If You're Out There

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  “For what?”

  Logan stops walking, and for a moment there’s no winning smile or eyebrow raise. “For getting expelled.”

  I study his face under the light of the moon. “Huh.” I wonder if I’ve just seen a flicker of sadness or if that look was something else. “Are you a bad boy, Logan Hart?”

  “Nah. You saw me back there.”

  I perk up suddenly.

  “What?” he says.

  “Mulan and Belle,” I say. “Twelve o’clock.” I pick up the pace as a third friend converges with them along a connecting path, waddling with her legs stuck close together. “Oh my God, it’s Ariel! Follow that mermaid!”

  We hurry past the glass entrance of a residence hall. I notice someone inside and start to glance back when Logan nudges me, pointing up ahead. A few buildings away from us, the girls are filing in. I spot a Snow White out front, already drunk, crying to a consoling Pinocchio on a smoke break. “Well, this should be good,” says Logan.

  I hesitate along the path. “No. Wait a minute,” I say, turning back the way we came.

  Logan follows until I stop in front of the entrance to squint. Amid a smattering of colorful chairs in a brightly lit common area, a boy stands in an undershirt and striped pajama pants, appearing deep in thought.

  I get out my phone for reference, checking back and forth. After a moment, a student walks out, and I lunge to catch the door.

  Inside, the common space is silent, and I realize the boy is studying a vending machine. He still hasn’t moved. Like . . . at all. “Tough decision tonight?” I ask, coming forward.

  The boy’s shoulders lift for a silent, breathy laugh. “Sadly my evening snack has become one of life’s happier moments. Best I choose wisely.” He sighs to himself. “Do you have any opinions on Combos? I haven’t managed to try them since my arrival to this innovative, snack-tacular country of yours.” He vaguely glances back at us before returning his gaze to the rows of snacks. “It’s sort of a strange name, Combos,” he goes on, the emphasis on the word drawing out his crisp British accent. “It’s as if they believe it’s some unusual accomplishment, combining two foods into one. A peanut butter cup is a combo. So are yogurt raisins. You don’t hear either of them raving about it.” He thinks a moment. “Then again, I suppose by claiming the name Combo you are sort of suggesting that pretzels and synthetic cheese are the ultimate combination. So that’s something.”

  Logan’s eyes widen, amused, and I smile.

  “All right, then.” The boy inserts a dollar and presses the button. “I suppose it’s time I take the leap.” The machine releases the bag, and soon he’s reaching down to cradle the snack in his hands like something altogether precious. “Combos, I’ve put my faith in you.” When he turns around, my chest tightens but I take a deep breath.

  “I hope they don’t disappoint,” says Logan. “It’s Nick, right? Nicholas Reid?”

  “Um . . .” The boy regards us there. “Yes. I’m sorry. Have we met?”

  “No,” I say, taking another step forward. “But I think we have a friend in common. I don’t know if Priya ever mentioned me, but I’m—”

  “Zan,” he says, his face lighting up. “Of course!” He smacks his forehead with the snack bag still in hand. “I’ve seen your picture.”

  “Yes,” I say, standing a little taller. No dignity left to lose. “I’m sure this is weird for you—me coming here like this. And I don’t want to put you in a bad spot or get you in trouble with Priya. But I thought maybe if I came here and spoke to you . . .” I brace myself. “Has she said why she won’t talk to me? I hate to ask. But I’m having a hard time dealing with all this. Even if it hurts, I think I really need to know the . . .” I trail off, distracted by Nick’s expression. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I’m sorry. Really. I wish I could help you. But Priya broke up with me.”

  My mouth falls open. “What? When?”

  “July.”

  “No way. That’s not possible.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, she won’t talk to me either,” says Nick.

  “I—” I’m stunned. “You have got to be fucking kidding me!”

  “Wow,” says Nick, pleasantly startled. “Thank you. I felt the same way.”

  “Wha—” I still can’t believe it. “Did she say why?”

  He scratches his head, his wispy hair gaining volume. “It was a very efficient breakup. Vague but firm. I know we hadn’t been dating that long, but I certainly thought I deserved more than an email.”

  “She broke up with you over email?”

  “I was in England with family, so I suppose doing it in person was off the table. A phone call would have been nice.”

  “That’s so weird,” I say. “Did she seem unhappy leading up to it?”

  Nick thinks for a moment. “It’s hard to say. We’d only been able to talk here and there on the phone in the days before. Tough with the time difference and all. I was actually planning to fly her out to London later that summer, once she got settled into her new place.”

  “And then just like that . . .” says Logan.

  Nick rubs his tired eyes. “Pretty much. For a while she wasn’t picking up her phone. I thought she was busy with the move at first, but then I started to get worried. Finally I sent her an email. She wrote back the next day and ended it.”

  I can’t stop shaking my head. “This is not the Priya I know. Even if she couldn’t stand you, she’s too nice to end things that way. And, dude, she was crazy about you.”

  “Yeah . . . Well, I hate to think it. But there is another possibility.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know how to put this delicately.” He takes a moment to meet my eyes. “Did she ever mention anyone else?”

  “No,” I tell him honestly.

  “Here’s the thing.” He runs a hand through his fluffy hair. “Before we split up, I sort of . . . peeked at her phone. She was in the other room and her phone dinged and I picked it up. It was wrong of me, I know that, but I was sort of . . . caught in a moment of weakness. Anyway, the contact was just an initial—J. Which I found strange. The message said, ‘Can’t wait, Priya.’ With a happy-face emoji.”

  “Can’t wait for what?”

  “Don’t know,” says Nick. “I never snooped like that again. I put the phone back, and hoped it was a friend of hers. But to be honest, I’d been feeling for some time that there was something she wasn’t telling me.” Nick somehow manages to look even more miserable.

  “Hey. Nick,” I say. “Priya’s not a cheater.”

  But as I say it, a flurry of thoughts surfaces. In the months before she left, she’d grown funny about her phone—never wanting anyone to touch it. I’m surprised she left it out that day with him. And there was that time outside the restaurant. I’d heard her laughing out back by the Dumpster, and when I walked out with the garbage, she was clutching her cell phone to her chest.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  Her expression shifted suddenly, and she said, “Uh . . . Friend from Model UN.”

  Nick sighs down at his Combos. “Even with my suspicions, the breakup was still a shock. I really loved her.” He opens the bag. “But if you ask me, the part about you is a bigger surprise. She always struck me as a ‘sisters before misters’–type girl.”

  “Ladies before mateys,” I say reflexively.

  “What?”

  I wave him off. “Nothing. You were saying?”

  “I guess. Well. From the way she always talked about you . . .” He frowns. “I’d already assumed she was going through something. But to cut you out . . . It must be something big.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”

  Nick furrows his brow as he chews, perking up. “These are actually quite good. Want one?”

  I decline, gently, and clear my throat. “Sorry if this is weird, but do you think you could you show me the email she sent you? I’m trying to understand.”

  “S
ure.” Nick waves his free hand. “Have at it.” He retrieves a phone from deep inside his pajama pocket, does some typing, and hands it over. “Pretty astonishing, really.” He collapses into a puffy green armchair by the window. “Five little lines to rip my sodding heart out.”

  I take the couch across from him, my stomach clamping down with the words.

  From: Priya Patel

  To: Nicholas Reid

  Date: Mon, Jul 2, 9:42 pm

  Subject: Re: You okay?

  Dear Nick,

  I’m sorry it’s come to this, but I think we should see other people. Please don’t try to change my mind. It’s hard to explain but I can feel myself moving on and so should you. California is great and I’m happy here. Take care of yourself. --Priya

  Logan sits to read over my shoulder. “Brutal. Sorry, man.”

  I stare down at the screen. “What a”—I can’t believe I’m saying it—“bitch.”

  “I wonder why she ended things with Nick but left you in the dark,” says Logan.

  I shrug. “Maybe she knew I wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “She could have put you out of your misery if she wanted. Or tried, at least.”

  “Well . . .” Something is nagging at me. “I never actually tried this email address. We still have our silly old ones from middle school. We only used them for each other. Martini-weeny-bikini? Priya-wouldn’t-wanna-be-ya? We still loved them, but we couldn’t exactly use them for summer job applications.”

  Logan appears incredulous. “So, what, you think if you emailed her on her grown-up account she would have responded and everything would be normal between you two? You left her voice mails, and texts. Not to mention that whole back-and-forth the other day that she cut off out of nowhere. If you ask me, the girl is playing games.”

  “No.” I scrunch my eyes shut and press my fingers to them. “Priya doesn’t do games. She hates games—well, actually she loves games. But games like Taboo and Scattergories . . .” Nick nods appreciatively. “She doesn’t play people games.” I’m getting flustered. “I don’t know why, but it feels like this address might matter.” My heart is speeding up. There’s a bad, sick feeling creeping up. “And she doesn’t sign her name that way.”

  Nick frowns. “What do you mean?”

  I sit up straighter. I don’t care how it sounds. “With the double dash. She doesn’t do that.”

  Nick shares a quick glance with Logan, as if agreeing they should proceed with caution. “Zan.” Nick says it gently, like I’m either breakable or deranged. “People change. It seems that moving to California has brought out a new side of Priya. One that may have already been in the making, and that neither of us could have anticipated. People get swept up in their lives. They try out different selves. Maybe she’s the sort of person who uses double dashes now.” He thinks for a moment. “Do you know that people here call me ‘British Nick’? Here in this country, at this university, I am British Nick. It’s fantastic. Everyone thinks I’m so funny and charming. Someone actually called me ‘nerdy-chic’ the other day. Me! I referred to a professor as a ‘wanker’ and had people laughing and fawning all over me. I wasn’t especially funny or charming in England. Over there, everyone has this accent. Everyone says wanker, and I am just plain old Nick.”

  “So you think she’s getting swept up in something? Trying out a new identity?”

  “Maybe,” he says. “It’s hard to imagine, but . . . well, who knows? The fact is we can’t know. Because she doesn’t want to tell us!” He tips the bag up above his open mouth. “I’m coping the best I know how, Zan. I suggest you do the same. The sooner you let it go, the sooner you’ll feel better.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You just said your nightly snack is the highlight of your life.”

  “Well,” he says with a smirk. “Coping is a process.”

  “Well, I don’t want to cope,” I say. “And I’m sorry, but I don’t particularly want to let it go either.” I take out my phone and start typing as fast as my fingers will let me. “I want her to tell me the truth. I don’t care if I look stupid, and I don’t care if it hurts. I’m trying the other email address.” I begin to check over my message but press send before there’s time to change my mind.

  From: Alexandra Martini

  To: Priya Patel

  Date: Sat, Sep 8, 11:54 pm

  Subject: Really?

  You broke up with Nick? NICHOLAS WALLACE REID?? What is going on with you? Write me back. I’m serious.

  “You’re wasting your energy,” says Nick. He sinks deeper into the armchair. “I’ve tried that address many, many times, and she’s never responded. Not since the one. As much as it kills me to accept this, I think she must really want a clean slate. For some people, when they decide something’s done, it’s really . . . done.”

  “You really think so?”

  He stares into the empty Combos bag. “I do.”

  “Well, in that case, you’re not as smart as your nerdy-chic accent makes you sound. She responded.”

  Logan leans into me. “Whoa, seriously?”

  For a moment I’m too scared to look. Then I read it and something drops out from beneath me.

  From: Priya Patel

  To: Alexandra Martini

  Date: Sat, Sep 8, 11:56 pm

  Subject: Re: Really?

  How did you know? It wasn’t working out. Nothing’s going on. All good. I’ve just been busy, and to be honest I need a little space right now. It’s hard to explain, but I do miss you. Really.

  I can feel the blood pump straight up to my face. “She needs space?” I hold the phone to my face and shout at it. “Fuck! You!” I can feel Nick and Logan watching worriedly as I let my fingers fly:

  From: Alexandra Martini

  To: Priya Patel

  Date: Sat, Sep 8, 11:57 pm

  Subject: Re: Really?

  Fuck space, Priya. That’s fucking bullshit and you know it. I want to talk to you. On the phone. Now. After all these years I think I deserve an explanation. One call and I’ll never bother you again. I’m dialing. So pick the fuck up.

  I dial her number. Voice mail. “Hey, it’s Priya. You know what to do.”

  “Dammit!” I spike the phone into the couch cushion. It bounces and flops onto the floor.

  “Whoa,” says Logan. He touches my shoulder lightly. “Deep breaths.”

  The lump in my throat grows thicker. “Why won’t she give me a fucking explanation? Is that really too much to ask?” Logan stares helplessly into my filling eyes.

  The phone chirps on the ground and Logan strains to pick it up. Nick’s gaze is kind, but I can’t bear it. I’m embarrassed by the tears streaking my face.

  “She wrote back,” says Logan.

  I wipe my eyes. “What?” But he just hands me the phone.

  From: Priya Patel

  To: Alexandra Martini

  Date: Sat, Sep 8, 11:58 pm

  Subject: Re: Really?

  Sorry Zan. I can’t. Maybe it’s time to move on.

  Four

  Wednesday, September 12

  When the last class lets out, Lacey and I converge in the crowd beneath the Exit sign.

  “Where are you off to?” she asks brightly.

  “To my dad’s,” I say as people talk around and over us. Everywhere I go, people seem to be jostling one another and making spectacles of their happy teenage lives. I kind of hate them for it.

  “Nice,” says Lacey. “What are you guys up to tonight?”

  The stairwell is nearly gridlocked, but I push ahead. “I might talk him into a game of soccer. It’s been forever since we played, but I think I need to kick the crap out of something right now.”

  “Wow,” she says, sq
ueezing through to follow me. “When did you get so intense?”

  Since Sunday, Mom has been referring to me as Hurricane Zan, which is fair, I guess. I snapped at dinner when Harrison wouldn’t stop telling knock-knock jokes. Kids are never funny when they try to be, and sometimes it’s excruciating. I may have asked him to please shut up (GASP! the other other S-word!), and then Mom glanced meaningfully across the table and suddenly Whit was whisking Harr outside for a walk.

  Mom and I had a standoff then, and I could feel her resisting the urge to go all “Let’s talk while we do this puzzle” clinical therapist on me. I kept quiet, and she was careful to explain that she was more disappointed than angry. I think she was hoping the sudden presence of Logan in my life would turn me all gushy and fluttery until I magically forgot all my problems. I would like to point out that this Disneyesque narrative should theoretically horrify my mother, but I guess now we know what she’s really made of.

  I blast through the main entrance and out into the day. “Zan!” After a few paces, Lacey catches my arm. “Hey! What’s the matter?”

  I stop along the dusty path. “Sorry. I’m in a shitty mood.”

  Lacey stands there a moment. “Do you . . . want to talk about it?”

  “I really don’t.”

  She leans in like we’re about to share a scintillating secret. “Okay, but does it have something to do with the new kid, Logan? I’ve seen you two together. He’s super-cute. But be careful. I think he’s trouble.”

  I look at her, reluctantly taking the bait. “What do you mean?”

  “Okay,” she says, her voice dropping low with excitement. “So I did a little online stalking with Skye and Ying when he first got here—as one does. He has like five pictures on his whole Instagram from forever ago but whatever. The point is, Skye recognized a bunch of his followers. Apparently he used to go to the same school as her cousin. Turns out? They had to kick him out of school.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say coolly.

  “Well, do you know he was arrested?”

  I frown. “Honestly, I didn’t ask him for the details, but he seems harmless to me. Not that it matters. We’re friends.”