FINCH
Days 23, 24, 25 …
Last night is like a puzzle—only not put together: all the pieces are scattered everywhere and some are missing. I wish my heart wouldn’t beat so fast.
I get out the books again and read the good words Decca left behind, but they blur on the page so that they don’t make sense. I can’t concentrate.
And then I start to clean and organize. I take down every single note until the wall is blank. I shove them into a trash bag, but this isn’t enough, so I decide to paint. I’m sick of the red walls of my room. The color is too dark and depressing. This is what I need, I think. A change of scenery. This is why the room feels off.
I get into Little Bastard and drive to the nearest hardware store and buy primer and ten gallons of blue paint because I’m not sure how much it will take.
* * *
It takes many, many coats to cover the red. No matter what I do, it seeps right through, like the walls are bleeding.
By midnight, the paint still isn’t dry, and so I gather up the black comforter and shove it into the back of the linen closet in the hall, and I dig around until I find an old blue comforter of Kate’s. I spread this on my bed. I open the windows and move my bed into the middle of the room, and then I climb under the blanket and go to sleep.
The next day, I paint the walls again. It takes two days for them to hold the color, which is the clear, bright blue of a swimming pool. I lie on my bed feeling easier, like I can catch my breath. Now we’re talking, I think. Yes.
The only thing I leave alone is the ceiling, because white contains all the wavelengths of the visible spectrum at full brightness. Okay, this is technically true of white light and not white paint, but I don’t care. I tell myself that all the colors are there anyway, and this gives me an idea. I think of writing it as a song, but instead I sign onto the computer and send a message to Violet. You are all the colors in one, at full brightness.
VIOLET
135, 134, 133 days to go
Finch doesn’t show up at school for a week. Someone says he’s been suspended, others say he overdosed and was carted off to rehab. The rumors spread the old-fashioned way—in whispers and texts—because Principal Wertz has found out about the Bartlett Dirt and shut it down.
Wednesday. First period. In honor of the Dirt’s demise, Jordan Gripenwaldt is passing out celebration candy. Troy Satterfield sticks two suckers in his mouth and says around them, “Where’s your boyfriend, Violet? Shouldn’t you be on suicide watch?” He and his friends laugh. Before I can say anything, Jordan yanks the suckers out of his mouth and throws them in the garbage.
On Thursday, I find Charlie Donahue in the parking lot after last period. I tell him I’m working with Finch on a class project and that I haven’t heard from him for a few days. I don’t ask if the rumors are true, even though I want to.
Charlie tosses his books into the backseat of his car. “That’s just his thing. He comes and goes when he wants.” He takes off his jacket and throws this on top of the books. “One thing you’ll learn is he is one moody old todger.”
Brenda Shank-Kravitz walks up and past us and opens the passenger door. Before she gets in, she says to me, “I like your glasses.” I can tell she actually means it.
“Thanks. They were my sister’s.”
She looks like she’s thinking this over, and then she nods okay.
The next morning, on my way to third period, I see him in the hallway—Theodore Finch—only he’s different. For one thing, he’s wearing a ratty red knit cap, loose black sweater, jeans, sneakers, and these fingerless black gloves. Homeless Finch, I think. Slacker Finch. He’s leaning against a locker, one knee bent, talking to Chameli Belk-Gupta, one of the junior-year drama girls. He doesn’t seem to notice me as I walk by.
In third period, I hook my bag over my chair and take out my calculus book. Mr. Heaton says, “Let’s start by going over the homework,” but he barely gets the words out before the fire alarm starts blaring. I gather my stuff and follow everyone outside.
A voice behind me says, “Meet me in the student parking lot.” I turn, and Finch is standing there, hands shoved into pockets. He walks away as if he’s invisible and we aren’t surrounded by teachers and faculty, including Principal Wertz, braying into his phone.
I hesitate and then start to run, bag slapping against my hip. I’m scared to death someone will come after me, but it’s too late to go back because I’m already running. I run until I catch up with Finch, and then we run faster, and no one has shouted at us to stop, come back here. I feel terrified but free.
We race across the boulevard that cuts in front of the school, and alongside the trees that separate the main parking lot from the river that splits the town in half. When we come to a break in the trees, Finch takes my hand.
“Where are we going?” I’m breathing hard.
“Down there. But be quiet. First one to make a noise has to streak back to school.” He is talking fast, moving fast.
“Streak how?”
“Streak naked. That’s what ‘streaking’ means. It is, I believe, the very definition of the word.”
I slip and slide down the embankment while Finch leads the way soundlessly, making it look easy. When we get to the edge of the river, he points across it, and at first I can’t see what he’s showing me. Then something moves and catches my eye. The bird is about three feet tall, with a red crown on a white head, and a charcoal-gray body. It splashes in the water and then pecks around the opposite bank, strutting like a man.
“What is it?”
“A hooded crane. The only one in Indiana. Maybe the only one in the United States. They winter in Asia, which means he’s about seven thousand miles from home.”
“How did you know he was here?”
“Sometimes when I can’t stand it over there”—he nods in the direction of the high school—“I come down here. Sometimes I go for a swim, and other times I just sit. This guy’s been hanging around about a week now. I was afraid he was hurt.”
“He’s lost.”
“Uh-uh. Look at him.” The bird stands in the shallows, pecking at the water, then wades deeper and starts splashing around. He reminds me of a kid in a swimming pool. “See, Ultraviolet? He’s wandering.”
Finch steps back, shielding his eyes because the sun is peeking through the branches, and there is a crack as his foot comes down on a twig. “Bollocks,” he whispers.
“Oh my God. Does that mean you have to streak back to school now?” The look on his face is so funny that I can’t help laughing.
He sighs, drops his head in defeat, and then pulls off his sweater, his shoes, his hat, his gloves, and his jeans, even though it’s freezing out. He hands each item to me until he’s wearing only his boxers, and I say, “Off with them, Theodore Finch. You were the one who said ‘streaking,’ and I believe ‘streaking’ implies full-on nakedness. I believe, in fact, it is the very definition of the word.”
He smiles, his eyes never leaving mine, and, just like that, he drops his boxers. I’m surprised because I only half thought he would do it. He stands, the first real-live naked boy I’ve ever seen, and doesn’t seem one bit self-conscious. He is long and lean. My eyes trace the thin, blue veins of his arms and the outline of muscle in his shoulders and stomach and legs. The scar across his middle is a bright-red gash.
He says, “This would be a helluva lot more fun if you were naked too.” And then he dives into the river, so neatly that he barely disturbs the crane. He cuts through the water with broad strokes, like an Olympic swimmer, and I sit on the bank watching him.
He swims so far, he’s just a blur. I pull out our notebook and write about the wandering crane and a boy with a red cap who swims in winter. I lose track of time, and when I look up again, Finch is drifting toward me. He floats on his back, arms folded behind his head. “You should come in.”
“That’s okay. I’d rather not get hypothermia.”
“Come on, Ultraviolet Remarkey-able. The water’s great.”
“What did you call me?”
“Ultraviolet Remarkey-able. Going once, going twice …”
“I’m fine right here.”
“All right.” He swims toward me until he can stand waist-deep.
“Where were you this time?”
“I was doing some remodeling.” He scoops at the water, as if he’s trying to catch something. The crane stands still on the opposite shore, watching us.
“Is your dad back in town?”
Finch seems to catch whatever he’s looking for. He studies his cupped hands before letting it go. “Unfortunately.”
I can’t hear the fire alarm anymore, and I wonder if everyone’s gone inside. If so, I’ll be counted absent. I should be more worried than I am, especially now that I’ve gotten detention, but instead I sit there on the bank.
Finch swims toward shore and comes walking toward me. I try not to stare at him, dripping wet and naked, so I watch the crane, the sky, anything but him. He laughs. “I don’t guess you’ve got a towel in that enormous bag you carry around.”
“No.”
He dries off with his sweater, shakes his hair at me like a dog so that I get sprayed, and then pulls on his clothes. When he’s dressed again, he shoves his hat into his back pocket and smooths his hair off his face.
“We should go back to class,” I say. His lips are blue, but he’s not even shivering.
“I’ve got a better idea. Want to hear it?” Before he can tell me what it is, Ryan, Roamer, and Joe Wyatt come sliding down the embankment. “Great,” Finch says under his breath.
Ryan comes right over to me. “We saw you take off during the fire alarm.”
Roamer gives Finch a nasty look. “Is this part of the geography project? Are you wandering the riverbed or just each other?”
“Grow up, Roamer,” I say.
Ryan rubs my arms like he’s trying to warm me up. “Are you okay?”
I shrug him off. “Of course I’m okay. You don’t need to check up on me.”
Finch says, “I didn’t kidnap her, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Roamer says, “Did he ask you?”
Finch looks down at Roamer. He has a good three to four inches on him. “No, but I wish you would.”
“Faggot.”
“Lay off, Roamer,” I snap at him. My heart is battering away because I’m not sure what’s going to happen here. “It doesn’t matter what he says—you’re just looking for a fight.” I say to Finch, “Don’t make it worse.”
Roamer gets up in his face. “Why are you all wet? Decide to finally shower after all this time?”
“No, man, I’m saving that activity for when I see your mom later.”
Like that, Roamer jumps on Finch, and the two of them go rolling down the bank into the water. Joe and Ryan just stand there, and I say to Ryan, “Do something.”
“I didn’t start this.”
“Well, do something anyway.”
Roamer swings and hits Finch’s face with a thud. He swings again and again, his fist smashing into Finch’s mouth, into his nose, into his ribs. At first Finch isn’t fighting back—he’s just blocking the shots. But then he has Roamer’s arm twisted behind his back, and he’s plunging his head into the water and holding it under.
“Let him go, Finch.”
He either doesn’t hear me or isn’t listening. Roamer’s legs are thrashing, and Ryan has Finch by the collar of his black sweater, and then by the arm, and is pulling on him. “Wyatt, some help here.”
“Let him go.” Finch looks at me then, and for a second it’s like he doesn’t know who I am. “Let him go.” I snap it at him like I’m talking to a dog or a child.
Just like that, he lets him go, straightens, picks Roamer up, and drops him onto the bank, where he lies coughing up water. Finch goes stalking up the hill, past Ryan and Joe and me. His face is bloody, and he doesn’t wait or look back.
I don’t bother going back to school, because the damage is done. Because Mom won’t expect me home yet, I sneak over to the parking lot, unlock Leroy, and ride to the east side of town. I cruise up and down the streets until I find the two-story brick colonial. FINCH, it says on the mailbox.
I knock on the door, and a girl with long black hair answers. “Hey,” she says to me, like she’s not surprised I’m there. “So you must be Violet. I’m Kate.”
I’m always fascinated by how the same genes rearrange themselves across brothers and sisters. People thought Eleanor and I were twins, even though her cheeks were narrower and her hair was lighter. Kate looks like Finch, but not. Same coloring, different features, except for the eyes. It’s strange seeing his eyes in someone else’s face.
“Is he here?”
“I’m sure he’s up there somewhere. I’m guessing you know where his room is.” She smirks a little, but in a nice way, and I wonder what he’s told her about me.
Upstairs, I knock on his door. “Finch?” I knock again. “It’s Violet.” There’s no answer. I try the door, which is locked. I knock again.
I tell myself he must be sleeping or have his headphones on. I knock again and again. I reach into my pocket for the bobby pin I carry with me, just in case, and bend down to examine the lock. The first one I ever picked was to the closet in my mom’s office. Eleanor put me up to it because that’s where our parents hid the Christmas presents. I discovered lock picking was a skill that comes in handy when you want to disappear during gym class or when you just need some peace and quiet.
I give the knob a shake and then put the bobby pin away. I could probably pick this lock, but I won’t. If Finch wanted to let me in, he would.
When I get back downstairs, Kate is standing at the sink smoking a cigarette out the kitchen window, her hand dangling over the sill. “Was he in there?” When I say no, she throws her cigarette down the garbage disposal. “Huh. Well, maybe he’s asleep. Or he could have gone running.”
“He runs?”
“About fifteen times a day.”
It’s my turn to say, “Huh.”
“You never can tell what that boy’s going to do.”