If You're Out There

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  “Good to know,” I say, walking off. “I’ll get your order in.”

  “Hey!” he calls after me, and I turn around. “How’s your shovel hook these days?”

  I laugh. “You know? I have no idea.”

  The air inside my house feels weightless after a walk through the muggy night. I lean back against the door and soak in the stillness. “Hello?” calls my little brother, Harrison.

  I round the corner toward the darkened living room. He and Whit are lounging on the L-shaped couch, their legs fanned out in opposite directions, heads together over a shared pint of ice cream.

  I smile. “Working hard, I see.” They’re gazing blankly at some home improvement show I can’t believe my brother likes. I hold my apron over the coffee table and release it, the bulging pocket of loose change landing with a thud. “You two look like you just went through battle.”

  Harrison sighs up at me like a haggard adult. “We unpacked eight more of Whit’s boxes tonight. Eight!” Though disheveled, he’s still rocking the bow tie we picked for school this morning.

  “Hey,” says Whit. “I got you ice cream, didn’t I?”

  My little brother finishes his bite and looks at her. “Our mom’s right, you know. You do have an unhealthy attachment to your stuff.”

  Whit drops her jaw, somewhere between amused and offended. “Your mom said that?” She narrows her eyes. “Oooo, Alice, you’re in trouble. . . .”

  I balance against the wall and slip out of my sneakers, tiny foot bones compressed and aching from a long shift. “Where is she anyway?”

  “Client meltdown,” says Whit. “The woman can’t say no.” I shudder, in a good way, as a glorious draft from the AC tingles against my skin. “Well?” says Whit, her eyes on me. “How was the first day back?”

  “About what I expected.”

  I settle in beside Harr, and Whit raises the pint. “Pistachio.” She’s out of scrubs tonight, wearing cutoff shorts and one of Mom’s old Flaming Lips T-shirts tied up at the sides. “We made extra lasagna, too. For the workaholics.”

  “Like mother, like daughter,” I say, stealing Harrison’s spoon to dig in.

  Whit raises an eyebrow as she toys with a shiny, stiff curl of black and brown and gold. “Uh, daughter doesn’t have a mortgage.”

  “Or friends!” I say through an enormous creamy mouthful.

  I sort of like how casual Whit is with me. She doesn’t get all parental or try to cheer me up. Instead, she lets the comment hang in the air as she presses her lips together. A lot of the time it’s like we’re still feeling each other out.

  Whit’s eyes flit to my bare legs glowing in the TV light. “You really didn’t leave the house much this summer, did you? I’m honestly worried about your vitamin D.”

  “Hey now, I left on occasion,” I say. “And this is some primo frecklage over here.” But she’s not wrong. Next to her smooth, brown skin mine looks pretty much translucent. It’s something I’ve come to accept. My dad’s olive-toned Italian half must have been off duty when the genes were being divvied up.

  “Was your day better than mine?” I ask.

  Whit draws a long breath. “Let’s see. I had to go in at four in the morning. It was after eleven when I finally got a chance to sit down and drink some coffee. . . .”

  “Oof,” I say. “That sounds bad. Waking up early is stupid.”

  “Zan,” says Harr, bug-eyed. “S-word.”

  Whit smiles. “But I delivered a healthy baby. Cute little guy. Well, big guy. Ten pounds. And the mom was tiny, you should have seen her. Weaker sex my—” She stops, a glint in her eye. “Butt. Weaker sex my butt.”

  I sink into my brother. “And you, Harr? How was your day? Is Matilda still your girlfriend?” He doesn’t answer.

  Whit gives a somber shake of the head. “We hate her now.”

  My brother guffaws, scandalized, and Whit seems confused.

  “H-word,” I explain with a smirk that says, Duh.

  My brother burrows against me. It seems he’s taking the breakup well. With my cheek resting on his head, I almost forget he’s no longer that squishy toddler whose obsessions included tortoises, jelly beans, and Barack Obama.

  Keys jingle and a door slams down the hall. “Hellooo?”

  Mom peeks into the living room. “Oh. Look at that. All my favorite people on one couch.” She kicks off her heels and pulls out a set of heavy dangly earrings with mini forks and spoons on them.

  “We made extra lasagna,” says Harrison. “For the workaholics.”

  Mom shoots Whit a playful glare, then looks at me. “So?”

  “It sucked,” I say. My brother gasps again and I slap my forehead. “Sorry! Other S-word!” Mom holds my gaze for a moment, her doe eyes sinking in as if to say, Should we talk at length in the other room? To which I respond, Please, no.

  “And you, my son?” asks Mom. “How was second grade? I’m so sorry I couldn’t pick you up.”

  “It’s okay,” says Harr. “And it was fine.”

  She pauses a moment. “What’s the Matilda verdict?”

  He shakes his head and Mom’s bottom lip slides into a pout. “My poor babies.” She plants a kiss on Whit before plopping down on the couch, and I get a waft of her coconutty smell. She leans forward to remove a fuzzy orange cardigan. “I thought you guys were going to unpack tonight.”

  “We did,” says Harrison. “Eight boxes.”

  Mom gazes down the hallway toward Whit’s looming towers of cardboard. “Lord help us.”

  The episode ends and Harr scrolls through the options, pulling up Meryl Streep mid–Mamma Mia! where we paused it the other night.

  “Can we watch a little more?” he asks. “Now that you’re home?”

  Mom pulls him close. “You are the perfect son.” They snuggle up, and Whit smiles, watching Mom more than the screen.

  These two have hardly been able to hide their giddiness since Whit moved in. Their friends say they’re like teenagers in love. It’s a comparison to which I cannot relate.

  Mom met Whit in the hospital cafeteria two years ago, waiting on X-rays for a broken foot. Priya’s stepdad, Ben, was supposed to pick up Mom later that afternoon, but she texted that she’d found another ride. I don’t know how people do that. Just meet and talk and fall head over heels. For the first few months, we were supposed to believe Whit was a friend. Then at a Cubs game all together one night, Harr leaned across the row to Mom, nodded at Whit, and said, “You love her, don’t you?” Mom turned red, and Whit choked on her hot dog.

  My phone buzzes and I jump to my feet. I find it buried beneath my apron and promptly deflate. I should know better by now. It’s a text from Arturo.

  Okay fine, I’m an enabler. Can you work tmr in addition to your other shifts this week? I’m guessing yes since you’ve gone all Boo Radley on us? You’re taking Thursday off so help me! Ps. For the love of Amy Poehler, talk to some humans at school tmr, k? Abrazos.

  I text him back.

  No promises on the human front, but I’ll be there. Love Boo.

  I slip out into the kitchen to lop off a chunk of lukewarm lasagna, doubling back to swipe my apron from the table. “All right.”

  “Bed already?” Mom’s eyes reveal a flicker of disappointment.

  “Yeah. Sorry. . . .” I ruffle Harr’s hair and bend down to let Mom squish my face for an exaggerated smooch. Whit just nods. We don’t have a bedtime thing yet.

  “Sweet dreams,” calls my brother as I climb the stairs.

  Even once I close the door, I can still hear the murmur of the TV between bursts of happy chatter. When I turn around, I’m not entirely surprised to see a relic of my past resting in the center of the room. It’s my old freestanding punching bag, brought up from the basement. I haven’t used it since the Reggie days—not since the year Dad moved out. There’s a sticky note from Mom.

  Kick this year’s butt.

  I half laugh and drop my apron to the floor, not even bothering to count my tips. Piles o
f shorts and rumpled T-shirts litter the floor, separated into vague categorical piles of Sort of Clean and I Guess I Should Wash This. It’s the room of someone who’s only half-awake.

  Some photos are taped straight to the pale green paint. Others have been stabbed with tacks, layered over movie stubs and funny birthday cards. Me and Pri in Michigan picking apples in the fall. Pri on Mom’s shoulders at the beach because even at age fourteen Priya was still freakishly light. Me and Priya filling water balloons at the park with Harr when he was only three. He called me An. He called her Pee.

  I chew my lasagna standing up.

  Needs salt, or cheese. But I don’t feel like going back downstairs. It’s not as if I taste much anyway. My senses have become duller lately. Like it’s not quite me who’s doing the seeing, the smelling, the tasting.

  “Blech,” I grumble to my plate. “That’s enough of you.”

  A fit of laughter from Mom and Whit comes reverberating through the walls. Harr probably said something cute. I’d drown them out with music but I find that it’s no help. Sometimes I think I’m a bad teenager. There’s no band that knows my soul. Most of the time I just liked what Priya liked—a step up from “basic bitch” pop, but nothing obscure enough to say, “their old stuff was better.”

  I stand, slumped, scanning the room for something comfortable to sleep in. Every step seems to require a little too much of me. Wake up! Brush teeth! Speak to people! Do things! I spot the sleeve of an oversize T-shirt poking out from under my bed and, with superhuman strength, crouch down to retrieve it.

  A sliver of lime green catches my eye, hidden by all the junk that’s found a home down there, and I realize what I’m looking at.

  The book feels strange in my hands as I stand. I can’t remember the last time I rifled through its pages. I peel open the cover and out jumps the bubbly, gel-penned handwriting of my middle school self.

  THE PRINCIPLES OF PRIYA

  Even as a tween Priya was so full of grand statements about life—some astute, some downright weird—that at some point I started writing them all down. The notebook has seen some wear and tear. I turn the page and smile.

  #1

  Pigs forgive you when it’s bacon.

  When Priya first spouted this one off, I shot chocolate milk straight through my nose. The way she saw it, pigs were intelligent enough creatures to accept sacrifice for the sake of greatness. In subsequent years, this principle remained the sole exception to her otherwise steadfast vegetarianism.

  #2

  Hug a lot. Even if it’s weird.

  We were divided on this issue. Priya lacked my regard for personal space. If she liked you, she hugged you. And sometimes it was weird.

  I skip ahead, to the middle—age fourteen or so.

  #126

  First the train, THEN champagne.

  This was a lesson on the virtues of preparedness, and Priya never let her stepdad live it down. He’d taken us with him to a swanky dinner with some old colleagues who’d flown in from New York. At the end of the night, in a moment of enthusiasm, he paid for the whole table. But when it came time to buy our rides home from the Loop, his credit card was declined. Up on the platform, on the wrong side of the turnstiles, Priya looked disappointed. You would have thought Ben was the kid.

  #127

  Beware of inspirational bathroom plaques, and the people who put them there.

  #128

  . . . Also starfish-shaped soaps.

  . . . Thematic soaps in general.

  . . . Or anything nautical.

  I laugh lightly. Priya drew inspiration from Ben’s mother for this one. I only met the woman a few times, on her rare visits here and a lone day-trip to her home in Indiana, but she was referenced often—famous for the motivational throw pillows and posters she sent as gifts, each line of pseudo-Buddhist wisdom written out in varied whimsical fonts. Priya also took issue with whimsical fonts. (See #129: Enough with the whimsical fonts!)

  I flip ahead.

  #208

  Ladies before mateys!

  Priya didn’t like calling friends hos (over bros). Or chicks (before dicks). So here she preached in ye old pirate English. To her credit, she lived by this one when she met Nicholas Wallace Reid. I think she didn’t want me to feel like I was coming in second. I think she knew she was falling hard. My breath catches a little when I see a burst of Priya’s handwriting scribbled beneath my own.

  Especially if that lady is Zan.

  I slam the notebook shut and chuck it across the room. It lands, uncathartically, with a little plop in a soft heap of dirty laundry. My laptop is already taunting me from the floor beside my bed. It’s the same standoff we’ve been having every night.

  And like always, I lose.

  I climb under the covers with a familiar sense of dread. I settle back, tap the screen awake, and there they are. Two new photos. The first is painted toes in flip-flops. The caption?

  California Dreamin. Maybe everything happens for a reason

  Oh, rub it in, why don’t you? With poor punctuation, no less. I move to the other—a blueberry tart at an ocean-view table. It’s almost humiliating how much the words hurt.

  I think I may never go back. . . .

  I rush through the other ones—ones I’ve seen before. So elegantly filtered. Palm trees, and beaches, and California skies. I wish she could hear me as I whisper to myself, “What the fuck, Pri?”

  Then I close the laptop and go to bed.

  Two

  Thursday, September 6

  My bag hits the ground and I plop down beneath my tree. Yes, I know. The loneliness tree. Arturo can suck it.

  “Hey, Zan.” Skye and Ying wave as they glide up the grassy slope by our school. I spot Lacey a ways behind them, jogging to catch up.

  “Oh hey!” she says, stopping when she sees me.

  “Hey, Lace.”

  She rests a moment with hands on knees, a long ponytail of dark brown hair falling forward. “Woo!” She stands abruptly, her head narrowly missing a low-hanging branch. “I need to get myself in better shape before spring. That or get ready to watch me do some serious benchwarming. It’ll be nothing new. You always were the talent.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I tell her. Lacey and I were in the same soccer league in elementary school. We bonded the way little kids do, over nothing important. I liked that her mom brought orange slices to practice. I liked her house. I jumped on her outdoor trampoline.

  I squint up as light filters through leaves behind her. A crinkle forms between her eyebrows. It seems I’m being evaluated. “You know, you can sit with us,” she says, nodding toward the hill’s summit, where Skye is no doubt already peeling off layers to lie out in the sun. I’m sure Lacey’s friends will be fine as teammates, but in our brief interactions, I’ve struggled to relate on any sort of meaningful level.

  Skye DeMarco is a far cry from stimulating. I’m pretty sure the girl could talk about Kardashians all day. And then there’s Ying Li, who pretends she doesn’t know she’s extremely pretty and uses words like “heinous” to describe herself. In this little game, I believe you’re supposed to say, “What? No way. I’m heinous!” And then you and Ying compliment each other for the rest of your lives.

  “It must suck with the rest of last year’s team gone,” says Lacey, scrunching her nose like a cute, concerned bunny. “And I heard Priya moved?” I tense at the mention of her, but Lacey doesn’t seem to notice. Actually, her eyes are sort of gleaming now, the way they do when she’s prowling for an inside scoop. Sometime around middle school, Lacey became the go-to girl for salacious intel. I do occasionally wonder where her allegiances would lie if the day’s big story was ever about me. “So, are Priya and her boyfriend doing the whole long-distance thing? I’ve seen pictures. College guy, right? He’s cute. Like, dork-sexy.”

  I laugh. “I guess you could say that. And yeah, I think that’s the plan.”

  “I have to say, it’s weird to see one of you without the othe
r around here.”

  “Definitely weird.” I sigh, miraculously impassive as I glance up the hill. “Anyway, thanks. That’s really nice of you. But I’ve got some reading to do.”

  “Suit yourself,” says Lacey with a shrug. “I’ll see you in English?”

  When she’s gone, I rest against the tree and close my eyes, grateful for the return to silence. A heavenly breeze cuts through the thick, midwestern air and I feel my body start to settle. It’s the warm months that remind you that Chicago is nothing more than a paved-over prairie—the flatland held up like an offering to the scorching sun. The hill by our school is the only one I know of. I guess that’s why everyone likes it so much. I pull out a paper-topped tin of leftover mac ’n’ peas from the restaurant and take a bite.

  The truth is, it’s pure relief to be alone. Who says solitude is a bad thing? Maybe it’s a path toward clarity. Maybe I’m just . . . Thoreau-ing it for a while.

  My phone dings, and I perk up like an idiot.

  From: Anushka Jha

  To: Yasmine Baker , Ben Grissom , Priya Patel , Alexandra Martini , Caroline Sax . . .

  Date: Thu, Sep 6, 12:11 pm

  Subject: Let the fundraising BEGIN!

  Hey team!

  We at Girls Reaching Equality Through Academics are thrilled to kick off the countdown to our inaugural Teen Volunteer Summer Term!

  So without further ado . . . Let’s talk INDIA! Nine months from now may sound far away, but remember, we have to raise enough funds to cover flights, housing, food, supplies, and all additional expenses for six whole weeks! To supplement your individual savings and crowdsourcing, we’ll be holding monthly meet-ups here in the office to plan events (think bake sales, auctions, NON-DEGRADING car washes, etc.). And for all you non–New Yorkers, we’re happy to be a resource from afar. To stay on task, let’s get those fundraising proposals in by the end of the month, shall we?