If You're Out There(11)

Logan knits his brow. “Yeah, I don’t think I have a spectrum.”

I lift my chin. “How very heteronormative of you.”

For a moment we’re just smiling. Then he nods to my backpack. “You gonna get that?” I hadn’t noticed, but now that I listen, the inside is buzzing and buzzing. I open the pouch and read through my texts. There’s a whole flood of them from Arturo, and from the number of capital letters he’s using, you’d think the restaurant was undergoing some kind of culinary apocalypse.

Guess Sam didn’t find that sub.

I text back quickly—Ahhhh yes will be there ASAP—and put the phone away before la Se?ora catches me.

“Everything okay?” asks Logan while he doodles on his page.

“Work,” I tell him, thinking a minute. “I need to go as soon as school’s over. I bet the bus will be messed up. It’s always rerouted when the Cubs play.”

“I could give you a ride,” he says. “I’m right on the other side of the park.”

“Oh,” I say. “Um. Are you sure?”

He shrugs. “I’ve got nothing better to do. Meet me by the front entrance after school.”

“Okay . . .” I say, frowning. “Thanks.” I stare down at my packet. Did we just make a plan? I’m pretty sure the rule is don’t get into cars with boys you know nothing about. But Logan doesn’t strike me as an ax murderer.

“Hey, what’s your deal, anyway?” I ask after a minute. “Why are small women dragging you around places?”

“Oh that?” He smirks. “That’s nothing. That’s just a thing we do for fun.”

“I’m being serious.”

“And so am I,” he says, moving his pen in scratchy strokes. “There’s no deal. Trust me. I’m not nearly as interesting as you are.”

I come closer, noting the gorgeous spiral of dark-inked vines he’s etched into the margins. “I don’t believe you,” I say.

Then he catches me looking and turns the page.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

And there we have it, folks. There is always, always a catch.

“You really think you’re hilarious, don’t you?”

“What?” says Logan. “It’s a loaner from my aunt. The woman has flair.”

The turquoise bike is secured to a street sign along the edge of the park, a whole garden of plastic daisies woven into its big metal basket, quivering in the wind. I check my transit app, frustrated to find that the buses have been rerouted as predicted. It’s a long walk, and the nearest “L” stop is about a mile from here.

“You see, Logan, when someone offers to give you a ride, that typically implies four wheels and an engine.”

“Don’t be a wuss,” he says, crouching down to jam a tiny key into the bike lock. “It’ll be fun.”

I let out an involuntary squeak of offendedness. “I am not a wuss. I’m the opposite of wuss. I simply cannot on principle let you put me in that basket. No one puts Zanny in a basket.”

“You’re being silly, Zan.”

“Am I? Okay. Then how about I bike and you sit in the basket?”

“Maybe because I’m six two?” he says, standing.

“That can’t be right.” I look him up and down—well, admittedly mostly up. “And anyway, I’m the one who knows the way there,” I say. “Plus, this is a woman’s bike! I am the appropriate driver here!”

“Now who’s being heteronormative?”

I glance down and see Arturo’s latest text.

HELLLP!! The vegans are rioting!

“Do you want to help get me to work or not?”

“Fine.” Logan sighs. “I’ll take the basket. For feminism.”

I sling my leg over the bar and skid to a park bench, feeling somehow both huffy and pleased. “You can hop on from up here.”

I hold us steady and he lowers his narrow hips into the basket, grumbling, “I’m never giving you a ride again.”

“I’d hold on if I were you,” I say as we wobble down the gravel path. I have to stand to see over him. He’s wearing his backpack on his front, like a baby carrier, and each time I lean forward I feel the heat of his skin through his T-shirt.

Without thinking, I cut down Priya’s street and feel a sudden dip in my mood as we pass her house. I guess they haven’t found tenants yet. The mailbox is stuffed, with newspapers piled at the door.

I speed up, unable to stand the sight, and turn abruptly onto Clark Street.

Logan clutches the handlebars and calls over his shoulder, “In case I wasn’t clear, I would prefer to be alive at the end of this ride.” I veer to the left to avoid a jaywalker and he grips the handles tighter. “Seriously! I’m really appreciating the fragility of life up here!”

“Don’t worry!” A fire engine rips past us and I hike us up a curb, along the sidewalk, and back onto the street.

“We’re definitely going to die,” he says.

“Back there is Molly’s Cupcakes,” I call out, ignoring him. “If you’re ever in need of a treat. They have swings hanging from the ceiling. It’s fun.” Priya and I used to go there all the time. I zoom through an intersection and Logan lightly squeals before clearing his throat. “And that’s the Crêperie,” I say, pointing. “In the summer they have checkered tablecloths on the patio outside. It’s like a little piece of France.” Another Priya place. I guess they all kind of are.