If You're Out There

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  Hey so. . . . If you keep hanging around me you will probably pick up on how much I suck at feelings. I’m sorry about before. Would you call me? Seriously—911!

  My phone chirps as I pull onto my street, but it’s only Dad, probably worrying about his daughter’s questionable mental state. I take the porch steps two by two, and soon I’m hoofing it up to my room.

  Mom calls out from the first floor. “Hello?”

  “It’s me!” I shout. “Forgot a couple things!”

  I shut my door and run over to my dresser. There are four small jewelry boxes stacked against the wall, hidden behind books and laundry.

  I grab the first one. Mom brought it back from a trip to Denmark years ago. It’s shaped like a treasure chest, carved like it’s covered with vines. I swipe the dresser clear, sending clothes in all directions. I open the lid and spot the jangly bracelets Priya and I both got as presents from Anushka after one of her trips, back when she still traveled a lot to and from Mumbai, before GRETA hired someone local and the gifts stopped.

  I turn the little chest upside down and spread knotted necklaces and mismatched earrings onto the wood surface.

  “Dammit.”

  The next two boxes are less sentimental, the kind that come with cheap jewelry already inside. They yield nothing but some long-retired anklets and a few pairs of hoop earrings that look completely ridiculous on me.

  I hold the last box in my hands. It was a handmade gift from Priya, upholstered in silk and bedazzled to the max. Priya always had a thing for bedazzling—posters, picture frames, her cell phone case. My thoughts keep veering off, buying time, and for a lingering moment I’m completely still. Like maybe I don’t want to know.

  But I do know. I’ve known from the moment I recognized the picture.

  I set the box in front of me on the dresser and lift the lid. A little jolt courses through me and I step back. Because there, atop a heap of tangled chains, are Priya’s teal beaded jhumke from that goddamned Saturday Selfie.

  I don’t fully remember driving back to Dad’s. Some other part of my brain took over and got me there. It even helped me wedge the car back into the parking spot. Harr was still watching his show when I walked in, while Dad scrubbed at the bright white table with a Lysol wipe. He might have asked if I wanted my food reheated, but I think I mumbled “Maybe later” before slipping into my room.

  I sink onto the edge of the bed, resting the earrings beside me on the comforter, and check the photo on my screen to compare for the millionth time. There’s no mistaking it—they have the same intricate gold base, the same teal beads on chains that form a perfect V.

  The more I stare, the more certain I become. That isn’t the ocean in the background. It’s Lake Michigan. It was that day on the beach on Mom’s ratty yoga blanket. The week of Priya’s birthday. When our to-go cups watched the sun go down.

  I gave her the earrings early, because they were so her I couldn’t wait. Then she left them at my house, sleeping over one night, and forgot to take them back.

  Logan’s name flashes silently across the screen. I lift the phone to my ear, unsteady.

  “Hey,” he says. “I’m downstairs.”

  My shoulders slump. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m actually at my dad’s.”

  “I know.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your mom told me.”

  “What?”

  “You said 911, so I biked over. And then she told me where to find you. So I’m here. Are you going to let me in?”

  I slip Priya’s earrings into my pocket and walk out to the living room, feeling like I’ve just woken up. I peer down from the floor-to-ceiling windows and see Logan’s street-lit figure pacing in the glow.

  “You still there?” says the voice in my ear.

  I shake my head. “My mother is giving my coordinates to strange men in the night. She must really think I’m lonely.” I watch Logan laugh under the streetlight, and when his eyes lift they lock with mine. “I’ll buzz you in,” I say. “Come to the fourth floor. First one on the left.” I hang up. “Uh, Dad? My friend is coming up.”

  “Oh,” says Dad. “Good.” He looks me over. “You okay? You seem pale.” I want to reassure him, but all I can manage is a nod. After a moment there’s a knock at the door and Dad answers, surprise registering faintly across his face. For a moment I see Logan as a dad might—towering over everyone with his messy hair and snug jeans. The long, flat sneakers and purple hoodie zipped to the top. He borders on intimidating when he’s serious.

  He’s the best thing I’ve seen all day.

  “Hello,” says Dad.

  “He’s Logan,” I manage to spit out.

  “Sir,” says Logan, extending an ink-stained hand.

  “Please,” says Dad. “Just Chris.”

  “Uh . . .” I’m struggling to click into the moment. After a pause, I gesture toward the couch. “This is my brother.”

  Harrison glances up briefly from his show. “Pleasure,” he says, making Logan’s face break into an easy grin.

  “Can we, um . . .” I point to the guest room. “I need to talk to you.”

  I tell myself to keep calm as I lead Logan to the bedroom. “Nice place,” he says as I close the door. I shove past him toward the desk and turn on music. I don’t need Dad or Harr listening to whatever’s about to fly out of my mouth. But as I scroll through my playlist, each track makes me queasy. All songs Priya liked. I click at random. “Paper Planes” by M.I.A.

  “Zan. What’s the emergency?”

  I try to concentrate, struggling to string together all the words getting tangled in my head. I fly like paper, get high like planes . . .

  The sight of Logan does calm me down a little. It’s weird, but I think I missed him.

  “Zan?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Um. Okay. So the way I see it, there are two ways to interpret this. One—Priya is lying online to make her life seem more interesting than it actually is, or to cover up whatever it is that she’s actually doing.” I pace the room. “Maybe it’s embarrassing or boring or, I don’t know . . . super secretive? I’m honestly not an imaginative enough person to work out what that could be. . . . Or, two—” I swallow hard, flinching as the gunshots go off in the chorus. And take your money.

  “Oh Jesus, this is insane.” I plop down on the edge of the bed and hold my head in my hands.

  Logan takes a seat beside me and ducks down to meet my eyes. “Can we rewind for a second? I’m pretty lost.” He leans over to the computer and lowers the volume a few notches.

  I peek up at him. “Promise you won’t think I’m crazy?”

  He shoots me a reassuring smile. “Promise.”

  “What if someone else is writing her posts?”

  His face grows serious. “Zan . . .”

  My hand trembles as I take my cell phone from my pocket. “This picture that she posted . . . It wasn’t taken on Saturday. I’m actually pretty positive I was there when she took it. Why would she lie about something like that?”

  Logan nods slowly. “Okay . . . Well, is there any chance it’s just a similar picture? I mean, don’t selfies all kind of look the same?”

  “They do. Only . . .” I pull her earrings from my other pocket. “She left these at my house before she moved. I gave them to her. For her birthday. I didn’t notice them at first.”

  For a moment it’s as if I can see the thoughts moving across his brain. “Is it possible she replaced them?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “But . . .” We sit there quietly together, thinking, our legs nearly touching. “All the other pictures she’s posted . . . They haven’t actually been of her.” I scroll through weeks of beaches and sunsets. “All this time I’ve been saying it didn’t sound like her.” An eerie feeling is creeping up my throat. “What if that’s because it wasn’t?”

  “So you think . . .” Logan holds up both hands. “Okay, let’s back up. Why would someone post from her account? And why wouldn’t she stop it?”

&
nbsp; “I don’t know.” I start to stand and then sit back down.

  “All right,” says Logan. “Maybe this is too obvious, but have you tried calling her parents?”

  I open my mouth, then close it. Somehow I hadn’t thought of that. “I suppose I could try to talk to her stepdad.”

  “You have his number?”

  “I mean . . . yeah. But what would I even say? Do you call your friends’ parents?”

  “What if I call?” he says. “I could make up some excuse. See if I can get anything useful out of him before we go jumping to conclusions.”

  “Okay,” I say, nodding through my blurry thoughts. “Yeah, do that.”

  A knock makes me jump. Dad’s voice comes through the door. “You guys hungry? There’s plenty of takeout left.”

  “We’ll get some in a little bit!” I holler. Dad’s footsteps fall away. “If we’re gonna call, we better do it now.”

  Logan takes down the number on his phone, pausing. “Your dad doesn’t think we’re like . . . doing stuff in here, does he? I’d like him to understand that I’m classier than that.”

  “Ew, no.”

  He laughs and sits up tall, stretching his lips into wide, exaggerated shapes. “Getting into character,” he says. “What’s his name?”

  “Ben Grissom.”

  “Okay, it’s ringing.”

  “Wait! What are you gonna—”

  “I got this,” he says, perking up. He raises a finger. “Hello? Is this Ben? . . . Hi. I’m David Johnson. I teach laboratory sciences over at Prewitt High School.” His wide smile helps settle my nerves. He’s actually pretty convincing. “Oh yes, I am aware. But I’m heading up the yearbook committee for our seniors this year, and even though Priya transferred, we’d like to include her in a few sections. She was such a star student after all. Mm-hm . . . Mm-hm . . . We have few questions for her. Any chance you can put her on the phone?”

  My eyes go wide. I am not prepared for this.

  Abort! Abort!

  “Oh. Well, perhaps you can have her call us back?” I sigh with relief and he scratches his head. “I see.” I bug my eyes out—WHAT?—and he covers the receiver to whisper, “Her phone broke.”

  I hover close, trying to listen in, but he waves me away. “Will she be in later tonight?” He raises his eyebrows at me. “Oh. Wow. That must be quite a change from the Chicago public schools. How did that—” He nods. “I see. . . . Mm-hmm.”

  I wish I could hear the other side. As if reading my thoughts, Logan leans in and whispers, “Boarding school.”

  “Huh,” I say, taking this in. Priya had been researching private schools in California before she left. She figured if she had to make all new friends, she might as well get a leg up for college. “Will you hate me if I get one of those blazers?” she asked one day, Googling places on my bed. “With the little school crest on the pocket?” I told her it would be acceptable, so long as she maintained her sense of irony. Guess that part didn’t pan out. Last I heard, there were hardly any transfer spots and most deadlines were long gone. But Ben is one of those connected types. I bet he pulled some strings.

  “Well, hey. That’s wonderful,” Logan is saying. “Yes, have her give us a call when she gets her new phone. . . . Yes, this number. It’s my personal cell. . . . Hm? Oh, nice. Indiana, yep.” He puts on a snooty expression. “I may be a Harvard man, but it’s always nice to have that little reminder of home.” I give him the signal to wrap it up. No need for the backstory, Logan. But he winks.

  “Hm?” His face falls. He closes one eye and starts counting back with his fingers. “Oh, uh . . . 2001?” His face goes pale and I mouth, What?? But he relaxes. “Wow. Must have just missed each other.”

  Oh Jesus. I forgot Ben went to Harvard.

  “Haha, yes . . . Er, Go, Crimson.” I collapse back onto the bed and cover my face with my hands.

  Logan clears his throat. “Sorry—what was the name of Priya’s new school again? I didn’t catch it before.” I peek up at him and a smile beams back. “Got it. Saint Anne’s. Wonderful. Tell her we look forward to hearing from her.” I sit up, my body prickling with something like excitement.

  Logan’s face falls. “What’s that?” He lunges toward the desk, scribbles on an open notebook, and holds it up.

  What’s my name???

  “Er . . . Sorry. I can’t hear you, Mr. Grissom.” I jump out of bed and grab his pencil. “I think the call is cutting out a bit. Hello? . . . Hellooo . . . Can you hear me?”

  I scratch the words David Johnson you dummy, my eyes bulging so violently they nearly launch from their sockets.

  “Ah. There you are, Mr. Grissom.” I let out a huge exhale and throw myself back onto the bed. I don’t think the CIA will be recruiting Logan anytime soon. “What were you saying? . . . My name! Of course. I’m David Johnson, from Prewitt High. Absolutely. I . . . never had the pleasure of teaching Priya myself, but my students have told me so much about her. . . . Mm-hmm . . . Mm-hmm . . . Yes, you too. Have a good evening.” And with that, he collapses on his back beside me.

  He starts to laugh and I do, too, clutching my belly as I catch another whiff of that boy soap smell.

  “You’re a terrible liar,” I say to the ceiling.

  “Yes, I think we’ve established that tonight.” I can still feel him grinning. “Saint Anne’s, though. That’s something. . . .”

  “Yeah,” I say, breathing a little easier. “That’s something.”

  Five

  Thursday, September 13

  At a window booth at the cleared-out restaurant, Logan and I are both three Italian sodas deep when we start to go loopy. The glittery table has become something of a work space, covered with papers and used dishes from the afternoon.

  One thing has become clear—I am now the master of the bullshit call.

  For example, “Yes, hello, I’m calling on behalf of my niece, Priya Patel. My brother and I are planning a family vacation to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Orlando next month and we’re hoping to pull Priya out of school for a few days. This really will be a dream come true for her. I’m sure you’ve seen her cape. So! How do we go about requesting an excused absence?”

  Or, “Good afternoon. This is Dr. Anna Thermopolis, family physician for one of your students—Priya Patel? We recently got back some pre-tty interesting test results, and I’m not sure her stepdad’s gonna love them. Trust me—whatever you’re thinking, it’s worse. I’m talking seriously disgusting stuff. Anyhoo. How might I get these results to her?”

  Or better yet, “I’m calling from Guinness World Records. I’m doing a bit of follow-up on one of your students, Priya Patel? Did she mention she holds the world record for most consecutive consumption of human hair? Head hair only, of course. My legal team tells me we’re contractually obligated to check in on the state of her gastrointestinal tract. Could you pass along a message for me?”

  I keep wavering as to whether all this digging is justified or just batshit stalkerish, but we’re in it this far. Between occasional tides of panic, I keep feeling what can only be described as slaphappy. I think I like making Logan laugh.

  I sigh into the phone. “Well . . . thank you for your help.” The woman clucked and said “Poor dear” when I told her of Priya’s newly deceased cat, but a quick search produced no such student for a sympathy card. “You must have the wrong school,” she said.

  We’ve been hearing that all day.

  “Not your best,” says Logan from across the booth when I hang up.

  I take off my apron—it’s dead in here anyway—and walk to the bar to refill our sodas. “Even geniuses run out of material eventually. I’m washed up. Old news.” I add syrup. “The secretary sends her condolences, by the way.”

  Logan nods, solemn. “Poor Carl.”

  “Carl?”

  “The cat,” he says.

  “Ah.” I walk back to our table and hand Logan his drink. “Well. To Carl.” We let our glasses touch and I slide in across from hi
m.

  Logan chews on ice as he studies the printed Google Maps search, scattered with Saint Annes all along the western coast. The margins are covered in phone numbers, scratched out in my lazy loops and Logan’s jagged handwriting. “Another one bites the dust,” I say, taking the map from him to draw another X.

  I slump against the window. Rain streaks the glass, blurring headlights and neon signs against the gloomy sky.

  “How many does that leave us?”

  “Two,” I say, defeated. “And I don’t think they’re boarding schools. Are there live-in Montessoris?”

  Logan wobbles the pencil between his fingers. “Maybe I heard him wrong. Saint Anna’s? Saint Andrew’s?”

  “He never said the school was in California.” I tug on my bottom lip. “Maybe it’s somewhere really random, like Delaware. Maybe that’s why Priya’s lying. Who would want to tell the world they go to school in Delaware?”

  “Where is Delaware?” ponders Logan. “And what do people do there?”

  I shake my head gravely. “No one knows.”

  I hear scuffling in the kitchen and after a moment the doors to the dining room swing open. Arturo walks over and sets down a bulging takeout bag onto the table behind ours. “Someone should be picking up soon. I think it’s for a birthday party. Five orders of chickenless nuggets.”

  “Those are going to be some disappointed children,” says Logan.

  Arturo laughs. “Keep an eye out for me, Zan?”

  “Sure,” I say, scanning the empty dining room. It’s early, and the Cubs got rained out. I should probably be mad (I’ve made exactly twelve dollars in tips so far), but there are worse ways to spend an afternoon. Arturo slips into a jacket and grabs an umbrella from behind the bar. “Where are you off to?”

  “Rehearsal with my coach. Remember? My showcase is on Saturday. All solo acts. There’s talk of agents coming, producers, scouts. It could be huge for me. There may even be SNL people.”

  “Holy shit,” says Logan. “Hey, good luck, man.”

  I kick him under the table. “You’re supposed to say break a leg.”

  Logan frowns. “People really say that?”