If You're Out There

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  “So maybe that explains it,” says Logan.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Aren’t super-smart people sometimes a little . . .” He spins his pointer finger by his ear and whistles.

  “No. Priya is, or at least was . . .” I shake my head. “She was great. Even when life just completely let her down. It never hardened her, you know? She was always loving people, and listening to them, and learning every single thing she could. And now she’s this . . . I don’t even know! I don’t get it. I don’t get her. And I hate that!” I cover my face with my throw pillow. After a moment, I peek out at him. “Am I crazy for not letting this go?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I mean, a little. But hey, my mom’s a therapist. Hopefully she can fix whatever damage I’m doing here.”

  Logan laughs lightly. “Do you want me to write back?”

  I take the phone and push through the weepy feeling, scrolling until I find a picture of her face. It’s an enthusiastic selfie with a homemade BLT from a few months back. I remember I was right outside the frame when she took this, probably telling her she was ridiculous. Her bright smile takes up the bulk of her face, her skin a warm brown. Her big eyes shine back at me—happy and direct. I want her to hear me. What is up with you out there??

  I feel a hand on my shoulder and flinch.

  “Sorry,” says Logan, pulling back. “You looked . . . sad.”

  “Yeah.” I can’t quite meet his eyes. “I guess it was naive, but I really thought we would always be friends. Like pregnant-at-the-same-time kind of friends. Not that we were those girls. But we could have been. A version of them anyway.”

  “Hey,” he says after a minute. “You wanna get out of here?”

  I pause. “What’d you have in mind?”

  He ponders a moment. “How about Evanston? We could explore the Northwestern campus. Maybe find ourselves an Englishman?”

  A little rush courses through me. “You’d do that?”

  “Why not? You know what he looks like, right?”

  “Well . . . yeah.” I scroll back further through photos until I find one of Priya posing beside her happy beau, her shoulder-length hair spread out over a blanket on the grassy quad. He’s squinting, a hand blocking the sun, his shirt buttoned to the top.

  Logan leans in. “Nicholas, huh?”

  “That’s the one.”

  I feel a sudden streak of panic. “What?” asks Logan, as if I’ve said the thought out loud.

  “What if we actually find him and he tells Priya that I came searching for him? I’ve made myself seem pathetic enough as it is.”

  Logan taps his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps. But I think there’s a certain degree of freedom that comes with the total loss of dignity.”

  “Hmm,” I say. “I suppose that’s true.”

  “Is that a yes?” he asks, standing up to offer me a hand.

  I think for a moment. “Mom! I’m going out!” I even let him help me up.

  Upstairs, a door creaks open. “Really?!” Her giddy voice makes me cringe. “I mean . . . Cool, sure. Be safe. Text me later.”

  Logan and I share a smile before I notice my grass-stained shorts. “I should change.”

  “Why? You look fine.”

  “Ah,” I say, already taking the steps up two by two. “But fine is never fine!”

  Upstairs I find nothing in my drawers, so I flip the laundry basket over again, returning the semidirty clothes to their rightful place on the floor. I kneel into the pile until I come upon a pair of nice-fitting jeans and a loose white top. I brush the tangles from my hair and catch a glimpse of myself sniffing my pits in the mirror before lopping on deodorant.

  Logan’s right. No dignity left to lose.

  “Okay!” I hurry down the stairs and scoop up my phone and keys. Logan waits by the door as I step into sandals, whip my hair into a high pony, and swipe a set of Mom’s dangly earrings from the table by the door. “There,” I say. “I feel less gross.”

  “Way less gross,” he says with a smirk as he holds the door open. “Now tell me about our target.”

  “Right,” I say as I lock up and lead us toward the train. “So he’s from a suburb outside London, and Priya liked to call him by his full name, Nicholas Wallace Reid, because it made him sound like he was some sort of royalty. Priya thought he was cute in a nerdy way. And I guess he’s super-smart. A math major, I think.” It’s warm out, and the sky is streaked with purple and gold. I can’t believe how excited I feel.

  I snap my fingers. “You know what—I’m positive he is. I remember because Priya told me he’s in an a cappella group with only other math majors. They’re called the AlgoRhythms.”

  Logan chuckles.

  “Maybe they have a Facebook page or something,” I say, almost giddy. “I’ll search for it on the train. If we’re lucky, maybe they’ll be performing tonight.” We stop at a crosswalk and I wait for the little light-up man, shifting my weight from side to side. I’m already antsy. The “L” stop is in view.

  “What else?” asks Logan. “If not singing, what would Nicholas Wallace Reid be doing on a Saturday night?”

  Finally, the light changes. “I get the sense he’s a pretty social guy. Priya said he had joie de vivre. Anything festive and he’s there, especially if costumes are involved. Priya’s like that too, actually. As of last spring they were already planning Halloween. They were going to go as Napoleon Dynamite and Deb.”

  As I ramble on, I notice Logan has a funny look on his face, and I stop in the middle of the street. “What?”

  “This is fun,” he says. He raises an eyebrow. “I feel like a spy.”

  “Me too,” I say, smiling wide. “We’re being way creepy, and I love it.”

  “Excuse me! Hey! Excuse Me! Coming through . . .”

  My body collapses into itself, impossibly, like a roach through a wall, as I squeeze through the maze of pressed-together people. Turns out the AlgoRhythms have a Twitter account, which provided details for a show earlier tonight. They were to perform along with several groups, but by the time we reached the chapel, we’d missed their set. I didn’t spot Nick in the audience, but luckily a young lady from Tonal Destruction told us where most of the groups would be partying tonight.

  “Sorry, coming through . . . Excuse me . . .”

  We found the building easily enough, but it took us a while to locate the right suite. First we stumbled into a room full of Ultimate Frisbee types, eating bulk trail mix and dried fruits while giggling in a cloud of weed. We tried another party a few doors down, but it turned out all the noise had come from a small gathering of girls taking down-the-hatch shots followed by squeals. The correct room was another floor up. We heard music booming from the stairwell, and once inside I spot several members of the Sexy Pitches as confirmation.

  This party appears to be more of a destination, disgusting as it may be. I guess a cappella fans come to rage. The furniture has been stashed away, the floors sticky with beer. The elbows in my back are sharp, the skin grazing mine sweaty. As someone who hates most forms of touching, this is pretty much my hell.

  “I said, excuse me!!!”

  I’m spit out from the crowd onto a patch of open dance floor. A bro-looking dude teeters before me in a worn-out pastel pink cap. “Hey!” I yell over the pulsing music. “Hey you!” I hold my phone up to his face, a picture of Nick zoomed in. “Do you know this kid?”

  The bro shakes his head through half-closed eyes. “Wan’ dance?” he asks, his body swaying slightly.

  “Not even a little,” I call back.

  He purses his lips and talks to the floor. “Whatever.”

  I search for Logan’s face before returning to the mob. My foot catches on someone’s outstretched leg, and when I fly forward, a row of guys hold their Solo Cups above me like a canopy of swords. I steady myself as the song changes—prompting an excited “Ohhhhh!” from the room because new songs are apparently exciting.

  I’ve been to parties
, mostly with the older girls from soccer, but even on those rare occasions, you wouldn’t find me shooting Jell-O shots or doing keg stands. It’s not that I have some big stance on drinking. I just prefer to be in control. And for other people to not be idiots.

  I realize my white shirt is glowing under a black light. Everyone’s teeth look a little weird. “This is ridiculous,” I mutter.

  I see the light from another screen glowing across the room. A few girls in tube tops and miniskirts crowd Logan’s phone and shake their heads. I watch them eye him hungrily as he heads for the next group. One whispers something that prompts a round of giggles, and I catch myself feeling strangely territorial.

  I shake my head—moving on—and elbow my way to another patch of miraculously open space. A small brunette sits on the floor, her legs splayed out as she hurls into a miniature trash can. That may explain the breathing room. The friend holding the girl’s hair calls out, “I guess we know she’s a lightweight now!”

  I crinkle my nose. “I don’t envy you tonight!”

  “It’s my fault! I shouldn’t have let her play beer pong. Some people just aren’t coordinated.” Puke Girl lifts up then, and for a moment the friend appears hopeful. Then the retching starts again.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Hey,” says Logan. “Any luck?”

  “No. This sucks.”

  He nods to Puke Girl. “We’re having a better night than she is.”

  I hold out my screen to the friend. “You know this kid by any chance?”

  She takes the phone with her free hand. “Yeah! That’s British Nick!”

  I feel my spirits lift. “Do you sing with him?”

  “No, but he’s in my psych class.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, any idea where we might find him tonight?”

  “Sorry,” she says. “I don’t know.”

  I think a moment. Nick likes festive. . . . What would be festive? “Do you know of any costume parties happening tonight?”

  She considers this, and Puke Girl says something in her ear.

  “What?” I ask.

  “She saw a Tinker Bell earlier. Someone on campus must be doing Disney.”

  “Perfect,” I say, giving Logan a nudge. “Sounds like we have our next party to track down.”

  “All right, then,” he says, scanning the room once more. His face falls.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” says Logan as I follow his gaze. “Let’s get out of here.” The kid with the pink cap from the dance floor earlier is shoving his way through the crowd. “Come on,” says Logan, ushering me toward the door.

  “Hey!” calls a voice behind us. Several people look over, and Logan’s whole body seems to stiffen with awareness. “I know you from somewhere.” When I turn around, Drunk Bro is squinting at us.

  I take a step closer. “Yeah. We met like five minutes ago. You asked me to dance?”

  “Not you, sweetie.” He’s grinning. Like douchey-rich-guy-in-an-eighties-movie grinning. He reaches past me to ruffle Logan’s hair.

  Logan steps back. “Hey, don’t touch me, man.”

  The boy laughs, too hard, and I’m immediately uncomfortable. “Of course. Now I remember. How could I forget those flowing locks? It’s my favorite pizza delivery specialist.” Logan’s expression has gone flat, his nostrils flaring slightly. “Hey, ever’body!” cries Drunk Bro. “Say whatup to Little Caesar over here!”

  Logan rubs the back of his neck, his eyes on the ground. “All right, you’ve had your fun. We’re leaving now.”

  “Who let you in here anyway? I’m pretty sure I’d know if my favorite restaurateur went to my school.”

  Logan keeps his voice low. “We’re just looking for a friend, man. I don’t want any trouble.”

  The boy narrows his eyes, as if fascinated. “You’re kind of a pussy, huh? I wouldn’t have pegged you for one back in Indy. Although I must say I’m impressed. Your girl’s got a sweet ass.”

  “Hey!” Logan and I both yell.

  “Let me ask you a question.” The boy comes forward, his face inches from Logan’s. “If I were to give this lil’ baby face a tap”—he hits Logan’s cheek lightly, and Logan bristles—“would you hit back? Probably not wise, huh? With your whole . . . situation.”

  He does it again, but Logan doesn’t move.

  Again.

  “Stop it!” I yell.

  Logan doesn’t touch the boy. He just turns and heads for the door. The boy calls after him, “What, you don’t want a fight?”

  He’s staring at the back of Logan’s head, a wild glint in his eye. Logan pauses a moment, his fists clenched, but keeps walking. And then I see what’s about to happen, an instant before it does. The boy draws his arm back, winding up for a cheap shot, and suddenly I’m running into the space between them.

  It’s pure reflex. With a swift, low jab, I feel the boy’s stomach sink—deep, soft. He stumbles back, and I brace myself for a return attack—hands up, elbows low, protecting my face and ribs. When I learned to fight I’d come to hit stuff, but Reggie couldn’t let me walk out without at least a basic self-defense sequence. Wrist to windpipe. Elbow to solar plexus. Knee to groin.

  But the boy doesn’t come at me. Instead he coughs, doubled over, stumbling back until he hits the wall behind him and slides down to sit.

  I drop my stance, raw with shock. I’ve never pulled a move like this. Not in real life, anyway. I’m out of breath, and somewhere else, thinking of all those days with Reggie—testing jabs and blocks, the weight on my chest impossible to explain to anyone. There were so many nights spent alone in my room, pounding on that heavy bag, until slowly, slowly, the bad drained out. It was okay how Mom always hovered. Or how something in my dad had just extinguished. Maybe the ground was never solid. Maybe nothing and no one was certain. But I had myself.

  That was before Priya, of course.

  And now, here I am. Again.

  The boy gasps for air, still clutching his belly. “You fucking . . . bitch!” It’s like I’ve suddenly returned to this room. People are standing around us, watching and whispering.

  I crouch down next to the boy. “You seem like an angry guy. Get help.”

  I get up and turn to Logan. “Should we go?” He stares as the onlookers begin to disperse, trickling back toward the dance floor.

  I lead us down the stairwell and out into the night. Logan’s lips stay sort of dumbly parted. “What . . .” He blinks for another moment. “What was that back there?”

  “What? You’ve never met a girl who could fight before?” I may be laying on the bravado a little thick, but I’m kind of enjoying the stunned expression on his face.

  There’s a distinct reggaeton beat echoing from a distance. I walk in the direction of the sound, and Logan eyes me warily. “Remind me not to make you mad.”

  We wind our way through the leafy grounds, past sleepy buildings lit by tall streetlamps. This part of campus feels abandoned—enlivened only by the steady chirp of crickets, a reminder of all the life around us we can’t see.

  I keep glancing to my side. I can feel Logan thinking thoughts. Finally I shove him. “Okay, what?”

  “Nothing. That was just . . . Thanks.”

  I watch the pavement, out of words again. The silence is a jarring reminder that we barely know each other. For a moment I have to steal a glance at his face just to remember how we got here.

  I clear my throat. “So who was that guy?”

  Logan slips his hands into his pockets. “Kid from basketball. We went to the same prep school.”

  “Prep school, huh? Fancy.”

  “I was there on an athletic scholarship. But I was in it for the art department. Place was amazing.”

  “I take it you two didn’t get along?”

  “We were kind of . . . rivals? I know it sounds ridiculous. It was mostly in his mind. Like he thought we were living out The Karate Kid or something. The truth is, I was a better basketball player than him, and I didn’t even care.
I just wanted to draw. I think that’s the part he couldn’t handle. When he found out about my job as a pizza delivery boy, he started ordering from us all the time. After a while he started requesting me. It was nonstop. I think he got a little obsessed.”

  “Couldn’t you say no?”

  Logan shakes his head, a stray piece of hair falling into his eyes. “I was already pushing my luck at work. There were a bunch of nights I had to cancel shifts to watch my sister. The manager was always pissed at me. He wasn’t like your boss. I couldn’t risk getting fired. We needed the money.”

  “So you kept bringing him pizza?”

  “Till my last day on the job.”

  “And it never got old for him.”

  “Guess not,” says Logan. “The guy could really hold a grudge. And he’s from the part of town where kids can waste their parents’ money on shit like that.” We turn the corner and come upon a group of students in a circle on the grass. They’re singing Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” with eyes closed while one girl plays guitar. “They seem happy,” says Logan.

  “Yeah,” I say, gazing out. For a second, I wonder what it would feel like to be one of these “Kumbaya” types, surrendering myself to the night, to the music. I don’t think they’d accept me into their little circle. I’d be cracking jokes before we even reached the chorus.

  Logan’s hand grazes mine and I pull away instinctively. Somehow touching makes me almost as squirmy as people singing their hearts out. Aside from Mom and Harr, Priya was the only other real exception. Maybe she just wore me down, after days upon days of her arms on my shoulders or her feet on my lap. After a while it felt normal. She couldn’t invade my space because she belonged in it.

  Logan clears his throat, eyeing the gap I’ve left between our fingers.

  “So,” I say. I start to walk again, leading us down the path. The distant music echoes off of buildings, drawing closer. “Are you going to play basketball for our school this season?”

  “Maybe. I’m pretty rusty. I didn’t play much last year.”

  “How come?”

  He kicks a rock in his path and watches it sputter away. “It wasn’t really up to me. I kinda got kicked off.”