If You're Out There

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  “Then he shouldn’t have,” she says as I struggle to keep up with the fast clip of her heels.

  “But if you knew the whole story . . . He was only being a good friend.”

  She shakes her head, a long fiery ponytail swinging side to side. “I’ll admit, Logan seems like a super-sweet kid, and I’m totally rooting for him, but faculty members overhear things through the grapevine, too, you know. Not every young guy gets the kind of second chance he’s been given here. After what he pulled, if he wants to go and get himself into more trouble, I’m sorry but that’s on him.”

  I study her face, confused, and she stops beneath the Exit sign. “Señora O’Connell. What are you talking about?”

  A look of understanding clicks in and she winces. “He hasn’t told you. . . . Has he?”

  “Told me what?”

  Jamming her fingers into her eye sockets, she says, “Goddammit, Megan,” apparently berating herself.

  “Hey.” I take a step closer, my heartbeat speeding up. “Told me what?”

  Her face falls. “Okay. Zan? I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . I don’t even know the whole . . .” She looks to the ceiling. “That wasn’t cool of me. Ugh. I am literally failing at so many aspects of my life right now.” She collects herself, meeting my eyes again. “If you were wondering? All the adults around you pretending they have their shit together? They don’t.”

  I’m still waiting for my answer. For a moment, I imagine shaking her like a piñata just to get it out.

  “Look.” She steels herself. “I didn’t mean to reveal, or suggest, anything . . . confidential about a student. Logan has the right to a clean slate. Whatever the story is there, you should be hearing from him, not me.” She bites her lip. “Is there any way we could forget I said anything?” After a beat, despite the rising angst inside, I manage a nod. Her shoulders relax. “Thank you, Zan.” She walks backward toward the stairs. “And don’t worry about class today. Let’s just . . . call it even.”

  Midway through English, I’m pulled out for a guidance counselor meeting. We talk about college, and I answer most questions with, “I don’t know.” Would you like a small school? Greek life? Any majors calling to you? How about nature? Do you like big cities? Come on, Zan. Work with me a little. Where do you see yourself next year?

  Even if I weren’t so distracted, I’m not sure I’d have an answer to that question. The bell rings and I say goodbye. The meeting is unsuccessful.

  After school, I walk with Logan to the restaurant. He pushes his bike. I don’t ask him about what la Señora said, but I find myself watching him more closely. I’m still trying to make sense of it—this whole swirling mess of a day. Every time I picture Priya’s house—the phone, the note—my stomach plummets. I wasn’t scheduled to work, but I figured I could help Sam teach Logan the ropes. The restaurant is where I want to be.

  My mood somehow perfectly matches Manny’s never-ending banda playlist. There’s something sort of melancholy about the elephant-like honk of the baseline tuba. Once in a while, Arturo pops in and takes me for a spin around the kitchen against my will. It sort of helps. No matter how stressed or down I feel, Arturo always finds a way to make me laugh.

  “It’s not rocket science,” Samantha is saying. “These are purple onions.” She hoists a big box from off the ground and drops it on the counter. “You slice them into rings and store them in bins.” She lifts a dripping wet container from the dishwasher. “The bins slide right into the salad bar.”

  “Got it,” says Logan, following her in his apron as she buzzes around the kitchen.

  “Make extra,” says Sam. “So we don’t run out.” She pulls hard against the heavy door to the walk-in fridge. “Then stack the bins you’re not using in here to stay cold.”

  Logan steps into the steaming air and rubs his hands together. “I’m ready, Coach. Put me in.”

  Samantha rolls her eyes, smirking. “Cherry tomatoes you cut in half. Cucumbers, maybe a quarter of an inch thick. Olives are ready to roll, just refill the bin when they’re running low.”

  “I see cabbage,” says Logan. “Impart your wisdom, Samantha. What do I do to the cabbage?”

  “You cut it,” she says, straight-faced. “And then stick it in a bin.”

  The volume to the music lowers. “Hungry, flaca?”

  When I turn back, Manny is pulling yucca from hot grease. “Sure,” I say. “Thanks.” He slides the dish across the window and I gobble up a few chalky, salty bites.

  Manny steps out from his cook’s lair, wiping grease onto striped pants as he takes the place beside me. “He’s okay,” he says, nodding toward Logan after a thoughtful silence. I smile. For Manny, that’s a pretty major compliment.

  My mind jumps to Lacey and her rumors. And the look on la Señora’s face today in the hall. I should have pressed her. What had she meant by “more trouble”?

  I’m not sure how much time has passed when Manny whistles and starts slipping aluminum containers through the window. Arturo comes over and stacks them up in a big paper bag, then staples it shut. He calls out, “Sam, you want to bring this out to Reggie?”

  I perk up. “Reggie’s here?”

  “Who’s Reggie?” asks Logan.

  I take the bag myself. “I’ll bring it to him.”

  “You know you’re not on the clock,” says Arturo.

  “Uh-huh,” I say, hurrying out through the swinging doors.

  Reggie’s waiting by the Please Wait to Be Seated sign in gym clothes, a duffel bag on one shoulder. “Can I ask you something?” I say without a hello. It feels like a sign that he’s here. I have to tell him about Priya. I can’t keep it in anymore.

  He takes the paper bag. “Um, sure. What’s up?”

  I look around. “Out there,” I say, pointing to the street.

  I hurry for the door, pulling him by the arm.

  It’s getting dark. “Zan,” says Reggie, staring me down. “What is it?”

  A young couple is walking toward us on the sidewalk. As they pass, I take a big breath. “How do you know if you should report a missing person?”

  His chin juts back. “What?”

  “You know her. It’s my friend Priya. She used to be a server here.”

  “Oh right,” he says. “I’ve worked with her stepdad, actually.”

  I frown. “What do you mean you’ve worked with Ben?”

  “At the community center. Last spring. He started coming in for the Thursday self-defense class. Somehow this place came up and we figured out the connection.”

  “Huh,” I say. “I didn’t know that.”

  “I thought they moved,” says Reggie.

  “They did.”

  Reggie looks worried now. “Okay, back up. Did Ben not file a report? I’m happy to be a resource, but he should really go through the precinct out there.”

  “Well, okay.” I brace myself. “So, no one else actually thinks she’s missing. Right now she’s at some boarding school. I mean, allegedly. But I haven’t been hearing from her and her posts online have felt weird. She’s my best friend, you know? And I really . . .” I hold his gaze, eyes pleading. “Reggie, I really don’t believe she’d cut me off like that.”

  “So. Let me get this straight.” I see the sequence move across his face: understanding, relief, sympathy. It’s obvious he’s working to look like he’s still taking me seriously. “Your friend moved away and stopped staying in touch?”

  I break from his dubious stare as a streetlamp comes on. “Yes.”

  “And now you’re wondering if you should file a missing person’s case.”

  My mouth falls open stupidly. “Well. When you put it like that.”

  He holds my gaze, gentle. “Come on, Zan. You must realize how this sounds.”

  “Okay, yeah,” I say. “I know. But there’s more. I kind of . . .” How to put this? “Okay, so I sort of broke into her old house and—”

  “You what?” Reggie takes a step back. “Zan, why would you tel
l me that? I’m a cop!”

  “I know,” I say, bracing the air between us. “But it wasn’t that bad. The back door was open and I didn’t take any—”

  “La la la la,” he sings, plugging his fingers into his ears, the takeout bag hitting his shoulder. He starts walking down the street and I follow, waving my hands to get his attention.

  “Okay,” I say. “Okay! I won’t get into details.”

  He unplugs his ears and stops. “No more illegal stuff, okay? And definitely no telling me about it after.”

  “All right. But, well, the thing is, I found a weird note inside their house and—”

  “Just stop,” he says, his voice booming with authority. “Has anyone talked to Ben lately?”

  My shoulders slump. “Yes.”

  “Is he worried about Priya at this boarding school?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “What about other friends? Is there anyone else who’s concerned?”

  I close my eyes a moment. “Reggie, I’m telling you . . .”

  When he sighs down at me, I can see it’s no use. “Get some rest,” he says, gentler now. “You look like hell, kiddo.”

  I’m sitting on the bench outside the restaurant when the bell above the door rings. I’ve been staring at the streetlamp, willing myself not to fall apart.

  Logan has my backpack with him, his face falling a little when he sees me. “It didn’t look like you were coming back inside. Thought you might want this.”

  “Thanks,” I say, taking it.

  He pulls off his apron and lowers himself beside me. “Did I miss something?”

  “I was just talking to a friend,” I say. “Reggie. He’s a police officer. I tried to tell him what’s been going on—the weird posts, the note at Priya’s house . . .”

  Logan stares. “Wait. You told a cop we broke into Priya’s house?”

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  He scoffs. “Oh, is that right? Christ, Zan. Did you use my name?”

  His eyes are worried, hands wringing. I’m exhausted, and fed up, and it dawns on me. He’s really hiding something. “Why didn’t you want to report it?” I ask. “What we saw back at the house?”

  “There was nothing to report.”

  “Are you in some kind of trouble, Logan?”

  For a moment he just blinks. “What makes you say that?”

  “You were so . . . skittish at Priya’s house. Like you were so sure we’d get caught. Worried about missing class, about starting over. And you should have seen your face just now when I mentioned Reggie. I’m not dumb, okay? I’ve only heard bits and pieces, and it’s hard to know what to believe. But, well, people have been . . .” I brace myself. “Talking.”

  Something in his expression shifts, his jaw tightening. “And I guess now you’re someone who cares what ‘people’ have to say?”

  “You’re not exactly an open book, Logan. If you’ve done nothing wrong, why dodge everything I ask?”

  He furrows his brow, like he’s just uncovered something fascinating. “You don’t trust me.”

  I sigh. “I never said—”

  “You didn’t have to. But hey, why should I be any different? You don’t trust anybody, Zan.”

  “That is not true,” I say, straightening up in defense. “I trust people. I mean I obviously trusted—”

  “Let me guess,” he says coolly. “Priya?” Something in the air changes, and I suddenly can’t look at him. “As in one friend? Out of everybody? It’s a lot to put on one person, don’t you think?” His laughter actually stings. “You know, maybe all this digging really is crazy of us. Maybe it’s simple. Maybe the poor girl just needed a break from you.”

  It would have been better if he’d punched me in the gut.

  It’s quiet for a minute, and when I glance over, I can tell he knows he’s gone too far. “I shouldn’t have . . .” He stands. “Look, I should get back inside, but how about I come by later? We should . . . probably talk.”

  As he reaches for the door I feel the hurt, the rage and frustration, all rising up inside my throat. “Don’t bother,” I say to his back. “You know, Logan, I may be sad and pathetic, but at least I’m not a liar. Or some kind of fucking criminal.”

  “Really?” he says, turning around. “It’s like that?”

  But I’m already running down the sidewalk as fast as I can.

  Dad’s at my house when I walk in. I close the door, confused. “She’s here,” he says into his phone. He’s got a serious look on his face, all hunched over the receiver like he’s handling something delicate.

  Harrison walks straight to me, his hands balled up in tight fists. “I can’t believe you forgot me!”

  “Oh no.” My backpack drops to the ground, as does my stomach, and Harr crosses his angry little arms. “Shit—I mean shoot! Oh, buddy, I really am so sorry. I completely—”

  “I was stuck there for twenty-eight minutes!” His cheeks are turning red, his plump bottom lip jutting out. My heart always breaks when his lip does that.

  I crouch down to Harr’s level, but he refuses to meet my eyes. “Hey. Buddy. Really, I am so, so sorry.”

  He takes in a choppy inhale, trying not to cry. “The after-school teacher got all annoyed and made me wait in the cafeteria while the janitor mopped, and all the other kids went home. A bunch of girls made fun of me. Even Matilda laughed.”

  I pout and try to hug him, but Harrison rips himself away.

  “No, no,” Dad grumbles into the phone. “Really, we’re okay here. Go enjoy your dinner.” He hangs up and looks at my brother. “Harrison, could you go watch some TV?” My brother pauses dubiously for a moment, then scampers off, ever the opportunist.

  “What’s going on with you?” asks Dad once Harr is settled on the couch and out of earshot.

  I lean into the counter. “I’m sorry. It’s been a shit day. I got caught up, and I forgot.” I realize my stomach is growling. “Are we staying here or going to your place? I’m starving.”

  “We’ll go back to my place in a little while,” he says, clearly thrown by the deviation. “I wasn’t sure when you’d get here, so I ordered delivery. Leftovers are in the fridge. But . . . Zan, what happened today can’t ever happen again.”

  “I know,” I say as I walk over to scour the refrigerator. After the day I’ve just had, I want something heavy, possibly artery clogging, but it appears Dad has ordered nothing with meat. There are little tubs of hummus, fava beans, and lentils, plus a salad and one lonely piece of falafel.

  “Look,” says Dad to my back. “I won’t pretend to know what’s happening in your head right now. But it seems like it’s getting to be a problem.”

  I lean into the open fridge, the cold air on my face. Salad. I guess I’ll go with stupid salad. Or maybe lentils would be better.

  “Mom says you’ve been moping around. Feigning sick to get out of school. This is not a good time to start melting down. You’re going to start college next year and Mom says you haven’t researched where you want to go. Then today, we both receive calls from your guidance counselor saying that you barely seem interested in applying.”

  “I’m really not that focused on next year right now,” I say.

  “Well, you should be.”

  “Well, I’m not.” I slam the refrigerator door. “And for the love of God, Dad, I am still not a vegetarian!” My voice rings out and Harr glances over, a worried look on his face. “Sorry, buddy,” I say. “Just watch your show.” I go back for the solo falafel and bring it to the table. Dad gets up to pour me some water, finding the cabinet for glasses on his first try. It’s sort of odd to see him here in our house, still knowing where everything is.

  He sets a glass down and takes the chair across from me, waiting for me to speak.

  “I honestly don’t know what to tell you,” I say, wolfing down the little ball in two bites.

  “Then . . .” He seems flustered. “Help me understand.”

  “Dad. Stop, okay?” I finish ch
ewing and take a sip. “You don’t need to do this. We both know you’re not the dad who tries to understand. And I’m okay with it. Because that’s Mom’s job. And she may be a relentless, meddling psychopath, but she’s earned the right to be. But with you and me . . . If it gets too real, it’s weird.” My eyes stay glued to the table. “Kind of like it is right now.”

  When I finally peek up, Dad has gone all stiff. “See?” I say. I swallow, shrug. “We aren’t that dad and daughter anymore. Haven’t been in years.” There’s some kind of Disney tween sitcom rattling from the living room, but I don’t think this house has ever felt so quiet. “I’m sorry, okay? Maybe it won’t be this way for you and Harr. But . . .” I feel the words rising up, desperate to pour out of me. “He can’t remember how everything changed. How you went from this person I trusted completely, one of two parents, who knew every tiny thing about me—to this . . . dude. Who I saw once a week for takeout and strained conversations. I know things are better now, and maybe you can start again with Harrison. But me?” I throw up my hands, laughing though it isn’t funny. “I can still remember the time in my life when you barely even tried.”

  “Zan . . .”

  “Let’s stop, okay? Let’s just eat this meatless food, go back to your apartment, and watch something on TV.” I can’t look up.

  “I didn’t—I didn’t know you felt . . .” Dad trails off. “Oh, Boop. If I could go back.”

  “It’s fine.” I look around the room, feeling as if I’ve returned to my own body. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so . . . I told you it was a shit day.” I stand, smiling weakly. “I think I need some air. You guys go on without me.”

  “Hold on,” says Dad. “Can we please talk?”

  “Nothing to talk about,” I say. I walk into the living room and smack a kiss on Harr’s head with a whisper: “I’ll make it up to you, buddy.” Then I hurry out the door and don’t look back.

  I wander the neighborhood for an hour or so, with my phone powered off. My heart beats palpably, the thoughts churning in my head so fast they almost seem to hum. When I get back, I can still see Dad through the kitchen window—waiting up. So I sit on a stoop down the street and wait, watching, until he and Harr finally pile into the Subaru and drive away.