If You're Out There

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  “Yes,” says Arturo, a bit bashfully. “At least superstitious people like me. If you could, perhaps you could suggest that I sustain some kind of horrible injury?”

  “Okay,” says Logan with a smile. “Break your legs. And arms. If possible, please break all of your limbs.”

  “Thanks,” says Arturo. He turns to me. “You’ll be there, right? Laughing super hard at everything I say, even if I suck real bad?”

  “I’ll be there,” I tell him.

  “And you, Logan?”

  Logan smirks in my direction. “Of course. I wouldn’t want Zan to go alone. It’ll be like a date.”

  “Not like a date,” I say, straight-faced.

  “Date adjacent.”

  “Not date adjacent.”

  “Date analogous.”

  “Date antithetical.”

  “Ooo, good word,” says Logan.

  I nod. “SAT prep.”

  Arturo watches happily. “I love this so hard.”

  The doors swing open and Samantha walks out, her hands buried in her apron pockets. “You off to rehearsal?”

  “Yeah,” says Arturo.

  They kiss quickly. After a pause she says, “You’ll be great,” like giving compliments is just a tiny bit painful.

  Logan glances at the clock above. “Crap. I better go, too. I have to pick up my sister from after-school.” He stands and slips a pen into his bag. “But uh . . . Thanks for the sodas.”

  Samantha hesitates a moment, then walks to the takeout bag on the next table over. “These the chickenless nuggets?”

  “In all their glory,” I say.

  She and Arturo share a look. “You know what? It’s dead in here. There’s no sense in both of us staying, and I’ve got studying to keep me busy. You should go with your”—Logan slips a sweatshirt overhead and Sam smirks my way—“friend.”

  “Oh yeah, you should,” says Logan, popping through the neckhole. “That’d be great. You could meet my sister. Stay for dinner. She’ll love it.”

  A part of me wants to disappoint my smug, smiling colleague with her all-knowing face, but something makes me say, “Sure,” and before I can change my mind, I head for the kitchen to clock out.

  I. Am. The champion!

  But I’m too out of breath to gloat.

  I’m soaked and dripping inside the school entrance, heaving as I grip the banister. We sprinted the whole way from where the bus dropped us, an edge of giddy competition coursing palpably between us. “Goddamn,” says Logan. The doors click shut behind us, silencing the rain. He pushes back the wet hair clinging to his forehead. “You’re fast.”

  “Yeah,” I pant, swallowing hard. “I’m a sore loser too. So it’s a good thing I whupped you.”

  “Hey now,” he says, still winded. “I think we both know . . . that ‘whupped’ . . . is an overstatement. Also, it wasn’t . . . a race.”

  “Losers always say it wasn’t a race.”

  “Fine,” he concedes with a grin. “But for the record, you’re also a sore winner.”

  Pleased with myself, I follow Logan down the steps to the school’s basement, past dull cement walls offset by colorful kid-painted murals. We turn a corner, our energy settling, and Logan greets the counselor standing guard at a set of propped-open doors.

  “Brittany Hart,” says Logan.

  The man checks his list and gestures ruefully to the other side of the cafeteria. The back wall is lined with backpacks on hooks and rain boots on trays. The counselor hesitates. “She’s been a little—”

  Logan raises one hand, quieting him gently. “It’s okay. Thanks, man.” I trail behind as Logan weaves through a sea of directionless children. After a moment I spot her—the girl from Logan’s phone. She’s sitting in the corner, staring at the pink windbreaker folded in her lap.

  Logan jogs the last few paces. “You okay, killer Bee?” I hang back as he crouches down and tucks the girl’s hair behind one ear. Her bottom lip begins to quiver. “Hey . . .” he says. His worry makes me worry. And it’s strange to see him in this light. Logan is someone’s big brother.

  The girl notices me suddenly, her big, curious eyes staring, unblinking.

  “Hi there.” I do this weird little wave. “I’m Zan.” I wonder if I sound too casual. “Rough day at the office?” I ask, deciding to just run with it.

  She stands to lean against her brother’s rain-soaked hip, and he hoists her up until her little legs clasp around his waist. “You’re okay,” he says into her hair. He gives me a reassuring look as he swipes a yellow backpack covered in cartoon pugs from a hook and heaps it over his own.

  Back at the entrance, the counselor checks Bee’s name off a list and gives her a cautious pat on the shoulder. “Weren’t quite yourself again today, were you, kiddo?” But she stays buried in her brother’s neck.

  The bus is pulling away from the stop as we arrive. “Noooo,” cries Logan, abandoning his sprint. The rain is pouring down in sheets and there’s not one umbrella between us. It feels like I have fallen in a dunk-tank, save for a few dry patches—which I do appreciate. At the very thought, a little stream makes its way into the space between my bra and skin, and I shriek.

  I hear Bee giggling softly as her brother groans. I look past him, to the bar-studded strip glittering ahead. A little ways up the block, by the will of some merciful traffic god, our bus has hit a red light.

  “Hold on!”

  I sprint into the intersection, plunging through puddles until I’ve caught up. I bang on the glass doors, but the driver keeps her eyes ahead. “Hey!” I pound again, with both fists, but I may as well be invisible. The water is well above my ankles now, seeping deep into my defenseless canvas sneakers. “Come on!” I whine to the stone-faced woman. “Please? We’ve got a kid out here!” After a moment, the driver shifts her gaze, and I point an emphatic thumb behind me. Logan has caught up with Bee in his arms. The driver squints, something shifting in her expression, and I know that I have broken her.

  Within two blocks, Bee is passed out in her brother’s lap, soothed by the stop-and-start brakes and the bus’s rumbling engine.

  “She’s not usually like this,” says Logan. “Quiet, I mean.”

  “She okay?”

  “She’s been through a lot. And now, on top of everything she’s come up against some, I don’t know, mean girls? They must get younger every year.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Do I need to rough up some six-year-olds?”

  “She’s been asking Bonnie to take her shopping. I think her old wardrobe isn’t cutting it here. Kids in Lincoln Park are very trendy.”

  I nod, understanding now. “Silver light-up shoes.”

  “What?”

  “All the hot bitches in Harr’s class have silver light-up shoes. I’m telling you. It’s, like, a key component in the little-girl pecking order.”

  “You probably shouldn’t call children bitches.”

  “Eh.” I wave him off. “Kids are just small people. They can’t all be nice.”

  Logan laughs. “I guess we’ve got some shopping to do. Honestly, it’s nice to have a solvable problem.” Bee shifts in his lap, her eyes fluttering slightly. He adjusts in his seat and a little river trickles down onto the floor from his rain-soaked jeans. “Well, this was fun.” He holds my gaze, green eyes glinting.

  “Yeah,” I say, and we watch the oversize windshield wipers fend against the night.

  Logan’s building is close to the lake. I’ve been to places like it—midrise, prewar, a friendly doorman in the lobby. We take the elevator to the top floor, with Bee still half-asleep, though standing on her own. She and I wait in the hall, peeling off wet socks while Logan tiptoes inside. With the door propped open I can hear him rummaging around. He starts Bee’s bath and comes back to guide her toward the sounds of running water. When I step inside, he hands me a towel, reaching over my shoulder to bolt the door behind us.

  “Back in a sec,” he says, leaving me to drip over a welcome mat. He disappears into a
bedroom off of the hallway. I hear drawers open and close, and soon he comes back with a pair of satiny pink pajamas. “There’s another bathroom down the hall.”

  I run my thumb along the silky fabric. “Wouldn’t have pegged these as your style.”

  “My aunt’s,” he clarifies.

  When I emerge minutes later, it is painfully clear that I am much, much taller than Logan’s aunt. Holding my wet clothes balled up at a distance from my body, I round the corner from the long hallway. Logan is changed and dry, chopping onions in a big, open kitchen that spills into a living room. He brightens when he sees me, his eyes already streaming with oniony tears. “You look ready for a flood.”

  “Oh ha ha,” I say.

  He wipes his hands on a dish towel and takes my wet clothes from me. “Hungry?” he asks, careful, I notice, not to pay too much attention to my sopping wet bra as he stuffs it in the dryer.

  “Starved,” I say, taking in the place. The open layout is bright and airy, accented with a smattering of antiques and a small jungle of hanging window plants. Logan returns to his post at the stove and I sink onto a bar stool at the kitchen island. I watch him slide the onions into a sizzling skillet doused in olive oil. The smell is immediately intoxicating. He digs out carrots from the fridge next and chops them up small. Then he adds them to the onions, grinding sea salt and pepper before lifting the pan by the handle to give it a hearty shake.

  Rain chatters on skylights above us. “So . . .” He unfolds brown butcher paper from a ball of what looks like ground turkey, which he drops into a glass bowl with a thud.

  “So,” I say back to him. He laughs, accepting the silence, and I watch contentedly as he adds eggs, bread crumbs, parsley, a squeeze of lemon, and finally the cooked-down carrots and onions from the pan. He mixes the meaty goo with bare hands, balling up pieces to throw back into the skillet.

  “Meatball?” He reaches across the island with a raw one in his palm.

  I swat him away. “No thanks.” And then, feeling I should contribute something to the conversation, I say, “I’ve never seen someone put carrots in meatballs before.”

  He shrugs. “It’s the only way to get Bee to eat her vegetables. I put broccoli in pesto. And mushrooms in hamburgers. If you cut them up small enough she can’t tell the difference.” He glances up from the pan. “What?”

  I drop the smile that’s crept up my face. “Nothing. That’s just . . . nice.”

  “Yuuum-my,” says a little voice from down the hall. With the skillet still hissing, Logan washes his hands and brings the dirty dishes to the sink. Bee walks up to inspect the stove, her blond hair soaking the back of her nightie.

  Logan sighs down at his sister. “Go get your brush. And a towel. You’re dripping all over the place.” She nods obediently and runs off.

  Logan turns the meatballs in the pan. “You seem like you know your way around a kitchen,” I say. I noticed his methodical chopping earlier. Everything so neat and even.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I like it.”

  A thought strikes me. “Arturo mentioned hiring another guy to help with prep before the night shifts. And we could use a sub once in a while now that Priya’s gone. Would you ever want to—”

  “Yes,” he says immediately. He shrugs, sheepish. “I’m saving for a car.”

  “Okay, cool,” I say. “I’ll mention it to him.”

  Bee comes scampering back down the hall with a brush in hand and a towel over one shoulder. She runs the bristles through her hair at odd angles, making slow, modest improvements to the pile atop her head.

  “Your hair is a bit messy too, Zan,” she says when she’s finished, her first full sentence of the evening. “Would you like me to fix it for you?”

  Logan catches my eye and I turn to her. “That would be delightful.” The bar stool is too tall for her, so we move to the living room floor.

  “Tell me if I’m hurting you,” she says expertly. I can feel her childlike concentration as she runs the thick brush along my scalp. Despite the occasional yank, it actually feels quite nice. “I like your hair,” she says, turning to face me as she brushes the front pieces from my eyes. For a moment we’re just inches apart. “It’s pretty.” Her smile reveals a missing bottom tooth.

  In the kitchen, Logan removes the lid from a pot of boiling water. “Hey, kiddo. Elbows or bow ties?”

  “Bow ties,” she says decisively, and Logan rummages through the upper cabinets as the landline begins to ring. “I’ll get it!” says Bee, dropping the brush. She sprints to the old-fashioned rotary phone mounted to the wall and stands on tippy toes to reach. She takes in a big gulp of air. “Good evening Hart residence Brittany speaking.”

  I turn to Logan, charmed, and he explains with a whisper, “Our aunt taught her that.” He takes the skillet off the burner and moves it to the oven.

  Bee listens a moment, her face lighting up. “Oh hi, Mommy.”

  The oven door slams shut. “Brittany, give me the phone.” She ignores him, still listening along. “Give it,” he says. But she doesn’t move.

  Logan charges over to pull the receiver from her hands, and in a flash, she’s running down the hall with tears in her eyes. He pauses before lifting the phone to his ear. “You know you can’t call like this”—his voice has completely changed—“Mom.” I wonder if I should see myself out. Then I remember the satiny pajamas I’m wearing and my own clothes bouncing in the dryer.

  I point in the direction Bee ran and mouth the words Should I . . . ? He nods, appreciative. His voice seems to soften as I creep down the hall. “Mom, come on. Don’t cry.” I feel bad for being curious, so I make myself walk faster, until I’m out of earshot. I can tell he doesn’t want me hearing any more.

  I find Bee sitting on the carpet in her room, staring blankly at a tattered, purple-clad doll with bright pink hair. The doll’s clothes suggest a hard life of turning tricks, her oversize head a vague advertisement for bulimia. “Who’s she?” I ask from the doorway.

  “Gwendolyn,” says Bee. “My mommy gave it to me.”

  The bedroom window is cracked, letting in the swirling sounds of wind and rain. “Gwendolyn, huh?” I say, stepping into the room. The bed is crisply made, with fluffy pink pillows, a canopy overhead, and a big stuffed bear in one corner. Shelves of kids’ books take up an entire wall. Bee’s eyes are red and puffy. She wipes them as I sink down onto the carpet beside her. “That’s a good name. Is she a princess?”

  “No,” she says, somewhat scandalized. “She’s a senator.”

  I have to stifle a smile to match her serious expression. “Wow.” I peer down at the doll with newfound respect, my mind drifting to Priya. She would frickin’ love this kid. “Good for you, Gwendolyn.”

  Bee pulls a tiny silver outfit from a box at the foot of her bed and begins stripping Gwen down to her emaciated figure. “Logan doesn’t like princess games,” she offers up after a moment.

  I keep my eyes on Gwendolyn. “Oh? And why is that?”

  Bee slips the crotch-length dress up the little lady’s torso and fastens it closed at the back. “He says princesses don’t get to do anything cool. They just like . . . put on lipstick and wait for boys to marry them and stuff.” She wipes her eyes with a strong little sniff. “He says he’ll be very, very sad if that’s all I want when I grow up.”

  I feel a pang of warmth for Logan and have to fight the urge to extract more information from this innocent little person.

  For a split second, I feel like I’m not quite myself, because I have the strongest urge to call up Priya and tell her about a boy. The thought makes me feel queasy and sad, giddy and deflated. It’s too many feelings all at once. “So Gwendolyn is a senator,” I say, shaking it off.

  “Yes,” says Bee, pulling the pink hair into a ponytail. “A very pretty senator.”

  Down the hall, the front door opens, followed by huffing and puffing. “It’s like a monsoon out there!” calls a woman’s voice. The heavy door slams and moments later a head pops int
o the doorway. “Hey, Honey Bee . . . Oh.” Logan’s aunt, who I now remember I once observed from behind a trash can, regards me curiously. “Hello.”

  “This is Logan’s friend Zan,” says Bee as I stand. “She’s wearing your pajamas.”

  The woman laughs, her deep-set eyes lifted by rosy cheeks as she reaches out to take my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Zan. I’m Bonnie.” She removes a trench coat and shakes out her short, brown hair. “You’re welcome to my pj’s anytime.”

  “Thanks,” I say, crossing my arms around the loose-fitting top. The open door has brought in a draft. “Nice to meet you.”

  Bonnie kicks off kitten heels, losing another inch. “Where’s your brother?” she asks Bee.

  Bee’s shoulders drop. “Phone.”

  A flash of understanding registers on Bonnie’s face, and I wonder if this is nothing new. “I . . . better check on him.”

  When Logan calls us for dinner, Bee is showing me her extensive library—a gift from her aunt upon moving to Chicago. She doesn’t falter as she reads from Angelina Ballerina, not quite looking at the page. I suspect she’s memorized it.

  “Brittany,” says Logan for the second time, tossing a dish towel over one shoulder as he steps into the room. “I said come eat.”

  Bee slaps the book shut. “Sorry, Zan. We’ll have to finish the story later.” Logan grins and we follow him toward the scent of meatballs.

  “So, Zan,” says Bonnie as we sit around the table. She scoops a second helping of salad onto her plate from a big ceramic bowl. “What do you think of my nephew’s cooking?”

  “It’s amazing,” I say, dabbing my mouth with a cloth napkin.

  “I’ll tell you,” says Bonnie. “This kitchen has gotten more use in the last month than it has in the previous three years combined.” She reaches across the table to take Logan’s bashful face in hand. “How about you try for local colleges next year, hm? Stick around and cook for me?”

  “He wants to go to the Art Institute of Chicago,” says Bee through a mouthful of pasta. “He could still cook for us if he went there.”

  “Is that so?” says Bonnie with a glance at her nephew. “Well, I think that would be terrific.”