If You're Out There(18)

“So maybe that explains it,” says Logan.

“What do you mean?”

“Aren’t super-smart people sometimes a little . . .” He spins his pointer finger by his ear and whistles.

“No. Priya is, or at least was . . .” I shake my head. “She was great. Even when life just completely let her down. It never hardened her, you know? She was always loving people, and listening to them, and learning every single thing she could. And now she’s this . . . I don’t even know! I don’t get it. I don’t get her. And I hate that!” I cover my face with my throw pillow. After a moment, I peek out at him. “Am I crazy for not letting this go?”

“Does it matter?”

“I mean, a little. But hey, my mom’s a therapist. Hopefully she can fix whatever damage I’m doing here.”

Logan laughs lightly. “Do you want me to write back?”

I take the phone and push through the weepy feeling, scrolling until I find a picture of her face. It’s an enthusiastic selfie with a homemade BLT from a few months back. I remember I was right outside the frame when she took this, probably telling her she was ridiculous. Her bright smile takes up the bulk of her face, her skin a warm brown. Her big eyes shine back at me—happy and direct. I want her to hear me. What is up with you out there??

I feel a hand on my shoulder and flinch.

“Sorry,” says Logan, pulling back. “You looked . . . sad.”

“Yeah.” I can’t quite meet his eyes. “I guess it was naive, but I really thought we would always be friends. Like pregnant-at-the-same-time kind of friends. Not that we were those girls. But we could have been. A version of them anyway.”

“Hey,” he says after a minute. “You wanna get out of here?”

I pause. “What’d you have in mind?”

He ponders a moment. “How about Evanston? We could explore the Northwestern campus. Maybe find ourselves an Englishman?”

A little rush courses through me. “You’d do that?”

“Why not? You know what he looks like, right?”

“Well . . . yeah.” I scroll back further through photos until I find one of Priya posing beside her happy beau, her shoulder-length hair spread out over a blanket on the grassy quad. He’s squinting, a hand blocking the sun, his shirt buttoned to the top.

Logan leans in. “Nicholas, huh?”

“That’s the one.”

I feel a sudden streak of panic. “What?” asks Logan, as if I’ve said the thought out loud.

“What if we actually find him and he tells Priya that I came searching for him? I’ve made myself seem pathetic enough as it is.”

Logan taps his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps. But I think there’s a certain degree of freedom that comes with the total loss of dignity.”

“Hmm,” I say. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Is that a yes?” he asks, standing up to offer me a hand.

I think for a moment. “Mom! I’m going out!” I even let him help me up.

Upstairs, a door creaks open. “Really?!” Her giddy voice makes me cringe. “I mean . . . Cool, sure. Be safe. Text me later.”

Logan and I share a smile before I notice my grass-stained shorts. “I should change.”

“Why? You look fine.”

“Ah,” I say, already taking the steps up two by two. “But fine is never fine!”

Upstairs I find nothing in my drawers, so I flip the laundry basket over again, returning the semidirty clothes to their rightful place on the floor. I kneel into the pile until I come upon a pair of nice-fitting jeans and a loose white top. I brush the tangles from my hair and catch a glimpse of myself sniffing my pits in the mirror before lopping on deodorant.

Logan’s right. No dignity left to lose.

“Okay!” I hurry down the stairs and scoop up my phone and keys. Logan waits by the door as I step into sandals, whip my hair into a high pony, and swipe a set of Mom’s dangly earrings from the table by the door. “There,” I say. “I feel less gross.”

“Way less gross,” he says with a smirk as he holds the door open. “Now tell me about our target.”

“Right,” I say as I lock up and lead us toward the train. “So he’s from a suburb outside London, and Priya liked to call him by his full name, Nicholas Wallace Reid, because it made him sound like he was some sort of royalty. Priya thought he was cute in a nerdy way. And I guess he’s super-smart. A math major, I think.” It’s warm out, and the sky is streaked with purple and gold. I can’t believe how excited I feel.

I snap my fingers. “You know what—I’m positive he is. I remember because Priya told me he’s in an a cappella group with only other math majors. They’re called the AlgoRhythms.”

Logan chuckles.

“Maybe they have a Facebook page or something,” I say, almost giddy. “I’ll search for it on the train. If we’re lucky, maybe they’ll be performing tonight.” We stop at a crosswalk and I wait for the little light-up man, shifting my weight from side to side. I’m already antsy. The “L” stop is in view.

“What else?” asks Logan. “If not singing, what would Nicholas Wallace Reid be doing on a Saturday night?”