All the Bright Places by Jennifer Niven Page B

with the fact that his lung capacity is 20 percent larger than the average person’s. I wonder if there’s something to this competitive breath holding, if there’s really a living to be made at it.
    “You have been in every way all that anyone could be.… If anybody could have saved me it would have been you.”
    I open my eyes and sit straight up, gasping, filling my lungs. I’m happy no one’s here to see me, because I’m sputtering and splashing and coughing up water. There’s no rush of having survived, only emptiness, and lungs that need air, and wet hair sticking to my face.

VIOLET
148 days till graduation
    Thursday. U.S. Geography.
    The
Bartlett Dirt
has named the top ten suicidal students in school, and my phone is buzzing because Theodore Finch is number one on the list. Jordan Gripenwaldt has covered the front page of the school paper with resources and information about teen suicide and what to do if you’re thinking of killing yourself, but no one is paying attention to this.
    I turn off my phone and put it away. To distract myself and him, I ask Ryan about the “Wander Indiana” project. He is partners with Joe Wyatt. Their theme is baseball. They’re planning to visit the county baseball museum and the Indiana Baseball Hall of Fame in Jasper.
    “That sounds really great,” I say. He is playing with my hair, and to make him stop, I lean over and pretend to search for something in my bag.
    For their wanderings, Amanda and Roamer are planning to focus on the James Whitcomb Riley Museum and our local farm and history museum, which is right here in Bartlett and features an actual Egyptian mummy. I can’t think of anything more depressing than to be an Egyptian high priest on display next to a set of vintage wagon wheels and a two-headed chicken.
    Amanda examines the ends of her ponytail. She is the only person besides me who is ignoring her phone. “So how is it? Is it awful?” She stops examining long enough to look at me. “What?”
    “Finch?”
    I shrug. “It’s okay.”
    “Oh my God, you like him!”
    “No I don’t.” But I can feel my face turning pink because everyone is looking at me. Amanda has such a loud mouth.
    Thankfully, the bell rings, and Mr. Black wants eyes on him, people. At some point, Ryan slips me a note because my phone is off. I see it under his arm, waving at me, and I take it. Drive-in double feature Saturday night? Just you and me?
    I write: Can I let you know?
    I tap Ryan’s arm and hand him the note. Mr. Black walks to the chalkboard and writes POP QUIZ and then a list of questions. Everybody groans and there’s the sound of ripping paper.
    Five minutes later, Finch breezes in, same black shirt, same black jeans, backpack over one shoulder, books and notebooks and thrashed leather jacket under his arm. Things are spilling everywhere, and he retrieves keys and pens and cigarettes before giving Mr. Black a little salute. I look at him and think:
This is the person who knows your worst secret
.
    Finch pauses to read the board. “Pop quiz? Sorry, sir. Just a second.” He’s using his Australian accent. Before he takes his seat, he heads right for me. He sets something on my notebook.
    He slaps Ryan on the back, drops an apple on the teacher’s desk with another apology to Mr. Black, and falls into his chair across the room. The thing he set in front of me is an ugly gray rock.
    Ryan looks down at it and up at me, and then past me at Roamer, who narrows his eyes in Finch’s direction. “Freak,” he says loudly. He mimes hanging himself.
    Amanda punches me a little too hard in the arm. “Let me see it.”
    Mr. Black raps on the desk. “In five more seconds … I will give each and … every one of you an F … on this quiz.” He picks up the apple and looks as if he’s going to throw it.
    We all go quiet. He sets the apple down. Ryan turns around and now I can see the freckles on the base of his neck. The quiz is made up of five easy questions.