All the Bright Places

by Jennifer Niven

  I meet Charlie at Goodwill during third period. There’s one down by the train station, in an area that used to be nothing but abandoned, burned-out factories and graffiti. Now it’s been “regentrified,” which means it got a new coat of paint and someone decided to pay attention to it.

  Charlie brings Brenda for fashion backup, even though nothing she wears ever matches, something she swears she does on purpose. While Charlie talks up one of the salesgirls, Bren follows me from rack to rack yawning. She flips halfheartedly through hangers of leather jackets. “What exactly are we looking for?”

  I say, “I need to be regentrified.” She yawns again without covering her mouth, and I can see her fillings. “Late night?”

  She grins, bright-pink lips spreading wide. “Amanda Monk had a party Saturday night. I made out with Gabe Romero.” In addition to being Amanda’s boyfriend, Roamer is the biggest prick in school. For some reason, Bren has had a thing for him since freshman year.

  “Will he remember it?”

  Her grin fades a little. “He was pretty wasted, but I left one of these in his pocket.” She holds up a hand and waves her fingers. One of her blue plastic fingernails is missing. “And, just in case, my nose ring.”

  “I thought you looked different today.”

  “That’s just the glow.” She’s more awake now. She claps her hands together and rubs them all mad-scientist-like. “So what are we looking for?”

  “I don’t know. Something a little less squeaky clean, maybe a little sexier. I’m done with the eighties.”

  She frowns. “Is this about what’s-her-name? The skinny chick?”

  “Violet Markey, and she’s not skinny. She has hips.”

  “And a sweet, sweet ass.” Charlie has joined us now.

  “No.” Bren is shaking her head so hard and fast, it looks as if she’s having a seizure. “You don’t dress to please a girl—especially not a girl like that. You dress to please yourself. If she doesn’t like you for you, then you don’t need her.” All of this would be fine if I knew exactly who 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 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 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.

  VIOLET

  151 days till graduation

  Three thirty. School parking lot.

  I stand in the sun, shading my eyes. At first I don’t see him. Maybe he left without me. Or maybe I went out the wrong door. Our town is small but our school is large. We have over two thousand students because we’re the only high school for miles. He could be anywhere.

  I am holding on to the handles of my bike, an old orange ten-speed inherited from Eleanor. She named it Leroy because she liked being able to say to our parents, “I was out riding Leroy,” and “I’m just going to ride Leroy for a while.”

  Brenda Shank-Kravitz stalks by, a bright-pink storm cloud. Charlie Donahue saunters behind. “He’s over there,” Brenda says. She points a blue-nailed finger at me. “If you break his heart, I will kick that skinny ass all the way to Kentucky. I mean it. The last thing he needs is you playing with his head. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “And I’m sorry. You know. About your sister.”

  I look in the direction Brenda pointed and there he is. Theodore Finch leans against an SUV, hands in pockets, like he has all the time in the world and he expects me. I think of the Virginia Woolf lines, the ones from The Waves: “Pale, with dark hair, the one who is coming is melancholy, romantic. And I am arch and fluent and capricious; for he is melancholy, he is romantic. He is here.”

  I wheel the bike over to him. His dark hair is kind of wild and messy like he’s been at the beach, even though there’s no beach in Bartlett, and shines blue-black in the light. His pale skin is so white, I can see the veins in his arms.

  He opens the passenger door to his car. “After you.”

  “I told you no driving.”

  “I forgot my bike, so we’ll have to go to my house and get it.”

  “Then I’ll follow you.”

  He drives slower than he needs to, and ten minutes later we reach his house. It’s a two-story brick colonial with shrubs crowding under the windows, black shutters, and a red door. There’s a matching red mailbox that says FINCH. I wait in the driveway while he sorts through the mess of a garage, searching for a bicycle. Finally he lifts it up and out, and I watch the muscles in his arms flex.

  “You can leave your bag in my room.” He’s wiping the dust off the bike seat with his shirt.

  “But my stuff’s in there.…” A book on the history of Indiana, checked out from the library after last period, and plastic bags of various sizes—courtesy of one of the lunch ladies—for any souvenirs we might collect.

  “I’ve got it covered.” He unlocks the door and holds it open for me. Inside, it looks like a regular, ordinary house, not one I’d expect Theodore Finch to live in. I follow him upstairs. The walls are lined with framed school photos. Finch in kindergarten. Finch in middle school. He looks different every year, not just agewise but personwise. Class-clown Finch. Awkward Finch. Cocky Finch. Jock Finch. At the end of the hall, he pushes open a door.

  The walls are a dark, deep red, and everything else is black—desk, chair, bookcase, bedspread, guitars. One entire wall is covered in pictures and Post-it notes and napkins and torn pieces of paper. On the other walls there are concert posters and a large black-and-white photo of him onstage somewhere, guitar in hand.

  I stand in front of the wall of notes and say, “What’s all this?”

  “Plans,” he says. “Songs. Ideas. Visions.” He throws my bag onto his bed and digs something out of a drawer.

  Most look like fragments of things, single words or phrases that don’t make sense on their own: Night flowers. I do it so it feels real. Let us fall. My decision totally. Obelisk. Is today a good day to?

  Is today a good day to what? I want to ask. But instead I say, “Obelisk?”

  “It’s my favorite word.”

  “Really?”

  “One of them, at least. Look at it.” I look. “That is one straight-up, upstanding, powerful word. Unique, original, and kind of stealthy because it doesn’t really sound like what it is. It’s a word that surprises you and makes you think, Oh. All right then. It commands respect, but it’s also modest. Not like ‘monument’ or ‘tower.’ ” He shakes his head. “Pretentious bastards.”

  I don’t say anything because I used to love words. I loved them and was good at arranging them. Because of this, I felt protective of all the best ones. But now all of them, good and bad, frustrate me.

  He says, “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘get back on the camel’ before?”

  “Not until Mr. Black used it.”

  He leans over his desk, tears a piece of paper in half, and writes it down. He slaps it on the wall as we leave.

  Outside, I climb onto Leroy, resting one foot on the ground. Theodore Finch pulls on a backpack, his T-shirt riding up across his stomach where an ugly red scar cuts across the middle.

  I push Eleanor’s glasses up onto my head. “Where did you get the scar?”

  “I drew it on. It’s been my experience that girls like scars even better than tattoos.” He straddles the bike, resting back on the seat, both feet firmly planted. “Have you been in a car since the accident?”

  “No.”

  “That’s gotta be some sort of record. We’re talking, what, eight, nine months? How do you get to school?”

  “I ride my bike or walk. We don’t live that far.”

  “What about when it rains or snows?”

  “I ride my bike or walk.”

  “So you’re afraid to ride in a car but you’ll climb up on a bell tower ledge?”

  “I’m going home.”

  He laughs and reaches out for my bike, holding on to it before I can take off. “I won’t bring it up again.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Look, you’re already here, and we’re already committed to this project, so the way I see it, the faster we get to Hoosier Hill, the faster you get this over with.”

  We pass cornfield after cornfield. Hoosier Hill is only eleven miles from town, so we don’t have far to go. The day is cold but bright, and it feels good to be out. I close my eyes and tip my head upward. It’s a remnant of the Violet who came Before. Normal teenage Violet. Violet Unremarkey-able.

  Finch rides along beside me. “You know what I like about driving? The forward motion of it, the propulsion of it, like you might go anywhere.”

  I open my eyes and frown at him. “This isn’t driving.”

  “You’re telling me.” He weaves across the r
oad in figure eights, then around me in circles, then rides beside me again. “I’m surprised you don’t wear a helmet or full-on body armor, just to be extra safe. What if the apocalypse happened and everyone but you turned into zombies, and the only way you could save yourself was to get the hell out of town? No airplanes, no trains, no buses. Public transportation is completely broken down. The bike’s too exposed, too dangerous. What then?”

  “How do I know I’ll be safe out of town?”

  “Bartlett’s the only place that’s been affected.”

  “And I know this for sure?”

  “It’s public knowledge. The government has confirmed it.”

  I don’t answer.

  He figure-eights around me. “Where would you go if you could go anywhere?”

  “Is it still the apocalypse?”

  “No.”

  New York, I think.

  “Back to California,” I say. What I mean is the California of four years ago, before we moved here, when Eleanor was a sophomore and I was going into ninth grade.

  “But you’ve already been there. Don’t you want to see places you’ve never been?” He pedals along, hands in his armpits now.

  “It’s warm there and it never snows.” I hate snow and will always hate snow. And then I hear Mrs. Kresney and my parents telling me to make an effort. So I say, “I might go to Argentina or Singapore for school. I’m not applying any place less than two thousand miles away.” Or any place with an annual snowfall greater than one inch, which is why NYU is out. “I might stay here though. I haven’t decided.”

  “Don’t you want to know where I’d go if I could?”

  Not really, I think. “Where would you go if you could go anywhere?” It comes out bitchier than I mean for it to.