“I know.” And away he goes in the other direction.
Saturday. My house. I am on the phone with Jerri Sparks, the reporter from the local paper, who wants to send someone out to take my picture. She says, “How does it feel to know you’ve saved someone’s life? I know, of course, about the terrible tragedy you suffered last year. Does this in any way give you closure?”
“How would this give me closure?”
“The fact that you couldn’t save your sister’s life, but you were able to save the life of this boy, Theodore Finch …”
I hang up on her. As if they are one and the same, and besides, I’m not the one who saved a life. Finch is the hero, not me. I’m just a girl pretending to be a hero.
I am still seething by the time Ryan shows up, five minutes early. We walk to the drive-in because it’s only a mile from my house. I keep my hands in the pockets of my coat, but we walk with our arms bumping. It’s like a first date all over again.
At the drive-in, we find Amanda and Roamer, who are parked in Roamer’s car. He drives an enormous old Chevy Impala, which is as large as a city block. He calls it the Party Car because it can fit about sixty-five people at once.
Ryan opens the back door for me and I get in. Because the Impala is parked, I’m fine being in there, even though it smells like smoke and old fast food and, faintly, of pot. I’m probably incurring years of secondhand smoke damage just sitting here.
The movie is a Japanese monster movie double feature, and before it starts, Ryan, Roamer, and Amanda talk about how awesome college will be—they’re all going to Indiana University. I sit thinking about Jerri Sparks and New York and spring break and how bad I feel about blowing off Finch and for being rude to him when he saved my life. Wandering with him would be more fun than this. Anything would be more fun than this.
The car is hot and fumy, even though the windows are open, and when the second movie starts, Roamer and Amanda lie down flat in the enormous front seat and go almost completely quiet. Almost. Every now and then I hear a slurping, smacking sound as if they’re two hungry dogs lapping at the food bowl.
I try watching the movie, and when that doesn’t work, I try writing the scene in my mind. Amanda’s head pops up over the seat, her shirt hanging open so that I can see her bra, which is baby blue with yellow flowers. Like that, I can feel the image burning into my retinas, where it will remain forever.…
There are too many distractions, and so I talk over the noise to Ryan, but he’s more interested in sneaking his hand up my shirt. I’ve managed to make it seventeen years, eight months, two weeks, and one day without having sex in the backseat of an Impala (or anywhere, for that matter), so I tell him I’m dying to see the view, and I push open the door and stand there. We are surrounded by cars and, beyond that, cornfields. There is no view except up. I tilt my head back, suddenly fascinated by the stars. Ryan scrambles after me, and I pretend to know the constellations, pointing them out and making up stories about each one.
I wonder what Finch is doing right now. Maybe he’s playing guitar somewhere. Maybe he’s with a girl. I owe him a wander and, actually, a lot more than that. I don’t want him to think I blew him off today because of my so-called friends. I make a note to research where we should go next as soon as I get home. (Search terms: unusual Indiana attractions, nothing ordinary Indiana, unique Indiana, eccentric Indiana.) I should also have a copy of the map so I make sure I don’t duplicate anything.
Ryan puts his arm around me and kisses me, and for a minute I kiss him. I’m transported back in time, and instead of the Impala, it’s Ryan’s brother’s Jeep, and instead of Roamer and Amanda, it’s Eli Cross and Eleanor, and we’re here at the drive-in seeing a double feature of Die Hard.
Then Ryan’s hand is snaking its way up my shirt again, and I pull away. The Impala is back. Roamer and Amanda are back. The monster movie is back.
I say, “I hate to do this, but I have a curfew.”
“Since when?” Then he seems to remember something. “Sorry, V.” And I know he’s thinking it’s because of the accident.
Ryan offers to walk me home. I tell him no, I’m good, I got this, but he does it anyway.
“I had a great time,” he says on my front step.
“Me too.”
“I’ll call you.”
“Great.”
He leans in to kiss me good night and I turn just slightly so he’ll get my cheek instead. He’s still standing there as I let myself inside the house.
FINCH
Day 15 (I am still awake)
I go to Violet’s early and catch her parents as they’re eating breakfast. He is bearded and serious with deep worry lines around his mouth and eyes, and she looks like Violet will look in about twenty-five years, dark-blond hair falling in waves, face shaped like a heart, everything etched a little more sharply. Her eyes are warm, but her mouth is sad.
They invite me to breakfast, and I ask them about Violet before the accident since I’ve only known her after. By the time she comes downstairs, they are remembering the time she and her sister were supposed to go to New York for spring break two years ago but instead decided to follow Boy Parade from Cincinnati to Indianapolis to Chicago to try to get an interview.
When Violet sees me, she goes, “Finch?” like I might be a dream, and I say, “Boy Parade?”
“Oh my God. Why would you tell him that?”
I can’t help it, I start laughing, and this gets her mom laughing and then her dad too, until the three of us are laughing like old friends while Violet stares at us as if we’ve lost our minds.
Afterward, Violet and I stand in front of her house and, because it’s her turn to pick the place, she gives me a rough idea of the route and tells me to follow her there. Then she takes off across the lawn and toward her driveway.
“I didn’t bring my bike.” Before she can say anything, I hold up my hand like I’m taking an oath. “I, Theodore Finch, being of unsound mind, hereby swear not to drive faster than thirty miles per hour through town, fifty on the interstate. If at any time you want to stop, we stop. I just ask that you give it a chance.”
“It’s snowing.”
She’s exaggerating. It’s barely even coming down.
“Not the kind that sticks. Look, we’ve wandered all we can wander within a reachable-by-bike radius. We can see a lot more if we drive. I mean, the possibilities are pretty much endless. At least sit inside. Humor me. Sit in there and I’ll stand way, way over here, nowhere near the car, so you know I can’t ambush you and start driving.”