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I wanted to learn about the Salem witch trials for history. I read books under my desk during lessons and refused to eat the bottom left corner of my sandwiches. I believed platypuses to be a government conspiracy. I could not turn a cartwheel or kick, hit, or serve any sort of ball. In third grade, I announced that I was a feminist. During Job Week in fifth grade, I told the class and teacher that my career goal was to move to New York, wear black turtlenecks, and sit in coffee shops all day, thinking deep thoughts and making up stories in my head.
“Come on, Sylvie, take the jacket,” he says, holding it out to me. “Autumn,” I say. “Huh?” He frowns. “My name is Autumn. You just called me Sylvie,” I say. His frown deepens. “Oh. I’m sorry, Autumn. Take the jacket, Autumn,”
“Jamie, Finn, sit back down please,”
I can feel the printed words seeping through my skin and into my veins, rushing to my heart and marking it forever. I want to savor this wonder, this happening of loving a book and reading it for the first time, because the first time is always the best, and I will never read this book for the first time ever again.
I’ve loved him my whole life, and somewhere along the way, that love didn’t change but grew. It grew to fill the parts of me that I did not have when I was a child. It grew with every new longing in my body and desire in my heart until there was not a piece of me that did not love him. And when I look at him, there is no other feeling in me.
And I feel Finny put his arm around my shoulders.
God, Autumn, you’re the ideal I’ve judged every other girl by my whole life,” Finny says. “You’re funny and smart and weird. I never know what’s gonna come out of your mouth or what you’re gonna do. I love that. You. I love you.”
“Finny?” I say. There is silence. “Oh, Autumn,” my mother says.
Death happens to him more suddenly than I can describe to you or even care to imagine.
I lie in bed and look at Finny’s window.