If You're Out There(20)

“What?”

“Nothing,” says Logan as I follow his gaze. “Let’s get out of here.” The kid with the pink cap from the dance floor earlier is shoving his way through the crowd. “Come on,” says Logan, ushering me toward the door.

“Hey!” calls a voice behind us. Several people look over, and Logan’s whole body seems to stiffen with awareness. “I know you from somewhere.” When I turn around, Drunk Bro is squinting at us.

I take a step closer. “Yeah. We met like five minutes ago. You asked me to dance?”

“Not you, sweetie.” He’s grinning. Like douchey-rich-guy-in-an-eighties-movie grinning. He reaches past me to ruffle Logan’s hair.

Logan steps back. “Hey, don’t touch me, man.”

The boy laughs, too hard, and I’m immediately uncomfortable. “Of course. Now I remember. How could I forget those flowing locks? It’s my favorite pizza delivery specialist.” Logan’s expression has gone flat, his nostrils flaring slightly. “Hey, ever’body!” cries Drunk Bro. “Say whatup to Little Caesar over here!”

Logan rubs the back of his neck, his eyes on the ground. “All right, you’ve had your fun. We’re leaving now.”

“Who let you in here anyway? I’m pretty sure I’d know if my favorite restaurateur went to my school.”

Logan keeps his voice low. “We’re just looking for a friend, man. I don’t want any trouble.”

The boy narrows his eyes, as if fascinated. “You’re kind of a pussy, huh? I wouldn’t have pegged you for one back in Indy. Although I must say I’m impressed. Your girl’s got a sweet ass.”

“Hey!” Logan and I both yell.

“Let me ask you a question.” The boy comes forward, his face inches from Logan’s. “If I were to give this lil’ baby face a tap”—he hits Logan’s cheek lightly, and Logan bristles—“would you hit back? Probably not wise, huh? With your whole . . . situation.”

He does it again, but Logan doesn’t move.

Again.

“Stop it!” I yell.

Logan doesn’t touch the boy. He just turns and heads for the door. The boy calls after him, “What, you don’t want a fight?”

He’s staring at the back of Logan’s head, a wild glint in his eye. Logan pauses a moment, his fists clenched, but keeps walking. And then I see what’s about to happen, an instant before it does. The boy draws his arm back, winding up for a cheap shot, and suddenly I’m running into the space between them.

It’s pure reflex. With a swift, low jab, I feel the boy’s stomach sink—deep, soft. He stumbles back, and I brace myself for a return attack—hands up, elbows low, protecting my face and ribs. When I learned to fight I’d come to hit stuff, but Reggie couldn’t let me walk out without at least a basic self-defense sequence. Wrist to windpipe. Elbow to solar plexus. Knee to groin.

But the boy doesn’t come at me. Instead he coughs, doubled over, stumbling back until he hits the wall behind him and slides down to sit.

I drop my stance, raw with shock. I’ve never pulled a move like this. Not in real life, anyway. I’m out of breath, and somewhere else, thinking of all those days with Reggie—testing jabs and blocks, the weight on my chest impossible to explain to anyone. There were so many nights spent alone in my room, pounding on that heavy bag, until slowly, slowly, the bad drained out. It was okay how Mom always hovered. Or how something in my dad had just extinguished. Maybe the ground was never solid. Maybe nothing and no one was certain. But I had myself.

That was before Priya, of course.

And now, here I am. Again.

The boy gasps for air, still clutching his belly. “You fucking . . . bitch!” It’s like I’ve suddenly returned to this room. People are standing around us, watching and whispering.

I crouch down next to the boy. “You seem like an angry guy. Get help.”

I get up and turn to Logan. “Should we go?” He stares as the onlookers begin to disperse, trickling back toward the dance floor.

I lead us down the stairwell and out into the night. Logan’s lips stay sort of dumbly parted. “What . . .” He blinks for another moment. “What was that back there?”

“What? You’ve never met a girl who could fight before?” I may be laying on the bravado a little thick, but I’m kind of enjoying the stunned expression on his face.

There’s a distinct reggaeton beat echoing from a distance. I walk in the direction of the sound, and Logan eyes me warily. “Remind me not to make you mad.”

We wind our way through the leafy grounds, past sleepy buildings lit by tall streetlamps. This part of campus feels abandoned—enlivened only by the steady chirp of crickets, a reminder of all the life around us we can’t see.

I keep glancing to my side. I can feel Logan thinking thoughts. Finally I shove him. “Okay, what?”

“Nothing. That was just . . . Thanks.”

I watch the pavement, out of words again. The silence is a jarring reminder that we barely know each other. For a moment I have to steal a glance at his face just to remember how we got here.

I clear my throat. “So who was that guy?”

Logan slips his hands into his pockets. “Kid from basketball. We went to the same prep school.”