to my dad, I want to say,
That’s another lie. That’s not even his real handwriting. There is nothing about this boy that is neat and careful
.

My mom smiles at my dad, and it’s a smile that means “time to lighten up.” She says to Finch, “So what are your college plans?” And the conversation turns chatty. When she asks Finch if he’s thought about what he wants to do beyond college, as in with his life, I pay attention because I actually don’t know the answer.

“It changes every day. I’m sure you’ve read
For Whom the Bell Tolls
.”

Mom answers yes for both of them.

“Well, Robert Jordan knows he’s going to die. ‘There is only now,’ he says, ‘and if now is only two days, then two days is your life and everything in it will be in proportion.’ None of us knows how long we have, maybe another month, maybe another fifty years—I like living as if I only have that two days.” I’m watching my parents as Finch talks. He is speaking matter-of-factly but quietly, and I know this is out of respect for the dead, for Eleanor, who didn’t have very long.

My dad takes a drink of coffee and leans back, getting comfortable. “The early Hindus believed in living life to the fullest. Instead of aspiring to immortality, they aspired to living a healthy, full life.…” He wraps up a good fifteen minutes later, with their earliest concept of the afterlife, which is that the dead reunite with Mother Nature to continue on earth in another
form. He quotes an ancient Vedic hymn: “ ‘May your eye go to the Sun, To the wind your soul …’ ”

“ ‘Or go to the waters if it suits thee there,’ ” Finch finishes.

My dad’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, and I can see him trying to figure this kid out.

Finch says, “I kind of have this thing about water.”

My father stands, reaches for the waffles, and drops two onto Finch’s plate. Inwardly, I let out a sigh of relief. Mom asks about our “Wander Indiana” project, and for the rest of breakfast, Finch and I talk about some of the places we’ve been so far, and some of the places we’re planning to go. By the time we’re done eating, my parents have become “Call me James” and “Call me Sheryl,” instead of Mr. and Mrs. Markey. I half expect us to sit there all day with them, but then Finch turns to me, blue eyes dancing. “Ultraviolet, time’s a-wastin’. We need to get this show on the road.”

Outside, I say, “Why did you do that? Lie to my parents?”

He smooths the hair out of his eyes and pulls on the red cap. “Because it’s not a lie if it’s how you feel.”

“What does that mean? Even your handwriting was lying.” For some reason, this makes me maddest. If he’s not real with them, maybe he’s not real with me. I want to say,
What else is a lie?

He leans on the open passenger door, the sun behind him so I can’t see his face. “Sometimes, Ultraviolet, things feel true to us even if they’re not.”

John Ivers is a polite, soft-spoken grandfather with a white baseball cap and a mustache. He and the missus live on a large farm way out in the Indiana countryside. Thanks to a website called Unusual Indiana, I have his telephone number. I’ve called ahead, just like the site said to do, and John is in the yard waiting for us. He waves and walks forward, shaking hands and apologizing that Sharon’s gone off to the market.

He leads us to the roller coaster he’s built in his backyard—actually there are two: the Blue Flash and the Blue Too. Each seats one person, which is the only disappointing thing about it, but otherwise it’s really damn cool. John says, “I’m not engineer educated, but I am an adrenaline junkie. Demolition derbies, drag racing, driving fast—when I gave them up, I tried to think of something I could do to replace them, something that
would give me that rush. I love the thrill of impending, weightless doom, so I built something to give me those feelings all the time.”

As he stands, hands on hips, nodding at the Blue Flash, I think about
impending, weightless doom
. It’s a phrase I like and understand. I tuck it away in the corner of my mind to pull out later, maybe for a song.

I say, “You may be the most brilliant man I have ever met.” I like the idea of something that can give you those feelings all the time. I want something like that, and then I look at Violet and think:
There she is
.

John Ivers has built the roller coaster into the side of a shed. He says it measures 180 feet in length and climbs to a height of 20 feet. The speeds don’t get above 25 mph, and it only lasts ten seconds, but there’s an upside-down loop in the middle. To look at it, the Flash is just twisted scrap metal painted baby blue, with a 1970s bucket seat and a frayed cloth lap belt, but something about it makes my palms itch and I can’t wait to ride.

I tell Violet she can go first. “No. That’s okay. You go.” She backs away from the roller coaster like it might reach out and swallow her, and I suddenly wonder if this whole thing was a bad idea.

Before I can open my mouth to say anything, John straps me into the seat and pushes me up the side of the shed till I feel and hear a click, and then up, up, up I go. He says, “You might want to hold on, son,” as I reach the top, and so I do as I hover, just for a second, at the very top of the shed, farmland spread out around me, and then off I shoot, down and into the loop,
shouting myself hoarse. Too soon, it’s over, and I want to go again, because this is what life should feel like all the time, not just for ten seconds.

I do this five more times because Violet still isn’t ready, and whenever I get to the end, she waves her hands and says, “Do it again.”

The next time I come to rest, I climb out, legs shaking, and suddenly Violet is taking a seat and John Ivers is strapping her in, and then she’s climbing, up to the top, where she hovers. She turns her head to look in my direction, but suddenly she’s off and diving and swooping and yelling her head off.

When she comes to a stop, I can’t tell if she’s going to throw up or climb out and slap me. Instead, she shouts, “Again!” And she’s off once more in a blur of blue metal and long hair and long legs and arms.

We trade places then, and I go three times in a row, till the world looks upside down and tilted and I feel the blood pumping hard in my veins. As he unbuckles the lap belt, John Ivers chuckles. “That’s a lot of ride.”

“You can say that again.” I reach for Violet because I’m not too steady on my feet and it’s a long way down if I fall. She wraps her arm around me like it’s second nature, and I lean into her and she leans into me until we make up one leaning person.

“Want to try the Blue Too?” John wants to know, and suddenly I don’t because I want to be alone with this girl. But Violet breaks free and goes right to the roller coaster and lets John strap her in.

The Blue Too isn’t nearly so fun, so we ride the Flash twice more. When I step off for the last time, I take Violet’s hand and
she swings it back and forth, back and forth. Tomorrow I’ll be at my dad’s for Sunday dinner, but today I’m here.

The things we leave behind are a miniature toy car we got at the dollar store—symbolizing Little Bastard—and two dollhouse figures, a boy and a girl, which we tuck inside an empty pack of American Spirit cigarettes. We cram it all into a magnetized tin the size of an index card.

“So that’s it,” Violet says, sticking it to the underside of the Blue Flash. “Our last wandering.”

“I don’t know. As fun as this was, I’m not sure it’s what Black had in mind. I’ll need to ruminate on it, understand—give it some good, hard thought—but we may need to choose a kind of backup place, just in case. The last thing I want to do is half-ass this, especially now that we have the support of your parents.”

On the way home, she rolls down the window, her hair blowing wild. The pages of our wandering notebook rattle in the breeze as she writes, head bent, one leg crossed over the other to make a kind of table. When she’s like this for a few miles, I say, “What are you working on?”

“Just making some notes. First I was writing about the Blue Flash, and then about a man who builds a roller coaster in his backyard. But then I had a couple of ideas I wanted to get on paper.” Before I can ask about these ideas, her head is bent over the notebook again, and the pen is scratching across the page.

When she looks up again two miles later, she says, “You know what I like about you, Finch? You’re interesting. You’re different. And I can talk to you. Don’t let that go to your head.”

The air around us feels charged and electric, like if you were
to strike a match, the air, the car, Violet, me—everything might just explode. I keep my eyes on the road. “You know what I like about you, Ultraviolet Remarkey-able? Everything.”

“But I thought you didn’t like me.”

And then I look at her. She raises an eyebrow at me.

I go careering off onto the first exit I see. We roll past the gas station and the fast-food joints and bump across the median into a parking lot.
EAST TOWNSHIP PUBLIC LIBRARY
, the sign says. I wrench Little Bastard into park and then I get out and walk around to her side.

When I open the door, she says, “What the hell is going on?”

“I can’t wait. I thought I could, but I can’t. Sorry.” I reach across her and unsnap her seat belt, then pull her out so we’re standing face to face in this flat, ugly parking lot next to a dark library, a Chick-fil-A right next door. I can hear the drivethrough cashier on the speaker asking if they want to add fries and a drink.

“Finch?”

I brush a loose strand of hair off her cheek. Then I hold her face in my hands and kiss her. I kiss her harder than I mean to, so I ease off a little, but then she’s kissing me back. Her arms are around my neck, and I’m up against her, and she’s against the car, and then I pick her up, and her legs are around me, and I somehow get the back door open, and then I’m laying her down on the blanket that’s there, and I close the doors and yank off my sweater, and she pulls off her shirt, and I say, “You are driving me crazy. You have been driving me crazy for weeks.”

My mouth is on her neck, and she’s making these gasping sounds, and then she says, “Oh my God, where
are
we?” And she’s laughing, and I’m laughing, and she’s kissing my neck, and my entire body feels like it’s going to fucking explode, and her skin is smooth and warm, and I run my hand over the curve of her hip as she bites my ear, and then that hand is sliding into the hollow between her stomach and her jeans. She holds on to me tighter, and when I start undoing my belt, she kind of pulls away, and I want to bang my head against the wall of Little Bastard because, shit.
She’s a virgin
. I can tell by the pull-away.

She whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“All that time with Ryan?”

“Close, but no.”

I run my fingers up and down her stomach. “Seriously.”

“Why’s it so hard to believe?”

“Because it’s Ryan Cross. I thought girls lost it just by looking at him.”

She slaps my arm and then lays her hand on top of mine and says, “This is the last thing I thought would happen today.”

“Thanks.”

“You know what I meant.”

I pick up her shirt, hand it to her, pick up my sweater. As I watch her get dressed, I say, “Someday, Ultraviolet,” and she actually looks disappointed.

At home in my room, I am overcome by words. Words for songs. Words of places Violet and I will go before time runs out
and I’m asleep again. I can’t stop writing. I don’t want to stop even if I could.