VIOLET
142 days to go
Two a.m. Wednesday. My bedroom.
I wake up to the sound of rocks at my window. At first I think I'm dreaming, but then I hear it again. I get up and peek through the blinds, and Theodore Finch is standing in my front yard dressed in pajama bottoms and a dark hoodie.
I open the window and lean out. "Go away." I'm still mad at him for getting me detention, first of my life. And I'm mad at Ryan for thinking we're going out again, and whose fault is that? I've been acting like a tease, kissing him on his dimple, kissing him at the drive-in. I'm mad at everyone, mostly myself. "Go away," I say again.
"Please don't make me climb this tree, because I'll probably fall and break my neck and we have too much to do for me to be hospitalized."
"We don't have anything else to do. We've already done it."
But I smooth my hair and roll on some lip gloss and pull on a bathrobe. If I don't go down, who knows what might happen?
By the time I get outside, Finch is sitting on the front porch, leaning back against the railing. "I thought you'd never come," he says.
I sit down beside him, and the step is cold through my layers. "Why are you here?"
"Were you awake?"
"No."
"Sorry. But now that you are, let's go."
"I'm not going anywhere."
He stands and starts walking to the car. He turns and says too loudly, "Come on."
"I can't just take off when I want to."
"You're not still mad, are you?"
"Actually, yes. But look at me. I'm not even dressed."
"Fine. Leave the ugly bathrobe. Get some shoes and a jacket. Do not take time to change anything else. Write a note to your parents so they won't worry if they wake up and find you gone. I'll give you three minutes before I come up after you."
We drive toward Bartlett's downtown. The blocks are bricked off into what we call the Boardwalk. Ever since the new mall opened, there's been no reason to come here except for the bakery, which has the best cupcakes for miles. The businesses here are hangers-on, relics from about twenty years ago—a sad and very old department store, a shoe store that smells like mothballs, a toy store, a candy shop, an ice cream parlor.
Finch parks the Saturn and says, "We're here."
All the storefronts are dark, of course, and there is no one out. It's easy to pretend that Finch and I are the only two people in the world.
He says, "I do my best thinking at night when everyone else is sleeping. No interruptions. No noise. I like the feeling of being awake when no one else is." I wonder if he sleeps at all.
I catch sight of us in the window of the bakery, and we look like two homeless kids. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
The air is crisp and clean and quiet. In the distance, the Purina Tower, our tallest building, is lit up, and beyond it the bell tower of the high school.
Outside Bookmarks, Finch pulls out a set of keys and unlocks the door. "My mother works here when she's not selling houses."
The bookstore is narrow and dark, a wall of magazines on one side, shelves of books, a table and chairs, an empty counter where coffee and sweet things are sold during working hours.
