If You're Out There

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  He inhales through his teeth. “I shouldn’t. I’ve missed a bunch of classes already and the school year’s barely started.”

  “You know what? It’s fine. I’ll tell you if I find anything.” I start to back away but grow dizzy. I have to balance against a locker, my vision filled with spots.

  “Whoa there.” He holds my shoulders to steady me.

  “I can’t stay here,” I say softly.

  “All right. Meet me at the exit by the caf. We’ll take off after the bell.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I want to,” he says. “Hey.” He comes closer, willing me to look at him. “If there’s something that needs finding, we’ll find it. Okay?”

  I whisper, “Okay.”

  The ride takes us all of five minutes on Logan’s bike. And because my nerves are shot, I even let him drive.

  The bike slows as I point to the house. “This is it.”

  It’s somehow bigger than I remembered—one of the few ornate wooden homes you find sprinkled in with all the brick and brownstone. Being here feels both foreign and familiar, and as I take in the sight—the porch lanterns, the yard, the blossoming vines climbing up wood—I’m barraged with memories wrapped up in a place I realize no longer exists.

  “So they’re rich,” says Logan, steadying the bike. “What’s the stepdad do for work?”

  “I don’t really know,” I say. “Numbers? Money?” I press myself up from the basket and hop down. “He used to work on Wall Street before they moved here. My mom says his expense account back then was bigger than her salary.”

  Logan drops the bike in a patch of grass and follows me to the gate. “Sounds nice.”

  “Yes and no. Priya said they practically had a staff when it was just the two of them because he had to work so much. Housekeeper, nanny, tutor. She never liked having all those people fuss over her.”

  “Huh,” says Logan.

  “Anyway, all that ended when they moved here. Priya was older, and she had my mom to do the fussing instead.” I stop. “Did I tell you our moms were best friends?”

  “You didn’t.”

  My heart speeds up as I pull the latch to the black iron gate. The last time I walked this path was to say goodbye. I would have stayed until the second they drove off, but I was supposed to be leaving for soccer camp that day. My mom kept texting me. I was going to miss my bus.

  Somehow I was the collected one in those final moments together. Priya cried and threw her arms around my neck, and as she pulled away she said, “Don’t you dare forget about me.” The night before, we’d gorged ourselves on cookies and numbed the pain with old episodes of Will & Grace in the attic. I remember thinking I was Will, because I’m grumpy. And she was Grace because she sparkled.

  After a few more hugs, I unlatched this gate, and we said we’d visit at Christmas. We said we’d write. We said we’d count the days until summer, until India. And in that moment, it wasn’t so much a thought as it was a fact. We would always be friends. Because some love can’t dissolve, or fall apart, or get complicated.

  Some love just is.

  In the side yard, Logan makes binoculars with his hands to peek into a pane of the downstairs bay window. “They left a couch.”

  I snap out of it. “I thought they were taking everything.”

  “An armchair too. Bunch of stuff.” I march up the porch steps to see the mailbox completely stuffed. I scan the street for onlookers before digging through. “Anything good?” calls Logan.

  My arms filled with envelopes, I lower myself to sit cross-legged against the front door. The pile is massive. “Menswear catalog . . . Trader Joe’s newsletter . . . Something from the cable company . . . Credit card promotion . . .” I glance up as Logan joins me on the porch. “This looks like a bill.” I dig for more. “Another bill. Another bill. Another bill. Jesus, did Ben not forward anything? He can be such a disaster. Once he forgot to pay the electric bill and they were stuck in the dark for like three days. Priya made him automate all the utility payments after that.”

  “You gonna open one?” asks Logan.

  “Uh, no,” I say, scandalized. “Tampering with mail is a felony.” I stand and stuff the envelopes back into the box. A thought strikes me.

  “What?” says Logan.

  “I wonder if the garage is open. We could get into the house through there.”

  “Because opening someone’s mail would be reckless but breaking and entering is totally reasonable.”

  I lift my chin. “I’m nothing if not unpredictable.”

  I leave him there and make my way to the narrow strip of grass that leads to the back. After a moment he calls out behind me, “Are you sure you want to—”

  “Yep!” I trudge ahead and he follows until we’re spit out into the alleyway, where garages meet in neat rows and trash bins soak up sun.

  I rest my fingertips against the garage door.

  “This is illegal, too,” says Logan. When I glance back, he’s standing in the center of the alley, a good distance away. “You know, if that was something you were worried about.”

  “Details,” I say. And then, to myself, “Here goes.” I push up on the door. And like a tiny miracle, it slides. The garage is filled with boxes. We weave through and find the back door open.

  Jackpot.

  The whole first floor is scattered with stray furniture. Upstairs, Priya’s room is almost bare except for the bed, stripped down to the mattress, and the wooden desk she hardly ever used. In Ben’s room, the closet is empty, the men’s products cleared from his bathroom. There are no running shoes strewn on the floor or earbuds resting on the dresser.

  I tug at the tightly wedged door that leads to the attic. I steady myself on the railing, suddenly hit with a transporting, indescribable smell. Is it pine? Laundry detergent? Whatever it is, it reminds me of Priya—the girl, not the mystery. There was a time when this place meant study sessions and laughing fits and epic discussions over cold leftovers from the restaurant. I used to race these steps without a second thought, careful only to avoid bumping my head at the top. The attic was a bubble, far away from my mother’s well-intentioned check-ins and just out of Ben’s willing-to-travel radius.

  Now it’s just a futon on a frame.

  I sit down, winded by the emptiness, and run my nails along the scratchy canvas cover. A tiny whimper escapes me. Where are you, Priya?

  I go downstairs and head for the kitchen. The tapestries Sita brought back from India have been removed from the walls, taking with them their colorful warmth. I always thought of them as a touch of her. Priya would pat the one with the elephant in passing—a sort of absentminded affection. And I’d often find myself staring into the next one over, sucked in by the hypnotic circular patterns, so full of motion, like a slow-turning kaleidoscope.

  A couch and armchair still face the spot where a TV used to be. I walk the length of the naked hallway, clutching the straps of my backpack just for something to hold on to. The more I think, the harder it is to fill my lungs.

  I find Logan rifling through kitchen drawers. At the table, I thumb through a few printed pages. It’s a copy of the California lease. Logan jumps when he sees me. “Sorry,” he says, panting slightly. “I feel like a bank robber in here.” There used to be pots and pans hanging from these walls, drawers filled with every kitchen gadget imaginable. Once in a while, Ben would get in a mood and whip up something fancy.

  I walk to the office, only to stop short. “What?” calls Logan from the other room. I turn back but can’t speak.

  Because there, in the doorway, is Priya’s bedazzled cell phone, shattered on the ground.

  “Ben did say her phone broke,” says Logan after a long, heavy silence.

  “I know,” I say. “I know. But . . . This doesn’t feel right.” I scrunch my eyes shut. “Do you think we should call the police?”

  Logan flinches slightly, stepping the rest of the way into the office. “To say what? That we broke into your frien
d’s house and it feels weird?”

  “It is weird. They left all this stuff!”

  “It’s their house. They don’t have to take their stuff if they don’t want to.”

  “Yes,” I say, growing frustrated. “But why leave so much? I could have sworn Ben said they were getting tenants. How do you rent out a house from California when it’s full of stuff? And what about the phone?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe they were in a rush and Priya dropped it and they left it to deal with later. Anyway, it doesn’t change the fact that we weren’t supposed to be inside to see it in the first place.”

  I hate that he’s resisting this. I sit and swivel back and forth in the desk chair to calm my nerves. Logan crouches down, his shoulder brushing against my leg, and pulls back with a few loose papers. I’m not even sure if he’s cute anymore. In fact, his face is kind of stupid. “What are these?” he asks, tidying the stack.

  I take the papers—email chains and memos and documents covered in numbers. As I sift through, I spot the familiar logo of a little girl, reading in a cozy corner. “Must be something for GRETA—the charity Priya’s mom started. Ben’s still on their board.”

  It’s a little strange, actually. Not once have I seen even a trace of paperwork left out in this office, let alone on the ground. Ben can be a mess sometimes, but usually not when it comes to his work. I shuffle through the stack, reading the emails.

  There’s one from back in May, sent by Yasmine to one Headmaster Modi, with the subject “Fire at Friends Elementary.”

  Vijay,

  We are so glad all the students were all right. Is there really nothing we can do? It seems a shame to let the school shut down. If you are open to the possibility of rebuilding, this is certainly something we could explore together.

  Another is from April, addressed to Anushka.

  Dear Ms. Jha,

  I am happy to tell you that we at Priti have received a large international grant.

  After speaking with our accountant, it would appear we no longer qualify for your aid, but I would like to express my deepest gratitude to all of you at GRETA.

  Wishing you the very best.

  Amrit Ganglani

  Head of Students

  The last one makes me pause. It’s from Ben, to an email address without a full name attached: j.karim565@gmail.com.

  Please take my call.

  “Mean anything to you?” asks Logan.

  “Not really,” I say. I take off my backpack and slip the papers inside. “But I’ll hold on to them just in case.” I catch a glimpse of a picture frame that’s fallen beneath the desk. “Oh whoa,” I say. “This is her, Sita. Priya’s mom.”

  I pick up the photo. She looked so much like Priya. Kind, warm eyes that make you feel at ease. I’m surprised Ben would leave this behind.

  Logan takes the frame. “You said she had her own charity?”

  “Yep. Inherited a shit-ton of money and then gave it all away.”

  “Huh,” he says. “Why?”

  “She was amazing, basically. Priya’s grandfather had, like, an empire. Textiles, hotels, all over Mumbai. Priya told me one time, as a teen, her mom snuck into one of their factories when she wasn’t supposed to. Totally freaked her out. Girls younger than her, working fourteen-hour days. She and her family never fought, but after she went to New York for college, she didn’t come back. Got some nonprofit job and started over. Then one day a check arrived.”

  I hoist myself up, taking in the room once more. I open the closet. It’s mostly empty, with a few stacks of paperwork in files on the floor.

  Every time my eyes land on the shattered phone, I get a little shiver. “I really think we should report this,” I say again.

  Logan doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me. “What’s the charity?”

  I check the file cabinet—still full—and snap it shut, annoyed. “The GRETA Fund. Girls Reaching Equality Through Academics. They fund girls’ schools around Mumbai and in some rural areas.”

  “And you and Priya were involved?”

  “Yeah. GRETA is getting ready to send student volunteers for the first time this summer. It was Priya’s idea, actually. We were going to work for them after graduation.”

  “The India trip,” he says, his face getting slightly less stupid. “I remember now.” He glances at the clock. “Crap. We’re missing Spanish. We should get going.”

  I drag my hand along the wooden desk and open one last drawer. There’s a slip of paper inside. It’s creased like a letter, and when I open it, I see a single sentence, typed.

  Found you

  Logan reads over my shoulder. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “No idea,” I say, feeling winded again. I fold the note and drop it into my bag. “I’ll file it into evidence.” I heave a sigh. “This is definitely weird. You have to admit, it’s weird, right?”

  “It’s weird,” Logan concedes, slinging on his backpack. He swivels back when I don’t follow.

  “You go ahead, actually,” I say. “I . . . I don’t know, I need a minute.”

  I can tell he’s concerned. “Are you sure? I can stay if you—”

  “No, no,” I say. “I already made you miss one class. Go. I’ll be right behind you.”

  When he’s gone, I wander through the house. I sit on the couch where we sometimes studied and slide my hand along the cold granite kitchen counter.

  I stop in a doorway and peer in. Even the bathroom is sentimental.

  The inspirational plaque was displayed prominently—albeit begrudgingly—over the sink for the rare occasions when Ben’s mother came to visit. This was hardly necessary by the time they moved. She hadn’t come in years. Maybe the whimsical fonts just grew on them.

  EVERY FAMILY HAS A STORY. WELCOME TO OURS.

  I guess this particular slab of pseudo-Buddhist wisdom didn’t make it into first-round packing. I take the stairs and check the second-floor bathroom.

  A true love story never ends.

  I stare at the mirror, noting my tired eyes. What makes it a love story, anyway? Something about this particular plaque always made me sad. As I’d wash my hands up here, I’d find myself wondering about Sita and Ben. Or Sita and Priya. Or my mom and my dad. Everyone who’s ever loved and lost. But as the attic bathroom will tell you,

  Better to have loved and lost

  than to have never loved at all

  Cheesy, yes, but probably true. Who knows? Maybe Bed Bath & Beyond really is the great purveyor of wisdom when it comes to the human heart.

  I take it all in one last time as I return to the first floor. I really shouldn’t miss another class. I lock up from the inside and step out into the sun. As the door shuts, I realize that I locked the back door too. That was dumb. Now I won’t be able to get in again if I think of something.

  I notice a man outside the gate then. He has tan skin and dark hair, and he’s staring intensely in my direction through thick black-rimmed glasses. I check behind me, in the weak hope that he’s looking anywhere else.

  “Who are you?” he asks as I walk down the porch steps.

  Shit. Shit shit shit.

  “Oh, uh . . .” I plaster on my best totally normal expression. “I’m a friend. Of the people who own this house. I was dropping in to . . . water the plants. Because, you know. No one likes a dead plant.” I hear myself—What?—but the man seems too preoccupied to notice.

  “So you know these guys? Ben and Priya?”

  “Oh, uh. Yeah,” I say. “Priya. She’s . . . Well, she’s kinda my best friend.”

  “Oh,” he says. “Okay. So . . .” He frowns. “So they still live here?”

  “Um.” I bite my lip—I guess that’s what I just said, isn’t it? “Yes?” I peek at the gate between us, which the man is continuing to block. “Sorry, who are you?”

  “Family friend. Just came by for a visit.” Odd. I’ve never seen him before.

  “Well, they’re not here right now,” I tell him.
I look at the gate again and clear my throat, an obvious hint that I want to leave. But he doesn’t move. “I should . . . go.”

  “Right,” he says, stepping out of the way. “After you.” I graze past him and start heading down the street. To my back, I think I hear, “Bye, Zan.”

  I’m halfway to school when I realize I never told him my name.

  My next class has already started when I slip back into school, the garbled thoughts competing for space in my head. I missed lunch and my stomach is growling. I’m glad I left some popcorn in my locker.

  “Alejandra.”

  I close the locker with a jump. Señora O’Connell is standing in the center of the hallway, with a purse on her arm and keys in her hand. My stomach tightens, but I try to come off cool and collected. “Oh, hey. Sorry about missing class. Logan and I both had a test. It ran long, and—”

  “Just stop,” she says through a sigh. “I saw you leaving school.” I open my mouth but come up short. “For future reference, the teachers’ lounge has windows. Big ones. And they look over the park.”

  “Oh,” I say, my shoulders slumping. “Look, I’m sorry. This really isn’t like me. Or Logan.”

  “I believe you,” she says. “And one unexcused absence isn’t going to kill you, Zan. But you might want to work on being a better influence. Logan’s off to a bad start with his attendance. If he keeps this up, he could be suspended.” My heart sinks a little. Logan said he couldn’t afford to miss another class, and I went and made him do it anyway. “Now, if you don’t mind me,” says la Señora, “this is the one day a week I get out early, so I am off to have a long, romantic evening with two very handsome golden retrievers.”

  She turns to leave and I hear myself say, “Wait!”

  I look down, surprised to see my own hand gripping her tightly by the upper arm. “Sorry,” I say, my wide eyes mirroring hers. “I shouldn’t have done that.” This time she really leaves. “No, please! Hold on!” I trail her down the hall. “Is there any way you could excuse Logan’s absence today? It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t even want to go with me.”