“Do you think they saw?” I brush the dust off my jeans.
“I doubt it. They’re not even home.” He laughs when I pinch his arm, and then his hands are on my face and he’s kissing me, which makes the stitch disappear.
Because his bed is stacked with clothes and books, he drags a comforter out of his closet and we lie on the floor, the blanket wrapped around us. Under the covers, we get naked and heated, and afterward we talk like children, the blanket up over our heads. We lie there whispering, as if someone might hear us, and for the first time I tell him about Germ. “I think this could actually be something, and it’s because of you,” I say. “When I met you, I was finished with all this. I didn’t think it mattered.”
“One, you worry about everything being filler, but the words you write will still be here when you’re gone. And two, you were finished with a lot of things, but you would have come around whether you met me or not.”
For some reason, I don’t like the way this sounds, as if a universe could exist in which I wouldn’t know Finch. But then we’re under the blanket again discussing all the places in the world we want to wander, which somehow turns into all the places in the world we want to Do It.
“We’ll take this show on the road,” says Finch, tracing lazy circles on my shoulder, down my arm, over to my hip. “We’ll wander every state, and after we check them off, we’ll go across the ocean and start wandering there. It will be a Wander-athon.”
“Wander-mania.”
“Wander-rama.”
Without consulting the computer, we list the places we might go, taking turns. And then for some reason I have that feeling again, as if he’s stepped behind a curtain. And then the stitch returns and I can’t help thinking of all I’m doing to be here—sneaking around behind my parents’ backs, for one, lying to them, for another.
At some point I say, “I should probably go.”
He kisses me. “Or you could stay a little longer.”
So I do.
VIOLET
Spring break
Noon. NYU campus, New York, New York.
My mom says, “Your father and I are glad to have this time with you, honey. It’s good for all of us to get away.” She means away from home, but I think, more than that, she means away from Finch.
I’m carrying our wandering notebook so that I can make notes on the buildings and the history and anything interesting that I might want to share with him. My parents are discussing how I can apply for spring admission next year and transfer from whatever school I choose for fall.
I’m more worried about why Finch hasn’t answered my last three texts. I wonder if this is the way it will be next year if I come to New York, or wherever I go—me trying to concentrate on college, on life, when all I’m doing is thinking about him. I wonder if he’ll come with me, or if our built-in ending is high school.
My mom says, “It’ll be here before we know it, and I’m not ready. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”
“Don’t start crying, Mom. You promised. We’ve still got lots of time to go, and we don’t know where I’m going to end up.”
My dad says, “Just an excuse to come see her and spend time in the city.” But his eyes go damp too.
Even though they don’t say it, I can feel all the expectation and weight surrounding us. It comes from the fact that they didn’t get to do this with their older daughter. They never got to take her to college and wish her a good freshman year, be safe, come home and see us, don’t forget we’re always a phone call away. It’s just one more moment they were cheated of, and one more I have to make up for because I’m all that’s left.
Before the three of us lose it right there, in the middle of campus, I say, “Dad, what can you tell us about the history of NYU?”
I have my own room at the hotel. It is narrow, with two windows, a dresser, and a giant TV cabinet that looks as if it might fall on you and crush you while you sleep.
The windows are closed tight, but I can still hear the noises of the city, which are so different from the ones I hear in Bartlett—sirens, yelling, music, garbage trucks rattling up and down.
“So, do you have a special boy back home?” my mom’s agent asked over dinner.
“No one in particular,” I answered her, and my parents exchanged a look of relief and conviction that yes, they did the right thing by chasing Finch away.
The only light in the room is from my laptop. I skim through our notebook, thick with words, and then through our Facebook messages—so many now—and then I write a new one, quoting Virginia Woolf: “Let us wander whirling to the gilt chairs.… Are we not acceptable, moon? Are we not lovely sitting together here …?”
FINCH
Day 64 of the awake
On the last Sunday of spring break it snows again, and for an hour or so, everything is white. We spend the morning with Mom. I help Decca in the yard, building a half-snow, half-mud man, and then we walk six blocks to the hill behind my grade school and go sledding. We race each other, and Decca wins every time because it makes her happy.
On the way home she says, “You better not have let me win.”
“Never.” I throw an arm around her shoulders and she doesn’t pull away.
“I don’t want to go to Dad’s,” she says.
“Me neither. But you know deep down it means a lot to him, even though he doesn’t show it.” This is something my mother has said to me more than once. I don’t know that I believe it, but there’s a chance Decca might. As tough as she is, she wants to believe in something.
In the afternoon, we head over to my father’s house, where we sit inside, scattered around the living room, hockey playing on yet another giant flat screen that has been implanted into the wall.
Dad is alternately shouting at the television and listening to Kate talk about Colorado. Josh Raymond sits at my father’s elbow staring at the game and chewing each mouthful forty-five times. I know because I’m so bored, I start counting.
At some point, I get up and go to the bathroom, mainly just to clear my head and text Violet, who comes home today. I sit waiting for her to text me back, flipping the faucets on and off. I wash my hands, wash my face, rummage through the cabinets. I am starting in on the shower rack when my phone buzzes. Home! Should I sneak over?