donât know, Dewey. I think sheâs crazy.â
âI am crazy,â Janie says. âSo are you. All of the best people are. Who said that?â
âLewis Carroll. Lewis Carroll said that.â
Dewey is holding his cigarette so tightly that itâs disintegrating in his fingers. Maybe heâs imagining that itâs me. Squeezing all of the insanity away. âMicah, seriouslyââ
âSheâs goddamn insane, man. But I love her, Dewey. God, I donât know how to stop loving her. Sometimes it fucking hurt to look at her, you know? You ever love someone like that? No, you havenât.â
âYou donât know that,â Dewey says. All of a sudden, his voice is so sharp. He cuts through the haze, and it hurts, hurts everywhere.
âIt hurts,â I say, and itâs almost a sob, it sounds like a sob. Am I crying? I donât know. I donât know. âIt hurts, Dewey, it hurts so fucking bad. It feels like Iâm dying, Dewey, like my head is fucking tearing itself apart. I just want her to come back. I just want to know why she didnât ask me to go with her, I just need her to text me backââ
Iâm on my feet and the ledge is higher than I thought and Iâm staring down and down and itâs too dark because thereâs no moon tonight just like there was no moon that night and I canât see anything but the height. I look to the side and Janie is looking up at me and everything is blurry and she is the only clear thing in the world.
And then Iâm falling and falling and falling
but
in
the
wrong
direction.
T HE J OURNAL O F J ANIE V IVIAN
Once upon a time, there was a boy in a tower. His hair never grew long enough so that he could climb out, so for a long time, he just watched. He watched and watched until he knew the angle of the moonrise and where the stars crossed and how the geese flew. He watched anything, everything.
Which was nice and all, but someone had to show him that there was more to life than watching. Someone had to drag him out.
Thatâs where the girl comes in. The girl was the best kind of crazy. She got her luck from matches and threw rocks at his window and coaxed him out, one word at a time. She did it because she wanted to, because she needed to, but also because she didnât want to be alone. It wasnât fair to keep that kind of boy locked away.
But lifeâs not fair. So thereâs that.
before
OCTOBER 9
Yes, fine , I still feel guilty. What? I do have a heart. A big, messy, bleeding-like-a-volcano heart. If you pulled it out of my chest, it would be covered in escaped butterflies and black holes and weeds that look like flowers.
It has been six days since Iâve talked to Micah. That has to be some kind of record.
And tomorrow is our birthday .
Sure, Ander fills me full of butterflies that get all tangled in my heartstrings, but Micah adds gravity to all of my black holes. He waters my weeds.
He hasnât even looked at me since regionals. And he has such nice eyes.
Insert grumble here. Oh, all right. They could almost even be called bedroom eyes. Maybe.
So, I donât know. Maybe itâs guilt or maybe itâs just that I want him to talk to me again or maybe itâs our freaking birthday tomorrow , but I skip school today, after my parents climb into their cab to the airport arguing about who was in charge of printing out the boarding passes, to set up a treasure hunt for him. I write a note in ink with a pen that has a real nib (which is totally not the one that Mr. Markus is still looking for), and I stain it with coffee and burn the edges and everything. I sneak into his house through the door on his deck and leave it on his bed, along with an ancient Walkman with a CD inside and earbuds wrapped around, and a note that says BRING ME . I swipe his binoculars from inside his desk too, because I couldnât find mine, and settle in his bushes to wait.
And
âI am crazy,â Janie says. âSo are you. All of the best people are. Who said that?â
âLewis Carroll. Lewis Carroll said that.â
Dewey is holding his cigarette so tightly that itâs disintegrating in his fingers. Maybe heâs imagining that itâs me. Squeezing all of the insanity away. âMicah, seriouslyââ
âSheâs goddamn insane, man. But I love her, Dewey. God, I donât know how to stop loving her. Sometimes it fucking hurt to look at her, you know? You ever love someone like that? No, you havenât.â
âYou donât know that,â Dewey says. All of a sudden, his voice is so sharp. He cuts through the haze, and it hurts, hurts everywhere.
âIt hurts,â I say, and itâs almost a sob, it sounds like a sob. Am I crying? I donât know. I donât know. âIt hurts, Dewey, it hurts so fucking bad. It feels like Iâm dying, Dewey, like my head is fucking tearing itself apart. I just want her to come back. I just want to know why she didnât ask me to go with her, I just need her to text me backââ
Iâm on my feet and the ledge is higher than I thought and Iâm staring down and down and itâs too dark because thereâs no moon tonight just like there was no moon that night and I canât see anything but the height. I look to the side and Janie is looking up at me and everything is blurry and she is the only clear thing in the world.
And then Iâm falling and falling and falling
but
in
the
wrong
direction.
T HE J OURNAL O F J ANIE V IVIAN
Once upon a time, there was a boy in a tower. His hair never grew long enough so that he could climb out, so for a long time, he just watched. He watched and watched until he knew the angle of the moonrise and where the stars crossed and how the geese flew. He watched anything, everything.
Which was nice and all, but someone had to show him that there was more to life than watching. Someone had to drag him out.
Thatâs where the girl comes in. The girl was the best kind of crazy. She got her luck from matches and threw rocks at his window and coaxed him out, one word at a time. She did it because she wanted to, because she needed to, but also because she didnât want to be alone. It wasnât fair to keep that kind of boy locked away.
But lifeâs not fair. So thereâs that.
before
OCTOBER 9
Yes, fine , I still feel guilty. What? I do have a heart. A big, messy, bleeding-like-a-volcano heart. If you pulled it out of my chest, it would be covered in escaped butterflies and black holes and weeds that look like flowers.
It has been six days since Iâve talked to Micah. That has to be some kind of record.
And tomorrow is our birthday .
Sure, Ander fills me full of butterflies that get all tangled in my heartstrings, but Micah adds gravity to all of my black holes. He waters my weeds.
He hasnât even looked at me since regionals. And he has such nice eyes.
Insert grumble here. Oh, all right. They could almost even be called bedroom eyes. Maybe.
So, I donât know. Maybe itâs guilt or maybe itâs just that I want him to talk to me again or maybe itâs our freaking birthday tomorrow , but I skip school today, after my parents climb into their cab to the airport arguing about who was in charge of printing out the boarding passes, to set up a treasure hunt for him. I write a note in ink with a pen that has a real nib (which is totally not the one that Mr. Markus is still looking for), and I stain it with coffee and burn the edges and everything. I sneak into his house through the door on his deck and leave it on his bed, along with an ancient Walkman with a CD inside and earbuds wrapped around, and a note that says BRING ME . I swipe his binoculars from inside his desk too, because I couldnât find mine, and settle in his bushes to wait.
And
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