“No. I’m just . . . not sure where to start. I guess . . . It kind of crept up on me. The rough patches got closer and closer together. There were nights my mom wouldn’t make it home. She’d go out for a walk and wouldn’t come back. I’d have to make Bee stay behind, get out the flashlight, and go looking for her. I never liked leaving my sister with her for long stretches, but I had to go to work. My mom would usually get herself back together eventually. She’d go out and get another job after the one she’d lost. She’d get energized, and start making plans for the future. And then we’d be good for a while. We were always a little on edge, but”—he shrugs—“I felt like I could keep it under control.”
“So.” I swallow. “What happened?”
He lets out a breath. “One night she borrowed my car and crashed it into a neighbor’s tree.”
My stomach drops. “Jesus.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t great.”
“Was she okay?”
“She split the skin of her forehead. Hurt her arm. She was freaking out, crying. Wouldn’t let me dial an ambulance.”
“Wait. You were with her?”
“No, but she called me all upset so I came and found her. But then a neighbor must have called 911, because we heard sirens and she started panicking. She ran home and I sat behind the wheel until they came. Figured it would save her from the DUI.”
“So . . . No one ever found out she crashed the car?”
“Nope. But that wasn’t really the important part.”
“What do you mean?”
He studies his hands a moment, his expression lost in the shadows. “When the cops got there, they found a bag of oxy in the glove compartment. It was a big one.” My eyes shoot up to his. “It was . . . pretty bad. But my aunt came down to fight the charges, hired the best lawyers she could find. I barely skirted serving time, which I know was extremely lucky. Not every kid has someone fighting in their corner like that. I got off with community service and probation. But then my school found out—my old teammate from that party at Northwestern made sure of it. I lost my scholarship, my art studio.” He looks at me and shrugs. “Eventually I came here.”
“So that’s why . . .” My shoulders sink. “The rumors.”
He nods. “I don’t know how it’s getting out.”
“What is it,” I say, “six degrees of separation? A girl I know from soccer may have mentioned a source.”
“Ah,” he says, nodding his head. “Well. It probably comes up if you Google hard enough anyway. But yeah. Kids keep coming up to me and asking if I can get them drugs.” His laugh makes me relax a little. “I’ve been disappointing people left and right.”
I let out a big breath, and we’re quiet for a while. I move up a step to sit beside him. “I guess I still don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell the cops the pills weren’t yours? Why didn’t your mom tell them?”
Logan considers this a moment. “I think my mom and I both knew it would be the end. DCFS had already been making home visits after a report from Bee’s teacher. And my aunt wanted us out of there. All she needed was the proof, but I wouldn’t give it to her for some reason.”
I watch him closely, the way he’s looking so intently at a point off in the street. “What do you think was stopping you?”
“I guess . . .” He looks at me, cutting through the space between us. “I told myself I was doing it for Bee. I couldn’t make her leave her home, her friends. But really, I think I couldn’t leave my mom. I was scared of what might happen to her.”
“What made you change your mind?”
His eyes drift back to the street. “Nothing. It wasn’t up to me.” His stare seems more deliberate now, the muscle of his jaw twitching. “A few weeks later my mom’s friend OD’d at our house.”
“Like . . .” I blink. “As in . . .”
“Died?” The little shake to his voice makes me think I might be sick. “Right there on our living room floor. I was out and my mom was too messed up to handle it. Bee had to call 911.”
I can’t quite bring myself speak. When I do, it comes out like a whisper: “Fuck.” Logan watches the fireflies and I look down at the space between us, surprised to find that I’m squeezing his hand.
“How’s a kid supposed to get over something like that?” When I meet his eyes, I realize that he’s really asking.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But having you must help.”
He lets my hand slip away. “I think I knew something was coming. There was this voice telling me . . . But I was too scared to listen.” I nod, calm despite the swelling in my chest. I think I know exactly what he means.
“Hey,” I say, pulling myself together. “I’m really sorry about before. I shouldn’t have doubted you like that.”
“Stop,” he says. “I was a jerk.”
“No you weren’t.” I smile. “Okay, maybe a little. But so was I.”
A long silence swallows us up, more comfortable than not. When I shiver, he gestures to the space beside him, and I wedge myself in close. For a few long moments, I can feel two sets of lungs breathing. Still, but fiercely alive. “Hey,” he says, his jaw grazing the top of my head. “Did you mean what you said about Priya earlier? Are you really giving up?”
I look at him and realize I don’t have an answer. When I close my eyes, I can almost see her knowing stare pouring into me. We can never, EVER, give up on each other. K ZanaBanana?
“All I have is this . . . feeling,” I say after a minute. “Like you said. Like a voice, telling me it can’t be her. This doesn’t feel like her. Maybe I’ve got no solid proof to go on, but I’m still scared of what will happen if I don’t listen.”
Logan nods, taking this in, as another lonely car comes whirring past—loud to soft to silent, lights bright to faded to nothing at all. With a sigh, I lean into Logan’s side once more—giving my weight, eyes on the street, searching for fireflies in the dark.
Guten Morgen! . . . Afternoon, actually. I just can’t remember how to say that.
Today’s Amanda Jam is “Here Comes the Sun,” which—okay, I’m kind of into. (Yes, posterity that is not supposed to read this, I am super original and “discovered” the Beatles when I was twelve.)
Not much new here. Although! My German textbook has a delightful little section on vocabulary words without direct English translations. For example,
Fisselig: Being flustered to the point of incompetence. (Omg. Someone in Germany has met my stepdad.) Or,
Backpfeifengesicht: A face in need of a punch. (Okay, staaawp. Was Ben like, THERE, when they made German? And why don’t we have words like this in English??)
I’m a lifelong fan of these types of words, actually—even the ones with less relevance to my life. Like age-otori, the Japanese term for when you look worse after a haircut. Or my fave, gattara, the Italian word for old women who devote themselves to stray cats. (I mean come on, how sweet is that?) Jugaad is sort of like that, too. It’s an Indian word with different meanings, but it’s sort of like a hack, arrived at despite limited resources. (So maybe that one has some relevance.)
Everything is so surreal right now. There are times I find myself tempted to administer one of those theatrical self-face-slaps you see people do in movies. (Omigod! In a way, I guess that means I almost have a Backpfeifengesicht!)
And now! A new segment I’d like call, ACTUAL CONVERSATIONS WITH BEN!
Me: You’re such an asshole. (If I were German I’d have a cooler word than that.)
Him: I know.
Me: How long till things go back to normal? Or can they even?
Him: He’ll kill us, Pri. Right now, I’m just trying not to get killed.
Me: You own a gun? Who on EARTH let you own a gun?
Him: Second Amendment, baby. I’m just kidding. Our nation’s gun laws are a joke.
Me: Can you move your head? You’re blocking the TV.
Him: Oh, sorry. Popcorn?
Sometimes I think of us careening across I-70, Ben checking h
is rearview mirror the day we moved. There was a moment when he lost control of the wheel and I had to reach across and take it. “We’re in some deep shit, huh?” he said. And I said, “WE?!?”
It’s funny how some things don’t change. And how everything does. (Well, not funny, I guess.)
The memory won’t leave me—the worst day of my life (and yes, it’s still the worst, the worst by a mile). Yaz and Anushka took turns holding me. For hours until I fell asleep. Ben flew back on the first flight to New York. I remember the moment he walked into Yaz’s room, at the foot of that enormous bed.
We were shattered, both of us, but we were also strangers.
I must have stayed at Yasmine’s for a week, at least. No one pushed me. No one pushed him, either. I think they knew it was too much for us. I think they knew he was in over his head.
Somehow, we found routines. There were Girl Scout badges and dance classes, and drop-offs at the dry cleaners. But sometimes, when he would pour my cereal in the morning, or shut off my lamp at night, I’d catch these little flashes of terror in his eyes. So, I don’t know. Maybe that’s why I’m not scared right now. He’s got that same look.
He’s in way over his head.
(Priya Principle #304: Some faces could really use that punch.)
Nine
Monday, September 17
I look toward the window—neither at it nor through. When I break away, a husband and wife in matching visors and fanny packs are staring up at me from a booth. They may as well have TOURISTS stamped across their foreheads. “So you really don’t have Reubens?” The man holds a menu at a distance from his squinting eyes.
“Sorry, sir,” I say. “We really don’t.”
“What about a nice omelet?” asks the wife.
I take a second to close my eyes, drawing on swiftly draining reserves of patience. “Well, see, like I was saying, this is a vegan restaurant. So we don’t have eggs. Or corned beef. Or anything else that comes from an animal.” They look to one another, mystified, and the woman lifts a finger with a question at the ready.
“Why don’t I give you two another minute?” I say, walking off before either can respond.
When I reach the kitchen, I check my phone. Priya’s posts have dried up these past couple days. The most recent was something to do with study snacks—berries and nuts laid out with notebooks. And before that, there was a shot of city lights at night with the words Stars can’t shine without darkness.
I don’t know what it is I’m looking for. The wall I’ve hit hasn’t exactly budged. But even if no else believes me, the more I think about it, the more sure I am that the Saturday Selfie with the birthday earrings could only be one of two things: somebody’s slipup or a message. And what about that email? HLEP? ZZ?
I have to admit, every post since has felt sort of like nonsense. But if I’ve gone off the deep end, I don’t think I care. I’m listening to the voice inside my head.
This morning I left for school at my usual time and sat on a stoop up the block until I saw Mom, Harrison, and Whit all climb into the Jeep and drive off. I dialed the school and excused my own absence, pretending to be Mom.
Then I dove.
One wall of my room now looks like an evidence board from Law & Order—all covered in sticky notes. The only problem is I still can’t seem to work out how to connect the clues with little tacks and strings. For a while I sat on my bed and stared at the calendar on my wall. I moved the month page back to June, where Priya had drawn a huge sad face in the box for the thirtieth—moving day.
I called Nick first. He sounded surprised to hear from me. “When was the last time you spoke to Priya?” I asked, getting right down to it. “Like really spoke to her. Not emails or texts or any of that.”
He sighed. “Still on this, are we?”
“Please, Nick. Give me the date.”
I could feel his reluctance. I could tell I was making him sad. Finally he said, “It would have been the day she moved, whenever that was. I was in London and we chatted while she packed. Must have been morning for her, late afternoon for me.” After a pause, he said, “She seemed like she really didn’t want to go.”
When we hung up, I held the phone to my chest, an unnamed fear clawing up.
I called GRETA next. Anushka answered. “Well, hello! Finally got that fund-raising proposal ready for me?”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. I’m a little behind on that, actually.”
“Yes, well, you and everyone else,” said Anushka. “There’s a reason we set the deadline so early. Even Priya hasn’t gotten anything to us.”
“Huh.” My heart beat faster. “Hey, when was the last time you spoke to Priya?”
Anushka paused. “God, it’s been a while. She’s emailed here and there.”
“But what about talked, like on the phone? Not since your birthday, right? When she sent bacon cupcakes?”
Anushka sounded vaguely alarmed. “You have quite the memory, Zan. Is everything all right?”
“Uh-huh,” I said quickly, digging through my backpack until I found the documents I’d scooped up from Priya’s house—sheets filled with dollar amounts and various emails about GRETA. I skimmed through until I landed on the one about the fire.
“Hey, Anushka? This is kind of random. But is Friends Elementary one of the places we’ll be volunteering this summer?”
“Well, no, actually. Sadly it burned down a few months ago. They decided to redistribute the students rather than rebuild, so we lost a school.”
“I see,” I said. “I mean . . . That’s awful.” I shuffled through the papers some more. “What about the um . . . Priti School?”
“Priti, Priti,” she said, clucking to herself. “Ah. They got a grant from a bigger charity, so they didn’t end up needing us. It’s been an unusual year. Lots of changes.”
I lingered on the email from Ben to j.karim565.
Please take my call.
I swallowed. “Hey, this is weird, but um . . . Is there anyone named Karim involved with you guys by any chance?”
“Yes . . .” she said strangely. “He worked for us for a couple years. He was our quality control liaison on the ground. He actually quit not too long ago.”
“Oh,” I said. The paper trembled in my hand. “Um, what—what was his job?”
“He was sort of our bridge to the schools in Mumbai. He would check in. Make sure everyone was complying with our requirements to continue receiving funding. Ben was supposed to hire someone new soon, but he’s been dragging his feet. At this rate, we’ll have to start taking the trips ourselves again.”
“Huh.”
Anushka clucked into the phone. “Hey, Zan. I’ve got to run. But . . . is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Everything’s great.”
When we said goodbye, I went to Anushka’s Facebook profile, hoping for a delivery date on those bacon cupcakes. Birthday: June 30.
Same as moving day.
I pulled up Priya’s Instagram and scrolled until I landed on a sun-streaked photo of her vine-wrapped home here in Chicago. On June 30, she wrote:
I will miss my beautiful life here, and all the beautiful people in it. But I have to believe that this place, and these people, will stay with me wherever I go.
I was probably halfway to soccer camp by then.
She didn’t post again for over a week.
It was hard to pull myself away from my Post-it notes and go to work, but Mom and Harr were due back home by three thirty, and I didn’t really want to bail on Arturo.
Before I left, I printed the email from the Northwestern day with Nick:
Sorry Zan. I can’t. Maybe it’s time to move on.
I printed all the photos, the statuses, the comments, since the move. I printed the ZZ email:
ZZWelcome way in/d.344itspdfiiiihauhlep.
I made a photocopy of the Found you note and added all the GRETA emails and documents. I three-hole-punched everything and replaced the contents of a binder
meant for school.
I brought the binder with me to the restaurant and stashed it with the rest of my things in the corner by the salad bar. Now that I’m here, I realize I should have bailed. I’m flailing. I can’t seem to come out of this fog.
“Hey.” Logan comes by with a tall stack of salad bins from the fridge. “You okay?”
I’m just standing in the center of the kitchen. “Not really,” I say, floating over to my bag. I pull out the book of clues. Maybe if I stare some more, something will appear.
Logan slides bins of olives and chickpeas into their slots before brushing his hands on his apron. He leans into the counter beside me and nods to the binder. “Let me see?”
I hand it over and he rifles through, stopping on the ZZ email. “Why ‘welcome,’ I wonder.” He keeps flipping through as I begin to space out. I’m only half listening. I want my binder back. “And what’s up with Priya and blueberries?”
I look at him, his words hitting on a delay. “What did you say?”
“I was noticing it earlier,” says Logan. “They keep coming up.” He leafs through the printed posts. “A blueberry tart at the beach . . . Blueberries as a diet tip . . . And then—yeah.” He points. “They’re here in the shot where she’s talking about her favorite study snacks. It’s kinda weird. Girl really likes blueberries.” My heart lurches and he tilts his head. “What?”
“Holy . . .” I take the binder and look, my mouth gaping open.
“What is it?”
“Uh . . .” I’m struggling to form words. “‘Blueberry’ was sort of our . . .” How to put this? “Safe word? When we were younger? We used it whenever we needed rescuing from an uncomfortable situation.” I can almost hear the echo of Priya’s voice from the night of the bar mitzvah kiss with Eddy Hays. We need a system moving forward. Like a code word for Get me the heck out of this! My pulse has begun to race. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice that.”
“So . . .” Logan blinks, confused. “What would that mean? The posts are coming from her, but they’re like, coded?”
I look at the ceiling and groan. “What would the point of that be?” I straighten up. “She doesn’t mention rhinoceroses, does she?”
If You're Out There Page 17
