If You're Out There

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  “Work,” I tell him, thinking a minute. “I need to go as soon as school’s over. I bet the bus will be messed up. It’s always rerouted when the Cubs play.”

  “I could give you a ride,” he says. “I’m right on the other side of the park.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Um. Are you sure?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve got nothing better to do. Meet me by the front entrance after school.”

  “Okay . . .” I say, frowning. “Thanks.” I stare down at my packet. Did we just make a plan? I’m pretty sure the rule is don’t get into cars with boys you know nothing about. But Logan doesn’t strike me as an ax murderer.

  “Hey, what’s your deal, anyway?” I ask after a minute. “Why are small women dragging you around places?”

  “Oh that?” He smirks. “That’s nothing. That’s just a thing we do for fun.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “And so am I,” he says, moving his pen in scratchy strokes. “There’s no deal. Trust me. I’m not nearly as interesting as you are.”

  I come closer, noting the gorgeous spiral of dark-inked vines he’s etched into the margins. “I don’t believe you,” I say.

  Then he catches me looking and turns the page.

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  And there we have it, folks. There is always, always a catch.

  “You really think you’re hilarious, don’t you?”

  “What?” says Logan. “It’s a loaner from my aunt. The woman has flair.”

  The turquoise bike is secured to a street sign along the edge of the park, a whole garden of plastic daisies woven into its big metal basket, quivering in the wind. I check my transit app, frustrated to find that the buses have been rerouted as predicted. It’s a long walk, and the nearest “L” stop is about a mile from here.

  “You see, Logan, when someone offers to give you a ride, that typically implies four wheels and an engine.”

  “Don’t be a wuss,” he says, crouching down to jam a tiny key into the bike lock. “It’ll be fun.”

  I let out an involuntary squeak of offendedness. “I am not a wuss. I’m the opposite of wuss. I simply cannot on principle let you put me in that basket. No one puts Zanny in a basket.”

  “You’re being silly, Zan.”

  “Am I? Okay. Then how about I bike and you sit in the basket?”

  “Maybe because I’m six two?” he says, standing.

  “That can’t be right.” I look him up and down—well, admittedly mostly up. “And anyway, I’m the one who knows the way there,” I say. “Plus, this is a woman’s bike! I am the appropriate driver here!”

  “Now who’s being heteronormative?”

  I glance down and see Arturo’s latest text.

  HELLLP!! The vegans are rioting!

  “Do you want to help get me to work or not?”

  “Fine.” Logan sighs. “I’ll take the basket. For feminism.”

  I sling my leg over the bar and skid to a park bench, feeling somehow both huffy and pleased. “You can hop on from up here.”

  I hold us steady and he lowers his narrow hips into the basket, grumbling, “I’m never giving you a ride again.”

  “I’d hold on if I were you,” I say as we wobble down the gravel path. I have to stand to see over him. He’s wearing his backpack on his front, like a baby carrier, and each time I lean forward I feel the heat of his skin through his T-shirt.

  Without thinking, I cut down Priya’s street and feel a sudden dip in my mood as we pass her house. I guess they haven’t found tenants yet. The mailbox is stuffed, with newspapers piled at the door.

  I speed up, unable to stand the sight, and turn abruptly onto Clark Street.

  Logan clutches the handlebars and calls over his shoulder, “In case I wasn’t clear, I would prefer to be alive at the end of this ride.” I veer to the left to avoid a jaywalker and he grips the handles tighter. “Seriously! I’m really appreciating the fragility of life up here!”

  “Don’t worry!” A fire engine rips past us and I hike us up a curb, along the sidewalk, and back onto the street.

  “We’re definitely going to die,” he says.

  “Back there is Molly’s Cupcakes,” I call out, ignoring him. “If you’re ever in need of a treat. They have swings hanging from the ceiling. It’s fun.” Priya and I used to go there all the time. I zoom through an intersection and Logan lightly squeals before clearing his throat. “And that’s the Crêperie,” I say, pointing. “In the summer they have checkered tablecloths on the patio outside. It’s like a little piece of France.” Another Priya place. I guess they all kind of are.

  I turn a sharp corner, past a row of thrift shops and a street performer playing an amped keyboard with looped glow sticks around his neck. “Is he a staple of the neighborhood?” calls Logan.

  “Glow-stick guy? Oh, big-time. Out here twice a week at least. Even in the snow!” I’m weirdly enjoying this—whisking this boy away on his bike, chatting him up with the wind in my face.

  Even if he does think I’m about to get us killed.

  We round another corner, past the little theater where Arturo does his shows. “Please tell me this is almost over.”

  “It’s almost over,” I say. And with that, we come to a halt.

  “You’re a madwoman,” pants Logan. Through the window of the restaurant, I can see Arturo wiping down a booth. He looks up, shooting me a bulging stare before running out to meet us.

  “I know, I know,” I say, catching my breath. “I’m sorry. Are the vegans out for blood?”

  “Huh? No, no,” says Arturo hurriedly. “I managed to cover all the tables. I’m exhausted, but it’s pretty much cleared out. You should have seen this place an hour ago.”

  I blink, wary. He’s smiling like he froze that way. “What’s with the face? Why so happy?”

  “Zan!” Arturo bugs his eyes at me, like it’s obvious, then leans in with a stage whisper: “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but there’s an actual human person with you right now.” He reaches out to shake Logan’s hand. “I’m Arturo. I love you already. Please keep hanging out with her. She’s been terribly lonely.”

  “Arturo!” I can feel my face burning.

  “I don’t mean that in a pathetic-loser sort of way,” says my soon-to-be-dead boss, still shaking and shaking and shaking Logan’s hand. “Not at all. Zan’s the coolest. Way cool beyond her years. We all love her. Although I should warn you she is a bit stubborn, and bossy.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” says Logan with a smirk. “Logan. Nice to meet you.”

  “You hungry?” asks Arturo, giving Logan a manly slap on the back.

  “He was just leaving,” I say.

  Logan holds my stare, clearly enjoying this. “Actually, I’m starved.”

  Arturo opens the door and gestures happily to the inside. “It’s all vegan,” I tell Logan flatly. “You’ll hate it.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find something.” He locks his bike to a pole and returns to us.

  “Attaboy,” says Arturo.

  “I’m going to kill you,” I whisper to my boss as I slip past.

  “Worth it,” he whispers back.

  Inside it’s empty, aside from a group of guys at a four-top still lingering, with cash already thrown down for the bill. “You two sit,” says Arturo. “I’ll have Manny whip something up.” He swipes the other table’s check and disappears into the kitchen with a skip.

  Logan drums his fingers on the table, admiring the restaurant’s glittery booths and poster-plastered walls. Above us, Ella Fitzgerald’s voice comes slinking through the speakers—the soundtrack of my childhood, one of my dad’s old favorites.

  “Cool place,” says Logan. I nod, feeling suddenly exposed and fidgety. Even Ella can’t calm me down. Logan studies my face from across the booth. “So . . .”

  “So.”

  “You’re on a no-human streak, huh? I must say I’m honored to be the exception.”
/>   I look at him, defeated. “Please don’t laugh at me.”

  Logan’s expression twists into something like worry. “I wouldn’t . . . I wasn’t . . .”

  “It’s okay.” He’s kind of sweet. “I guess I was having fun . . . talking to you. And I didn’t feel like getting into the fact that I’m kind of a depressed and friendless loser at the moment.”

  “So you’re not a grazer.”

  “Not a grazer. Just got dumped.”

  Logan frowns abruptly. “Well, then he’s an idiot.”

  “Not a guy,” I say, smiling a little. “My best friend. But . . . thanks.”

  He leans forward, elbows planted on the table. “So what happened?”

  I meet his eyes, and it strikes me that I really want to tell him. There’s something about Logan. He’s so . . . clear. Like staring straight down to the bottom of a lake. And while I have no idea why, he seems to genuinely want to listen.

  “Nothing happened,” I say. “That’s kind of the problem. She moved away. We hugged and cried and said we’d visit every break until summer. We were even planning to volunteer together in India after graduation. It was all we talked about. And now . . . nothing. She won’t pick up her phone, or write back to my texts or emails. It’s been months but I still can’t get over it. I hate how I feel. It’s like nothing makes sense anymore. Like I’ve lost all control.”

  Logan nods. “And therein lies the danger in loving people.”

  “Speaking from experience?” I ask.

  “Something like that.”

  “Being a hermit is definitely the safer option.”

  Logan thinks a moment. “Maybe she’s depressed?”

  “She hasn’t had the easiest life,” I say. “But I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like it from her posts.” I grab my phone from my bag and pull up her account. “If anything, it’s like she’s being extra happy just to make me feel like crap.”

  Logan takes the phone to study it. “Priya, huh? She’s cute.”

  I sigh. “As a button.”

  He gets out his own phone and does some typing. “I’m sending her a follow request.”

  “What, why? Don’t!”

  He shrugs. “Too late. Who were all those people she was talking to in the comments?”

  “Friends from different places. Model UN, language classes, her dance team. No one I know too well. We didn’t really share a group. It was usually just her and me.”

  He takes my phone back. “Were Priya and Eddy friends?”

  “I mean, she tolerated his existence.”

  Logan studies the screen. “But the two of them . . . They weren’t like, close.”

  “No,” I say. “Not at all.”

  “It’s Eddy Hays, right?”

  “That’s the one.”

  He turns the screen toward me. “Then why is Priya responding to his comments with little hearts?”

  “What?” I lunge across the table. “Give me that.”

  Priya has posted a photo of a glistening pool, in a valley surrounded by desert. Fifty likes.

  eddytheonly Priya, that pool is SICK

  thepriyapatel514 @eddytheonly Thanks bud. Miss you!!

  “Miss you. Miss you?!” For a moment, I’m in shock. “What. The fuck.”

  Logan’s eyes are lighting up. “You should write something, too. How can she keep freezing you out if she just responded to someone else you know?”

  “I can’t . . . This is so . . .” I’m babbling. “No, it’s too weird. And anyway, she’s already ignored like a zillion texts and calls from me.”

  “Then fuck it!” he says. “What’s the harm? Say something really simple. Like there’s nothing going on between you. Get into her head. This is different than texting. It’s public! Make it a question, so it’s weird not to respond.” He takes my cell again. “Can I write it?”

  “What? No!” I dive over the table to wrestle the phone from his hands. “I’ll do it. I’ll say . . .” He’s right. Why not? I tap the space beneath her comment.

  zanmartini I’m so jealous! Can I come?

  “There.” I let out a breath, immediately regretful. God, that was pathetic. I should delete it. Is it too late to delete it?

  “All right!” Arturo is standing over us with both hands full. “Sweet potato fries, garlic white bean dip with house-made pita chips, and some fresh-pressed juices. Not too scary, right, pal?”

  “Not at all,” says Logan. “This looks amazing.”

  The knot in my gut twists as I glance down at the phone. My ears have begun to ring. “Anything else I can grab you two? . . . Zan?” I hear them, but it’s like they’re far away. “Zan.” It feels like I’ve been blown backward, blasted straight onto the ground. “You okay?” asks Arturo, the volume back to normal.

  “Yeah,” I say, looking up at them. “It’s just . . . Priya wrote back.”

  Three

  Saturday, September 8

  It doesn’t make any sense. She said, Wish you were here! I said, Really? She said, Of course! I said, Can we catch up? Phone call tonight? She said nothing.

  Nothing.

  Two whole days of nothing.

  Bits of sun sneak in through cracks. I slept till noon, happy to find an empty house when I came downstairs. I foraged for snacks and brought them back up to my room, overcome by the oddly specific urge to stream Beaches in my bed. Now, an hour or so in, I brace myself for the Sad Half while the cookie level dips dangerously low on a bucket of Whole Foods oatmeal-raisins.

  Priya and I thought Barbara Hershey was so elegant the first time we saw this movie. I remember flipping through cable channels on a lazy Sunday in her attic when we stumbled on the beginning. Something about the rain outside pulled us deep into the story, huddled up under blankets, the golf-ball chunks of hail clacking against the roof. Being twelve, we both quickly identified with Barbara (the Pretty One), but then she died and suddenly being funny old Bette Midler didn’t seem so bad. I got choked up while Priya full-out blubbered to “Wind Beneath My Wings.” When it ended, we wiped our eyes and laughed, never to speak of it again.

  We were still getting to know each other then, but it felt like something miraculous was happening. It was easy, and natural, like we already knew how to be friends.

  It was Mom and Ben who brought us together—forced us together, more like. Ben invited us over for dinner as a thank-you, the week he and Priya moved to Chicago, right before the start of seventh grade. Mom had helped Ben find the house here, a convenient walk from ours, and had gone above and beyond to help them get settled. I remember playing with Harrison on the kitchen floor while Mom whipped up a salad to bring with us to their house. She had this frantic energy about her.

  “I wish you could have known her mom better,” she said, whisking vinaigrette in a bowl and tasting it with her finger. “I have a really good feeling about you and Priya. And after everything those two have been through . . . I really want them to like it here. Priya was such a sweet girl when she was little. Do you remember her?”

  “Not really,” I said, though I did remember. Our first encounter just hadn’t gone that well. We’d met them in Central Park when Mom and I were visiting New York. Priya opted to sit and chat with our moms as I dug for worms alone. She was like that—a tiny grown-up, blazing through chapter books while I was still Seeing Spot Run. She liked puzzles, and clothes, and often wore a purse to match her mother’s. I was a simpler child. I preferred dirt.

  As Mom and I walked down the block, pushing Harr in the stroller, I remember thinking I had no interest in having someone thrust upon me. But I could feel how important the night was to Mom. She needed to know these people. She needed to help her friend.

  So I was polite as I handed Ben a bottle of wine and some sparkling cider when we walked in the door. Mom doled out armless hugs as she held the wooden salad bowl, with Harr on her hip. I trailed behind as Ben began the Tour, and Priya fell into step with me, appearing moderately embarrassed by Ben’s enthusiasm for fixtures
and new fancy cooking appliances.

  As Ben led us onto the back deck, all strung up with lights, it struck me that Priya and I may as well have never met at all. She was someone new.

  Over dinner at a glass patio table in the yard, Priya smiled each time Harr stood to reach his plate and smash a banana chunk into his face. Ben grilled enough swordfish, filet mignon, and veggie burgers for a party of ten, proudly donning a manly apron and refilling Mom’s wine whenever it got low. He moved his hands a lot when he talked, I noticed—as if everything and anything was exciting.

  Mom was doing that rapid-fire-question thing she always does when she’s anxious for things to go well.

  Priya was quiet through most of it. So was I.

  Mom described her therapy practice—the parts she could divulge—and Ben bobbed his head with fascination. Ben told us about his new job, a step down from the Wall Street fast lane. After his old firm had gone belly-up, he felt lucky to have landed on his feet, and he could still help out at GRETA remotely. He and Priya liked the new house. They were getting their first family car—a Prius. They hadn’t needed one in New York.

  Midway through the meal, the conversation began to slow. You could feel it—a hole. Mom and Ben had one person in common. And that person was dead. After a long pause, Mom leaned across the table and squeezed Priya’s arm. “God, you’ve grown up.” She pulled back. “I’m sorry. You probably barely even remember me.”

  “No, I do,” said Priya. “A little.”

  For a moment, Ben looked sad. Then Mom said, “Hey. I hear you’re going to Zan’s middle school. How awesome is that? Do you know which homeroom?”

  Priya spoke into her plate. “Um. Ms. Haggerty’s?”

  Mom tapped my arm excitedly. “Did you hear that, Boop? Same one!”

  Priya stole a glance at me from across the table, her expression confirming our shared mortification. I smiled. “That’s great, Mom.” And to Priya, I said, “I hear she’s okay.”

  I startle at the sound of a knock and return to my room—to the movie on my computer.

  Another knock.

  “Boop?”

  It’s Mom. I hadn’t heard anyone come home.

  I hit the space bar and sit up in my bed. “Yeah.”