VIOLET
Saturday
The next morning when I come downstairs, Theodore Finch is sitting at the dining-room table with my parents. His red cap is hooked on the back of his chair and he’s drinking orange juice, an empty plate in front of him. His lip is split and there’s a bruise on his cheek.
“You look better without the glasses,” he says.
“What are you doing here?” I stare at him, at my parents.
“I’m eating breakfast. The most important meal of the day. But the real reason I came is that I wanted to explain about yesterday. I told your parents it was my idea and that you didn’t want to cut class. How you were only trying to keep me from getting in trouble by talking me into going back.” Finch helps himself to more fruit and another waffle.
My dad says, “We also discussed some ground rules for this project of yours.”
“So I can still work on it?”
“Theodore and I have an understanding, don’t we?” Dad serves me a waffle and passes my plate down.
“Yes, sir.” Finch winks at me.
My dad fixes him with a look. “An understanding not to be taken lightly.”
Finch composes himself. “No, sir.”
Mom says, “We told him we’re putting our trust in him. We appreciate that he’s gotten you back in the car again. We want you to have fun, within reason. Just be safe, and go to class.”
“Okay.” I feel like I’m in a daze. “Thank you.”
My father turns to Finch. “We’ll need your phone number and contact info for your parents.”
“Whatever you need, sir.”
“Is your father the Finch of Finch Storage?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ted Finch, former hockey player?”
“That’s the one. But we haven’t spoken in years. He left when I was ten.”
I’m staring at him as my mom says, “I’m so sorry.”
“At the end of the day, we’re better off without him, but thank you.” He gives my mom a sad and wounded smile, and unlike the story he’s telling her, the smile is real. “My mother works at Broome Real Estate and Bookmarks. She isn’t home much, but if you have a pen, I’ll give you her number.”
I’m the one who brings him the pen and the paper, setting it down beside him, trying to catch his eye, but his dark head is bent over the notepad and he’s writing in straight block letters: Linda Finch, followed by all her numbers, work, home, and cell, and then Theodore Finch, Jr., followed by his own cell. The letters and numbers are neat and careful, like they were drawn by a child expecting to be graded. As I hand the paper to my dad, I want to say, That’s another lie. That’s not even his real handwriting. There is nothing about this boy that is neat and careful.
My mom smiles at my dad, and it’s a smile that means “time to lighten up.” She says to Finch, “So what are your college plans?” And the conversation turns chatty. When she asks Finch if he’s thought about what he wants to do beyond college, as in with his life, I pay attention because I actually don’t know the answer.
