If You're Out There

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  Lacey’s expression calls bullshit. “I’ve seen how he looks at you.”

  “More like acquaintances, actually.”

  “Liar.”

  The truth is I’ve been avoiding him since he saw me cry on Saturday. We took the “L” back together but didn’t talk much. I told him not to walk me home. He escorted me anyway, from a few paces behind. I guess because it was late, or because he’d left his bike at my house. Whatever the reason, he didn’t try to pull me from my mood.

  I skipped school for two glorious days at the start of the week—told Mom I was sick, though she barely believed me by yesterday. Today I went to the nurse’s office instead of Spanish—said I had a stomachache and blamed it on a bad breakfast burrito. The nurse didn’t seem entirely convinced either, but she gave me some Tums and let me lie down for a while. Logan texted midway through class (you okay?), but I never responded.

  Lacey raises an eyebrow. “You’re telling me there’s nothing happening there.”

  “Not a thing.”

  I think of Logan’s gentle wave from my doorstep. I was mortified that he’d seen me like that, all puffy and splotchy and sniffly. I think he tried to pat my back at one point on the train. That did not go well for him.

  I didn’t even say good night.

  Lacey examines her nails. “Well, if you are lying, which you obviously are, be careful. People say he’s dangerous. And sells drugs.”

  “No way,” I say. “Who are your sources?”

  “All right,” she says, rolling her eyes. “So some of this may be conjecture.” I smile. For a gossip, at least Lacey has a sense of humor about herself. Her face lights up. “Speaking of . . .”

  I glance back and catch a glimmer of Logan’s yellow hair in the distance. Without a thought I yank Lacey by the arm to hide behind a tree. “Ow!” she cries as I shush her. She rubs at the spot where I grabbed her, then pokes out below me to peek.

  “Shit!”

  He was facing this way, but I don’t think he saw us. I sigh. Lacey’s delight is evident. “Acquaintances, huh?”

  “Yep.” I peer out again. He’s walking toward the opposite end of the park, languid, his headphones in, a notebook tucked beneath one arm. I’m relieved as his wiry body gets smaller and smaller and disappears around a corner. “Phewf.” I plop down on the ground to rest against the tree trunk, sending a cloud of dusty dirt into the air.

  Lacey sighs down at me. “Alexandra Martini, what did you do? Were you mean to him?”

  I crinkle my nose. “Maybe a little?”

  At this, Lacey slides down the trunk beside me, letting her pristine white jeans squish right into the grass. “Tell me. Is it true you’ve never dated anyone?”

  “There have been guys,” I say. “I don’t know. Little sparks. But it never goes anywhere. What?” I must sound defensive.

  “Just curious,” she says, her hands up. “If you wanna talk about it, it would stay between us. Believe it or not, I actually can keep my mouth shut from time to time.”

  “It’s fine,” I tell her. “Priya used to bug me about it, too. She and my mom diagnosed me with chronic boylessness.”

  “How is Priya anyway?” asks Lacey. “I’ve been following. The pictures are so pretty. Does she love California?”

  “Yep,” I say quickly. It’s easier to lie by omission than get into it.

  Lacey thinks a moment, then turns to me decisively. “So where do you think the chronic boylessness comes from?”

  I shoot her a look. “Are you trying to therapist me right now? Because you may remember, I have enough of that at home.”

  “Oh right,” says Lacey. “I forgot about that. I’m just saying. If it’s a shyness thing, I would happily coach you. It’s all about confidence.”

  “Well, that’s very charitable of you,” I tell her.

  “Zan.” She looks almost stricken. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “No, I know,” I say, smiling at her. “I’m just giving you shit. Anyway, I wouldn’t say it’s a shyness thing. It’s more like . . . I don’t know. Like maybe I’m just not a mushy person. And the thought of losing myself to someone? Sounds like a bad idea to me. People suck so much of the time.”

  “I get that,” says Lacey. “I definitely get that. And I guess it doesn’t help if the guy in question has a past.”

  She says that last word so dramatically it makes me flustered. “No, that’s not . . . I don’t know what people are saying, but I doubt you have your facts right.”

  “Okay,” says Lacey. “Hey, if you trust him, I’m on board. I say go for it. Because, honestly, I think people forget—in cases like these, you have to consider the extenuating circumstances.”

  I meet her eyes, dubious. “Like what kind of circumstances?”

  Lacey gets up, brushing herself off. “Like the kind where the guy is just really, really hot.”

  The track lights in Dad’s new condo are dimmed, apart from a single low-hanging lantern that glows above the bright white kitchen table. It feels like Dad wants us to like this place, and I’ll admit the Wicker Park location is pretty cool—in a self-aware hipster sort of way. Harr and I each have our own rooms now, which is nice. But it’s probably a waste if I’m being honest. We’re not here enough for it to matter.

  Tonight, though, I’m happy to sleep somewhere that isn’t mine—to leave the shit-storm-of-perpetual-misery that is my actual life behind for a night.

  “Got any homework?” Dad asks, setting down a stack of plates and a handful of forks and spoons. We’ve both cleaned up since our one-on-one game. I can’t remember the last time we played soccer together, but I was struck by how easily we picked it up again. I think Dad was surprised I suggested it.

  Anyway, it turned out to be exactly what I needed—and I totally kicked his ass.

  “Not really,” I say as I take my seat. “Do you?”

  He rips through the staples of a paper takeout bag. “I’ve got a presentation to go over before bed. Nothing major.” Dad’s an account executive for an advertising firm, like a modern-day Mad Man without the morning Scotches and submissive secretaries. In fact, I’m pretty sure their receptionist is a dude.

  “Anything good?” I ask.

  “Toilet paper,” he says as he sets out the to-go containers one by one. “We’re going with a luxurious angle.”

  I can’t help but grin. “How about ‘A little swipe of heaven’?”

  He shudders. “You’re a natural. . . . Don’t be like me.” Dad used to write the slogans for his agency—back when he was a “creative.” I think he liked that better, but the promotion came with perks, and money, and it’s not like cranking out one-liners for plug-in air fresheners ever filled his soul like John Coltrane or Dave Brubeck or Billie Holiday did. His standing bass still rests in the corner by the bookcase, unplayed and out of tune. Mom always says she wishes he’d pick it up again.

  “All right,” says Dad, crumpling the paper bag and tossing it in the recycling. “Get it while it’s hot.” He sets out chana bhaji and saag paneer. I take a scoop of both and rip off some naan before making a dash for the lamb vindaloo.

  Dad stops my hand. “That’s lamb.”

  “I know,” I say.

  He frowns. “I thought you were vegan.”

  “None of this is vegan, Dad. The chickpeas have ghee. And that’s cheese in the spinach, not tofu.”

  “Oh. . . . Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not vegan.”

  He still looks a bit puzzled.

  “I just work at a vegan place?” I say, jogging his memory with a sigh. There are times my dad seems so in tune with the world around him. And then come the moments when I wonder if he’s ever listened to a word I’ve said.

  He mutters to himself—“Right”—and walks back behind the counter to grab a roll of paper towels. “And you’re not a vegetarian.”

  “Nope.”

  “So . . . why haven’t I been ordering more meat all this time? I very much like meat.�
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  “Because of Priya,” I say. She usually joined our weekly dinners. I never had to explain myself when I asked her to tag along, but I think she knew. She was a good buffer. She moved the conversation. Kept everything easy and fun.

  Dad rips off a paper towel for each of us and I maintain a neutral face despite a sudden bout of misery. “This was her order,” I say. “She’s the vegetarian. Well, except for bacon.”

  At this, Dad smiles. “So her love of animals stops at pigs.”

  “Oh, she loves pigs, too. She just also thinks they’re really, really delicious.”

  “Well, I can’t argue with her there.” He takes the seat across from me. “So is that whole thing still . . .”

  I nod.

  He has a look of predetermined regret, like he already knows he won’t be able to conjure up the right thing to say. I don’t mind. I kind of prefer it, actually. It’s a nice break from Mom’s X-ray eyes, slapping scans of my broken heart against the illuminated glass for daily checkups. Dad’s eyes don’t x-ray. In fact, there’s a good amount he doesn’t see when it’s right in front of him.

  Harrison emerges from his bedroom in footy pajamas, looking rosy and clean after a bath. Dad gets up to pour a Styrofoam container of mulligatawny soup into a bowl over the sink. He sets it in front of Harrison with some naan on a plate.

  “Mmm,” says Harr, his arms outstretched at the table as Dad punctures his mango lassi with a straw. “Come to me, my pretty.”

  “Hey, Harr,” I say. “Tell Dad your joke. The one you told me while he was out getting the food.”

  Harr wipes his soup-covered lips with the back of his hand. “Knock-knock.”

  Dad grins. “Who’s there?”

  “To.”

  “To who?”

  Harrison throws his head back with exasperation. “To! Whom!!!”

  Dad cracks up, holding my gaze for a moment. “That wasn’t awful, Harrison. Nicely done.”

  It’s weird watching Dad with Harr sometimes. It’s almost like he’s picking up where he left off with me after a long, long gap. I never liked the sound of the term daddy’s girl, but I guess that’s what I was once. Until the weather hit below freezing—as it is apt to do in Chicago—Dad and I would play soccer before dinner every night, rain or shine. I remember having inside jokes, hundreds of them. They bounced between us without a thought. I remember Sunday mornings, after pancakes, when the plucky, low sounds of a bass filled our house for hours.

  When he and Mom split up, all that went away, so fast it left me winded. He became a visitor. A fun uncle. The place he moved into felt sparse and sad. Harr was only a baby, so Dad never had us for long. He worked a lot. Took trips by himself.

  At the very least, we always had our weekly dinner, but something had died. And every week, I got a little angrier. Until it all became numb and normal.

  My brother perks up suddenly. “Can I watch a show while I eat? I promise I won’t spill.”

  “Sure,” says Dad. “But I’m putting down a towel.” I don’t know what possessed Dad to buy a white couch, but at least it’s cheerful looking. Almost everything in here is new—the rug, the chairs, the dishes. There’s an old-fashioned globe at the end of a high shelf full of books. Below is a row of framed pictures, and one is of me, as a roly-poly baby. In the kitchen, there are drawings from Harrison all over the refrigerator.

  “So.” Dad returns to his seat once Harr is set up. “How, uh . . . How are you?”

  I look at him. Frown. “I’m . . . good?”

  He blinks, staring at me as if I might detonate at any moment. “I don’t want to pry here.” He clears his throat. “But uh . . . Your mom called me before you guys came over. And she asked if I might try to . . .” He winces. “Well, she says you’ve been acting”—oh no, cue the eye roll—“depressed?”

  “It’s not depression when something bad happens,” I spit back. “Then it’s just regular old sadness. Mom of all people should know that.”

  His hands are up. “Of course she does. But I think she’s . . . worried. And she’s not the only one.” He scratches his head, thinking, and I can feel him winding up for a Talk. We don’t do this. I don’t know why he thinks we do this. “Believe it or not, I’ve been where you are before. I’ve lost a best friend. And so has Mom.”

  “Mom lost her best friend to a car accident. To life being shitty and unfair. She didn’t lose Sita to, I don’t know, a choice! To a completely unexplained thing that makes no sense.”

  He nods, calm, thoughtful. “That’s true.”

  “Priya is choosing not to be my friend, Dad. I’m not saying it’s worse. I’m saying it’s different.”

  “And I’m sure that’s hard. But it doesn’t make it any healthier to pick the scab.”

  I swallow. “Who says I’m picking a scab?”

  He hesitates. “Mom . . . She says you still check up on Priya sometimes. Online.”

  I drop my fork onto my plate. “So now she’s spying on me?!”

  Harrison looks up from his show and I smile like everything’s fine. “What the hell, Dad?” I whisper.

  “Hey. No one’s spying on anyone.”

  “Then how would she know that?”

  I glance over at the couch, where my brother has returned to his TV-induced trance. Dad’s eyes fall to the table. “She said you’ve left Priya’s Instagram account up on your laptop a couple times. It was just there—she wasn’t checking. But she says this has been going on for months, and, I mean I hate to say this, but I think maybe it’s about time you say to yourself, I don’t know, Message received!”

  “Well, I can’t.” I can feel the heat rising to my face. “And honestly, I’m getting less and less sad, and more and more pissed off.” Dad hasn’t touched his food. He’s just listening, waiting. “Her posts are so . . .” I’m fighting tears again. “It’s like she decided to be this new, bouncy, California chick who wants nothing to do with me. And I just want to know what it is!”

  Dad’s eyes flit up to search mine. “What what is?”

  I shrug. “What’s wrong with me. Why I wasn’t worth keeping in her life. Why I’m so . . .” I look at my lap. “Easy to leave.” I clear my throat. “You should see the posts, Dad. It’s like she hates the people we used to be.” I take out my phone and scroll through her captions, narrating in my best Valley girl voice. “‘I kinda miss the changing leaves, but who could argue with forever summer?’” I throw my hands up. “Do you see what I’m talking about? Priya knows perfectly well that forever is a noun, not an adjective!”

  “Well, technically . . .” He frowns. “Wait, is it an adverb?”

  “I don’t care, Dad. Listen to the caption on this photo.” I hold up an arty shot of color-boosted blueberries in a bowl. “‘Berries, not chips! Getting healthy, woo hoo!’” I let out an exasperated groan. “She’s so, like, chipper! And she’s always writing cheesy crap now. Like, how you have to ‘look through rain to see the rainbow,’ or whatever.” I stare at him, still baffled. “Who has she become? I want her to call me. Or better yet, to come back home and look me in the face. And then I want to scream at her.” I meet his worried eyes. “So I’m not depressed. Okay, Dad? I’m furious.” I shove some naan into my mouth. “Are we done?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  I chew in silence for a moment, feeling a little like I briefly left my own skin. This isn’t me. I don’t bare my soul and fight off tears. Especially not here, with Dad.

  He gets up to grab the water pitcher from the fridge, and I watch from across the kitchen as he pours two glasses, plus a plastic cup for Harr.

  “Who did you lose?” I ask suddenly.

  “Hm?” he says, settling back into his chair.

  “You said you lost a best friend, too.” Dad glances over at me before lifting his fork, and for a second I’m reminded of all the things I don’t quite know about him. “Who was it?”

  He smiles, almost. “Your mom.”

  And there it is. “Oh.”

>   “Look.” He studies me for a beat, clearly questioning his decision to keep talking. “I know this is hard. And it sucks. But eventually, you will get past this. And . . .” He braces himself. “I know this is a fairly sacrilegious thing to say to a teenage girl, but I think the first step is probably to put down the phone.” I laugh as I scroll past another nauseating photo Priya posted this weekend (Saturday Selfie! Love you, Cali). She’s tilting her head to one side with a mock model face, the blue water stretching out behind her. “Think we could try that?” he asks, reaching across the table to gently pry the phone from my hands.

  I sigh with resignation, before my fingers clamp back down around the phone. I study the picture again. Priya’s hair is swept back in a ponytail, revealing a pair of chandelier earrings. Jhumke in Hindi, she told me once. These are gold with little teal beads—the ones I gave her for her birthday.

  My breath catches.

  Holy shit.

  “Boop?” I don’t register Dad’s voice at first. He hasn’t called me that in years. “Hey. You okay?”

  “Can I borrow your car?” I ask.

  I interpret his flummoxed expression as a yes. “I’ll be right back!” I say, swiping his keys from the kitchen counter and doubling back for another piece of naan.

  “Wait . . .” Dad stands as I run around the apartment searching for shoes. “Your food will get cold.”

  I smash my feet into my sneakers until they’re halfway on and make a beeline for the door. “I just need twenty minutes, half an hour tops.”

  I’m already halfway down the corridor when Dad’s voice rings out behind me. “Okay, well . . . Permission granted! But be careful!”

  I find the Subaru in the garage beneath the building, wedged into Dad’s corner spot near a beam on the passenger side. I press hard on the accelerator and lurch out of the space with a solid inch to spare. Soon I’m barreling down North Avenue, cursing every light and crosswalk.

  At the next red light, I have a standoff with my phone on the passenger seat. I bite my lip. I was horrible. I know. But I really want to talk to Logan.

  “Come on . . .”

  His phone goes straight to voice mail, and I’m surprised by how disappointed I feel. I hit another stoplight and send him a text.