If You're Out There

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  Bee seems cheered by her aunt’s mood. “It’s only three miles from here. I looked it up on the computer. He should definitely go there.”

  “How do you know about the Art Institute?” asks Logan.

  Bee’s eyes dart to her lap. “I saw some papers in your room.”

  “I told you not to go through my stuff.” She sulks and Logan seems to soften a little. “Anyway I wouldn’t get your hopes up. My grades sucked last year.”

  “Well, that’s what this year’s for,” says Bonnie, making another dive for the meatballs. “And you’re more than what’s on paper, my darling. But what about you, Zan? What are your plans for next year?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say honestly. Every adult seems to ask this question, and I never know what to say. My ambivalence toward the future used to baffle Priya. Unlike me, she had the picture in her head. Ivy League school. Nice, big family. A career in something like global health or public policy.

  “You must have some idea,” says Bonnie—parroting Priya to a tee.

  Whenever we had this talk and I didn’t have some idea, Priya would spin out into a list-making frenzy. Teacher? Doctor?? Zookeeper???

  “I guess it’s weird to me,” I remember telling her once on the futon in her attic. “We’re supposed to make these huge decisions when we haven’t done enough or seen enough to know who we are or what we even want.” Priya sat cross-legged above me, listening in her thoughtful way. “But wherever I end up, I hope I do some good,” I told her.

  I can still remember Priya’s face—how she’d looked so unbelievably certain. “’Course you will, ZanaBanana.”

  I startle as a cell phone rattles against the coffee table in Logan’s living room, bringing me back. It’s mine, actually.

  “Sorry,” I say, getting up. “I’ll turn it off. It’s just my”—the screen flashes MOM, but my stomach catches at the thought of Bee—“friend.”

  “Please,” says Bonnie. “We’re not exactly formal around here. Take your call.”

  I walk down the hall and hit the button. “Hey, what’s up? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

  “Real quick,” says Mom. “Are you working tomorrow?”

  “No, I think I’m off.” I lean against the wall by a cracked-open bedroom door.

  “Great,” she says with relief. “Can you pick up Harr from after-school and bring him to Dad’s?”

  I frown. “But we were just there.”

  “Well, Whit and I are going to her work thing and he offered. Harr had a sleepover but it fell through. Anyway, Dad can’t get there until seven.” She pauses. “You know you can eat dinner with your dad more than once a week.”

  “I know,” I say. “I didn’t mean it like it was a bad thing.” I peek in through the crack in the door and nudge it open a little more. Big sheets of paper covered in ink and charcoal are tacked all over the walls. It must be Logan’s room. The drawings are mostly faces, peering out from shadows. Grief seems to pour from each pair of eyes, even the smiling ones.

  “Some medical group is putting on a big banquet for the doctors,” Mom is saying. “Whit’s actually getting an award! I’ll just be the arm candy.”

  I laugh. “Nice. You should definitely go. You two will have fun.” I catch a glimpse of a sketch pad leaning against the base of Logan’s desk and do a double take. Is that me?

  “So you’ll pick up your brother?”

  “Um . . . yeah. No problem,” I tell her. When I hang up I’m still staring. The sketch is loose and messy, but it’s definitely me. I’ve locked eyes with myself, emerging from a charcoal-smudged page. I’m smirking, an eyebrow raised, like a challenge. Unlike the other faces, mine is somewhat hopeful. Strong and soft all at once. My cheeks are round, my freckles brought out.

  For a moment I’m slightly sickened by the warm and fuzzy feeling rising up in me.

  “Okay, I’m back,” I announce, crossing my arms over the pj top as I return to the dinner table. I was careful to leave Logan’s door the way I found it before creeping back down the hall. “Where were we?”

  “You were telling us what you’re going to do with your life,” says Bee, making Bonnie chuckle.

  “Ah, that,” I say. “I’ll tell you the truth, Bee. I have no idea.”

  “Really,” says Bonnie.

  I shrug. “I guess I’ve never felt like I was one of those kids with some big, great destiny. You know? Maybe the world isn’t begging for my achievements.”

  Bonnie frowns. “Sounds to me like you might be underselling yourself a bit, if you don’t mind my saying.” My phone beeps again and her eyebrows raise. “Popular lady.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Let me silence this.” It’s an email from an address I don’t recognize.

  From:

  To: Zan Martini

  Date: Thu, Sep 13, 8:32 pm

  Subject:

  ZZWelcome way in/d.344itspdfiiiihauhlep

  “What is it?” asks Logan.

  “Nothing.” I turn the phone facedown. “Just spam. Anyway, enough about me. Any big plans in your future, Bee?”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about Halloween,” she says seriously. “I’m pretty sure I want to be a doughnut.”

  I laugh out loud and Logan looks happy for a moment. “That is amazing,” I tell her. “Please do that. I’ll help make the sprinkles.”

  After dinner, Logan places a bundle of dry clothes in my arms. Bonnie and Bee load the dishwasher while “Lady Marmalade” booms from built-in speakers.

  Logan and I hover in the kitchen to watch. Bonnie hands Bee everything that isn’t sharp or glass, and Bee takes intermittent breaks to sing into spatulas and wooden spoons. The little diva pauses as Aguilera and the crew sing the chorus: Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? “What does all that French stuff mean?” she asks.

  “Oh,” says Bonnie, smacking her lips. “I uh . . . I don’t know.”

  Logan smiles and clears his throat. “My aunt’s going to call you a car, when you’re ready.”

  I return a few minutes later in warm, dry clothes. Bee and Bonnie have since moved on to Prince’s “1999.” They briefly break from dancing to say good night.

  “I’ll come down with you,” Logan says as we walk the narrow hall. He jolts up as we approach his room, subtly rushing ahead to close the door. I try to look oblivious.

  Waiting for the elevator, I fight the urge to ask about that call from his mom. I can tell we’re both thinking about it. The longer the silence lasts, the harder it is to break.

  The elevator arrives and he lets me on first.

  He reaches past me to press the button, and for a second I’m startled by how close we are. The elevator stops with a bounce and we step into the old-fashioned lobby.

  “Logan, my man!” says a new doorman through a thick, eastern European accent.

  “Hey, Frank,” says Logan as the man pauses something streaming on his laptop. “Don’t let us interrupt,” says Logan.

  “Scandal,” Frank says to me. “Wonderful program. I’m late to this party. Please. No spoilers.”

  “I would never,” I say seriously.

  A car rolls up and Logan makes a rush for the door before Frank can get out from behind the desk. “You going to put me out of job!” he calls over the sounds of wind and rain.

  “It’ll be our secret,” says Logan, opening an umbrella through the doorway.

  I tuck myself next to Logan as we scurry out from the protection of the awning. With the umbrella still above us, Logan opens the door to the slick black car, and before I slip inside, I stop and catch his eye. We are safe and dry, our faces inches apart as the rain pours down around us. He looks at me but doesn’t move. I don’t move either.

  My gaze slides to his lips. I imagine what it would be like to lean just the littlest bit forward. Instead, I take a step back. “That was fun,” I say over the rain. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved.

  “Yeah
,” he breathes.

  “Well . . . g’night,” I say, and I disappear behind tinted glass.

  I lurch up in my bed, awakened by a dream.

  Mouth dry. Stomach plummeting.

  Heart beating.

  I was the bus driver in the storm, staring straight ahead, with Logan’s grieving charcoal faces all behind me. Priya stood outside, screaming soundlessly as she pounded against the rain-streaked doors.

  “ZZ,” I say aloud.

  She used to call me ZZ.

  Hellooooooo. *taps mike* Is this thing on?

  Priya here.

  Oof, this feels weird. But I guess I’m doing it.

  I never keep journals up after I start them. Maybe because deep down I know it’s just a glorified way of talking to yourself. And who wants to admit they talk to themselves? But I don’t know. I guess lately I could use the company.

  This isn’t even mine. I stole it off Amanda—packed in the same box as her computer. It’s the nice kind, from the good stationery store, and the cover says Follow Your Heart. She’ll never miss it. I’m convinced she’s recovering from a bit of a shopping problem. (This wasn’t even the only journal in the box. The other one said Love Your Life.)

  Amanda hasn’t let up on her exhaustive positivity any since we became roomies. So. Much. Singing. Think you could tone it down there, Mandy? And while we’re at it, the LIVE LAUGH LOVE blocks you’ve got mounted above the minifridge are a bit much.

  Today Amanda was stuck on that Judy Garland song “Get Happy.” Which, okay, can I just be grouchy for a minute? Because what is the takeaway supposed to be from this little ditty? You want to be happy? Oh okay. Get that way! Thanks a lot, Judy Garland. I guess the rest of us were just overcomplicating things.

  Listen to me. I sound like Zan with all this grumpitude.

  Ugh. Why did I bring her up? I can’t think about her right now. Can’t think about anyone.

  OKAY BEING POSITIVE FOR A MINUTE!

  I got a shiny new textbook this week. I’m learning Mandarin, and can now write the characters for “I am a student,” “You are a student,” and “You (respected) are a student.” As for pronunciation, thaaat will have to wait a while.

  I keep on scarfing down blueberries. They are a superb study food, I always say. And great for any diet. ☺

  Before I forget,

  TO DO:

  Daily, relentless positive affirmations

  Project dial up

  Loose documents—remind!

  Photo suggestions? Think back.

  Jumping jacks and sit-ups (for health)

  Cut back on TV (to prevent brain decay)

  Speaking of my brain—request one more textbook

  More blueberries

  (PS. Yes—you got me. I put already-done things on to-do lists. It makes me feel accomplished, all right? Even if the aforementioned completed tasks were only debatably successful.)

  Anyway, I’m signing off now. Probably forever because I have historic journal commitment issues. We’ll see how bored I get.

  ¡Adiós! Ciao! Auf Wiedersehen!

  (Principle #301: Judy Garland would be a sucky therapist.)

  Six

  Friday, September 14

  I know there are rules. Basic human etiquette or whatever. I know, for example, that I should wait until a socially acceptable hour to call Logan. I watch the sun come up over the trees from my bedroom window, already dressed for the day. Then I decide that six thirty in the morning is absolutely a socially acceptable time to call someone. It goes to voice mail, so I text.

  Are you awake? Call me!

  I keep seeing it during breakfast. Smashed together among the other colorful letter magnets on the fridge. On my phone, over toast, smack-dab in the center of the word BuzzFeed. In Harrison’s morning funnies, repeated over and over above a sleeping cartoon cat.

  ZZ

  zz

  zzzzzzzzzzzz

  If Mom weren’t so tyrannical about sugary cereals, I’d probably see it floating in my Alpha-Bits. That nagging, tugging, bad feeling is back, and for some reason I know that I can only talk to Logan about it.

  As of eight, he still hasn’t responded. The unanswered texts go as follows:

  Hellooooooo?

  Roger, text me back, Roger. 10-4

  What does 10-4 mean?

  And who is Roger?

  Okay this is not a drill, I have abandonment issues, where are you?

  I don’t really have abandonment issues. I don’t think. But please call me at your earliest convenience.

  You are THE WORST!

  . . . Okay you’re not the worst.

  (You might be the worst.)

  I don’t pass him in the halls on the way to either of my first two classes. I keep checking to make sure my phone is getting service. I need to look at his assuring face. To know if he can see what I do.

  From the back row, I tune out a lecture about Puritans, or Pilgrims? I try to remember Logan’s second-period class today. Biology, maybe. I think I’ve seen him walking toward the labs when I’ve had history. For a moment I actually listen to the lecture—“Corn was also a significant source of sustenance”—annnnnnnnd I imagine myself face-planting into my desk.

  The clock on the wall is taunting me, the second hand moving effortfully, through thick, invisible sludge. No one seems to notice as I get up, which is good because I am suddenly convinced I will drown from this rising tide of simultaneous angst and boredom without the refuge of the bathroom pass.

  I close the door behind me and gulp the glorious hallway air. The corridor is mostly silent, aside from the clacking of my ankle boots. I actually put in some effort getting ready this morning, because I had time on my hands and nervous energy to expel. And yeah, okay—maybe a little bit because some part of me enjoyed the thought of looking nice for someone else. I settled on a paisley top and snug jeans. I even put on bronzer. Before I left for school, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror and stood still. It felt like the first time I’d really seen myself in ages.

  I round a corner, relieved to find an empty hallway, and peek into the bio lab. Through the tiny window in the classroom door, I can see Logan in profile, slumped in his seat for a lecture. It appears he’s watching the clock too, perhaps mesmerized by that same torturous, slow-motion phenomenon that nearly killed me earlier.

  I can’t seem to catch his attention. Look at me! Or your phone, you dummy! I’ve read somewhere that our bodies know when we’re being watched, so I stare extra hard at him, figuring it’s worth a shot, and it works. He’s staring back.

  So are a couple people, actually. Skye from soccer meets my eyes with a tilted head, chewing a wad of gum with concentration. I duck out of the way before the teacher sees me. After a moment the classroom door opens and Logan slips out with a hall pass.

  “You okay?” he asks. “Why are you dressed like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, scratching at his jaw. “A girl?”

  “Shut up. Why haven’t you texted me back?”

  “Sorry, I had to turn off my phone. Long story. What’s up?” I pull up last night’s email. I’ve practically memorized it.

  From:

  To: Zan Martini

  Date: Thu, Sep 13, 8:32 pm

  Subject:

  ZZWelcome way in/d.344itspdfiiiihauhlep

  Logan reads it, blank faced. “Am I missing something? This is gibberish.”

  “Mostly, yes.”

  “So . . .”

  “Priya called me ZZ sometimes. In emails. She called me a lot of things, though, which is why I didn’t catch it at first. ZanaBanana, Mrs. Zantantic, Zanita, Ma Petite Zan . . . Priya had endless resources when it came to pet names for me. But in a rush, in emails, she would call me ZZ.”

  “And the first two letters here are ZZ.”

  “Yes.”

  “So now you think she sent this. A gibberish e
mail.”

  “Yes,” I say again. “And it’s not all gibberish. There are three full words in the beginning.”

  “‘Welcome way in.’” He blinks. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Well . . . no. But look at the last part. The last few letters.”

  He squints to read. “How-lep?”

  “The last four,” I say, taking the phone back to shove it in his face. “H-L-E-P. What if she was trying to write ‘help’? Maybe she was trying to get the words out. Maybe she couldn’t.” Saying it out loud makes it more real, more possible. The knot in my stomach is screaming at me. “It was sent to my middle school email address. She’s the only one who ever used it.”

  Logan contemplates this. “Weird. Who’s the sender?”

  “Right! That’s the other thing. The Grissoms. Grissom! As in Ben’s last name.”

  Logan leans in. “Wait. You don’t think . . .”

  “I don’t know what I think! He said her phone was broken, right? Maybe she wrote it from his.”

  “Have you seen this email address before?”

  “Well . . . no. And the fact that it’s ‘The Grissoms’ plural is strange, for sure. I mean, it’s just him. No other Grissoms.”

  “Is a ‘butt email’ a thing?” he asks.

  I laugh under my breath as I gnaw on one fingernail. All of this seems crazy. And the this is still all fuzzy. Whatever it is, it goes from possible, to crazy, to possible all over again.

  “I want to go to her house,” I tell him. “They were going to rent it out, but I don’t think anyone’s moved in yet. The other day I noticed a bunch of mail piled up. Come with me?” Logan appears doubtful. “It’s a feeling, okay? I need to be there. In her space. It’ll help me think.”

  “Okay,” he says gently. “Well, how about after school?”

  “Actually, you have work,” I say. “I meant to tell you. My boss texted me back this morning and asked if you could come in for some job training.”

  “Oh,” says Logan, perking up. “Yes. Thanks. Okay, how about after that?”

  He pulls my hand from my mouth, saving what little there is left of my nail, and I feel my breath start to slow a little at his touch. I don’t know what to make of that. “I was thinking now. Like after this class? We could stay through lunch and skip Spanish if we need to.”