“And that nothing happens to me like it did to Eleanor. Why don’t you just keep me locked up in the house forever so you never have to worry again?”
Mom shakes her head at me. My father repeats, “No more seeing him. No more of this driving around. I’ll speak to your teacher on Monday if I need to. You can write a report or do something else to make up for the work. Are we understood?”
“Extenuating circumstances.” Here I am again.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes. We’re understood.”
From my bedroom window I watch the street outside, as if Finch might reappear. If he does, I will climb out of my window and tell him to drive, just drive, as fast and far as he can. I sit there a long time and he doesn’t come. My parents’ voices rumble from the first floor, and I know that they will never trust me again.
FINCH
What follows
I see his SUV before I see him. I almost drive on past my house and just keep going who knows where, but something makes me stop the car and walk on in.
“I’m here,” I yell. “Come and get me.”
My dad barrels out of the living room like a battering ram, Mom and Rosemarie fluttering behind him. My mom is apologizing to me or to him, it’s hard to tell. “What was I supposed to do?… The phone rings at two a.m., there must be some emergency.… Kate wasn’t home.… I didn’t have a choice.…”
My father doesn’t say a word to me, just sends me flying across the kitchen and into the door. I stand up, shake it off, and the next time he raises his arm, I laugh. This throws him so much that the arm stops in midair, and I can see him thinking, He’s crazier than I thought he was.
I say, “Here’s the thing. You can spend the next five hours or five days beating me to dust, but I don’t feel it. Not anymore.” I let him try to get in one last whack, but as his hand moves toward me, I grab it by the wrist. “Just so you know, you will never do that again.”
I don’t expect it to work, but there must be something in my voice, because he suddenly drops his arm. I say to Mom, “Sorry we worried everyone. Violet’s home and she’s safe, and I’m going to my room.”
I wait for my father to come after me. Instead of locking the door and pushing the dresser in front of it, I leave it open. I wait for my mother to check on me. But no one comes because, in the end, this is my house, which means you don’t go out of your way to engage.
I write Violet an apology. I hope you’re okay. I hope they’re not too hard on you. I wish that hadn’t happened, but I don’t regret anything that came before.
She writes back: I’m okay. Are you okay? Did you see your dad? I don’t regret it either, even though I wish we could go back and get me home on time. My parents don’t want me seeing you anymore.
I write: We’ll just have to convince them to change their minds. By the way? For what it’s worth, you showed me something, Ultraviolet—there is such a thing as a perfect day.
The next morning I’m at Violet’s, ringing the bell. Mrs. Markey answers, but instead of letting me in, she stands in the doorway, the door pulled close around her. She smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry, Theodore.” She shakes her head, and that one gesture says it all. I’m sorry that you will never be allowed near our daughter again because you are different and strange and a person who cannot be trusted.
I can hear Mr. Markey from inside. “Is that him?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, her eyes run over my face, as if she’s been told to check for bruises or maybe something deeper and even more broken. It’s a kind gesture, but something about it makes me feel like I’m not really there. “Are you all right?”
“Sure. I’m fine. Nothing to see here. I’d be even better, though, if I could talk to you and explain and say I’m sorry and see Violet. Just for a couple minutes, nothing more. Maybe if I could just come in …” All I need is the chance to sit down with them and talk and tell them it’s not as bad as they think, that it’ll never happen again, and they weren’t wrong to trust me.
Over his wife’s shoulder, Mr. Markey frowns at me. “You need to go.”
Just like that, they shut the door, and I am on the step, locked out and alone.
At home, I type in EleanorandViolet.com and get a message: Server not found. I type it again and again, but each time it’s the same thing. She’s gone, gone, gone.
On Facebook, I write: Are you there?
Violet: I’m here.
Me: I came to see you.
Violet: I know. They’re so mad at me.
Me: I told you I break things.
Violet: This wasn’t you—this was us. But it’s my fault. I wasn’t thinking.
Me: I’m lying here wishing I could count us backward to yesterday morning. I want the planets to align again.
Violet: Just give them time.
I write: That’s the only thing I don’t have. And then I erase it.
FINCH
How to survive quicksand
That night, I move into my walk-in closet, which is warm and cozy, like a cave. I push my hanging clothes to one corner and lay the comforter from my bed on the floor. I set the jug of Mudlavia healing water at the foot and prop Violet’s picture against the wall—a shot of her at the Blue Flash—along with the license plate I took from the scene of the accident. Then I turn off the light. I balance my laptop on my knees and stick a cigarette in my mouth unlit because the air’s too close in here as it is.
This is Finch Survival Boot Camp. I’ve been here before and know the drill like the back of my too-large hand. I will stay in here as long as I need to, as long as it takes.
The MythBusters say there is no way to drown in quicksand, but tell that to the young mother who went to Antigua for her father’s wedding (to wife number two) and was sucked into the beach as she watched the sunset. Or the teenage boys who were swallowed whole by a man-made quicksand pit on the property of an Illinois businessman.
Apparently, to survive quicksand, you should stay perfectly still. It’s only when you panic that you pull yourself under and sink. So maybe if I stay still and follow the Eight Steps to Surviving Quicksand, I’ll get through this.
1. Avoid quicksand. Okay. Too late. Moving on.
2. Bring a large stick when going into quicksand territory. The theory here is that you can use the stick to test the ground in front of you, and even pull yourself out of it if you sink. The problem with this theory is that you don’t always know when you’re entering quicksand territory, not until it’s too late. But I like the idea of preparedness. I figure I’ve just left this step and have gone on to: