فصل 46

VIOLET

The rest of march

The first text comes in on Thursday. The thing is, they were all perfect days.

As soon as I read it, I call Finch, but he’s already turned the phone off and I go to voicemail. Instead of leaving a message, I text him back: We’re all so worried. I’m worried. My boyfriend is a missing person. Please call me.

Hours later, I hear from him again: Not missing at all. Found.

I write immediately: Where are you? This time he doesn’t answer.

My dad is barely speaking to me, but my mom talks with Mrs. Finch, who says Finch has been in touch to let her know he’s okay, not to worry, and he promises to check in every week, which implies that he’s going to be gone for a while. No need to call in psychiatrists (but thanks so much for the concern). No need to call the police. After all, he does this sometimes. It appears my boyfriend isn’t missing.

Except that he is.

“Did he say where he went?” As I ask it, I suddenly can see that my mom looks worried and tired, and I try to imagine what would be happening right now if it was me and not Finch who’d disappeared. My parents would have every cop within five states out looking.

“If he did, she didn’t tell me. I don’t know what else we can do. If the parents aren’t even worried … well. I guess we need to trust that Finch means what he says and that he’s all right.” But I can hear all the things she isn’t saying: If it were my child, I’d be out there myself, bringing him home.

At school, I’m the only one who seems to notice he’s gone. After all, he’s just another troublemaker who’s been expelled. Our teachers and classmates have already forgotten about him.

So everyone acts as if nothing has happened and everything’s fine. I go to class and play in an orchestra concert. I hold my first Germ meeting, and there are twenty-two of us, all girls, except for Briana Boudreau’s boyfriend, Adam, and Lizzy Meade’s brother, Max. I hear from two more colleges—Stanford, which is a no, and UCLA, which is a yes. I pick up the phone to tell Finch, but his voicemail is full. I don’t bother texting him. Whenever I write back, it takes him a long time to respond, and when he does, it’s never in answer to anything I’ve said.

I’m starting to get mad.

Two days later, Finch writes: I am on the highest branch.

The next morning: We are written in paint.

Later that night: I believe in signs.

The next afternoon: The glow of Ultraviolet.

The day after that: A lake. A prayer. It’s so lovely to be lovely in Private.

And then everything goes quiet.