Paper Towns pdfdrive com

20.
The next morning at school, I found Ben standing beside the band door talking
to Lacey, Radar, and Angela in the shade of a tree with low-hanging branches. It
was hard for me to listen as they talked about prom, and about how Lacey was
feuding with Becca or whatever. I was waiting for a chance to tell them what I’d
seen, but then when I had the chance, when I finally said, “I took a pretty long
look at the two pseudovisions but didn’t find much,” I realized that there was
nothing new to say, really.
No one even seemed that concerned, except Lacey. She shook her head as I
talked about the pseudovisions, and then said, “I was reading online last night
that people who are suicidal end relationships with people they’re angry with.
And they give away their stuff. Margo gave me like five pairs of jeans last week
because she said I could wear them better, which isn’t even true because she’s so
much more, like, curvy.” I liked Lacey, but I saw Margo’s point about the
undermining.
Something about telling us that story made her start to cry, and Ben put an
arm around her, and she tucked her head into his shoulder, which was hard to do,
because in her heels she was actually taller than him.
“Lacey, we just have to find a location. I mean, talk to your friends. Did she
ever mention paper towns? Did she ever talk about a specific place? Was there
some subdivision somewhere that meant something to her?” She shrugged into
Ben’s shoulder.
“Bro, don’t push her,” Ben said. I sighed, but shut up.
“I’m on the online stuff,” Radar said, “but her username hasn’t logged on to
Omnictionary since she left.”
And then all at once they were back on the topic of prom. Lacey emerged
from Ben’s shoulder still looking sad and distracted, but she tried to smile as
Radar and Ben swapped tales of corsage purchasing.
The day passed as it always did—in slow motion, with a thousand plaintive
glances at the clock. But now it was even more unbearable, because every

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minute I wasted in school was another minute in which I failed to find her.
My only vaguely interesting class that day was English, when Dr. Holden
completely ruined Moby Dick for me by incorrectly assuming we’d all read it
and talking about Captain Ahab and his obsession with finding and killing this
white whale. But it was fun to watch her get more and more excited as she
talked. “Ahab’s a madman railing against fate. You never see Ahab wanting
anything else in this whole novel, do you? He has a singular obsession. And
because he is the captain of his ship, no one can stop him. You can argue—
indeed, you may argue, if you choose to write about him for your final reaction
papers—that Ahab is a fool for being obsessed. But you could also argue that
there is something tragically heroic about fighting this battle he is doomed to
lose. Is Ahab’s hope a kind of insanity, or is it the very definition of
humanness?” I wrote down as much as I could of what she said, realizing that I
could probably pull off my final reaction paper without actually reading the
book. As she talked, it occurred to me that Dr. Holden was unusually good at
reading stuff. And she’d said she liked Whitman. So when the bell rang, I took
Leaves of Grass from my bag and then zipped it back up slowly while everyone
raced off either to home or to extracurriculars. I waited behind someone asking
for an extension on an already late paper, and then he left.
“It’s my favorite Whitman reader,” she said.
I forced a smile. “Do you know Margo Roth Spiegelman?” I asked.
She sat down behind her desk and motioned for me to sit. “I never had her in
class,” Dr. Holden said, “but I’ve certainly heard of her. I know that she ran
away.”
“She sort of left me this book of poems before she, uh, disappeared.” I
handed the book over, and Dr. Holden began paging through it slowly. As she
did, I told her, “I’ve been thinking a lot about the highlighted parts. If you go to
the end of ‘Song of Myself,’ she highlights this stuff about dying. Like, ‘If you
want me again look for me under your bootsoles.’”
“She left this for you,” Dr. Holden said quietly.
“Yeah,” I said.
She flipped back and tapped at the green highlighted quote with her
fingernail. “What is this about the doorjambs? That’s a great moment in the
poem, where Whitman—I mean, you can feel him shouting at you: ‘Open the
doors! In fact, remove the doors!’”
“She actually left me something else inside my doorjamb.”
Dr. Holden laughed. “Wow. Clever. But it’s such a great poem—I hate to see

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it reduced to such a literal reading. And she seems to have responded very darkly
to what is finally a very optimistic poem. The poem is about our connectedness
—each of us sharing the same root system like leaves of grass.”
“But, I mean, from what she highlighted, it seems kinda like a suicide note,”
I said. Dr. Holden read the last stanzas again and then looked up at me.
“What a mistake it is to distill this poem into something hopeless. I hope
that’s not the case, Quentin. If you read the whole poem, I don’t see how you can
come to any conclusion except that life is sacred and valuable. But—who knows.
Maybe she skimmed it for what she was looking for. We often read poems that
way. But if so, she completely misunderstood what Whitman was asking of her.”
“And what’s that?”
She closed the book and looked right at me in a way that made it impossible
for me to hold her gaze. “What do you think of it?”
“I don’t know,” I said, staring at a stack of graded papers on her desk. “I’ve
tried to read it straight through a bunch of times, but I haven’t gotten very far.
Mostly I just read the parts she highlighted. I’m reading it to try to understand
Margo, not to try to understand Whitman.”
She picked up a pencil and wrote something on the back of an envelope.
“Hold on. I’m writing that down.”
“What?”
“What you just said,” she explained.
“Why?”
“Because I think that is precisely what Whitman would have wanted. For you
to see ‘Song of Myself’ not just as a poem but as a way into understanding
another. But I wonder if maybe you have to read it as a poem, instead of just
reading these fragments for quotes and clues. I do think there are some
interesting connections between the poet in ‘Song of Myself’ and Margo
Spiegelman—all that wild charisma and wanderlust. But a poem can’t do its
work if you only read snippets of it.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said. I took the book and stood up. I didn’t feel much
better.
I got a ride home with Ben that afternoon and stayed at his house until he left to
go pick up Radar for some pre-prom party being thrown by our friend Jake,
whose parents were out of town. Ben asked me to go, but I didn’t feel like it.
I walked back to my house, across the park where Margo and I had found the

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dead guy. I remembered that morning, and I felt something twist at my gut in the
remembering of it—not because of the dead guy, but because I remembered that
she had found him first. Even in my own neighborhood’s playground, I’d been
unable to find a body on my own—how the hell would I do it now?
I tried to read “Song of Myself” again when I got home that night, but
despite Dr. Holden’s advice, it still turned into a jumble of nonsensical words.
I woke up early the next morning, just after eight, and went to the computer. Ben
was online, so I IM’ed him.