If You're Out There(21)

“Prep school, huh? Fancy.”

“I was there on an athletic scholarship. But I was in it for the art department. Place was amazing.”

“I take it you two didn’t get along?”

“We were kind of . . . rivals? I know it sounds ridiculous. It was mostly in his mind. Like he thought we were living out The Karate Kid or something. The truth is, I was a better basketball player than him, and I didn’t even care. I just wanted to draw. I think that’s the part he couldn’t handle. When he found out about my job as a pizza delivery boy, he started ordering from us all the time. After a while he started requesting me. It was nonstop. I think he got a little obsessed.”

“Couldn’t you say no?”

Logan shakes his head, a stray piece of hair falling into his eyes. “I was already pushing my luck at work. There were a bunch of nights I had to cancel shifts to watch my sister. The manager was always pissed at me. He wasn’t like your boss. I couldn’t risk getting fired. We needed the money.”

“So you kept bringing him pizza?”

“Till my last day on the job.”

“And it never got old for him.”

“Guess not,” says Logan. “The guy could really hold a grudge. And he’s from the part of town where kids can waste their parents’ money on shit like that.” We turn the corner and come upon a group of students in a circle on the grass. They’re singing Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” with eyes closed while one girl plays guitar. “They seem happy,” says Logan.

“Yeah,” I say, gazing out. For a second, I wonder what it would feel like to be one of these “Kumbaya” types, surrendering myself to the night, to the music. I don’t think they’d accept me into their little circle. I’d be cracking jokes before we even reached the chorus.

Logan’s hand grazes mine and I pull away instinctively. Somehow touching makes me almost as squirmy as people singing their hearts out. Aside from Mom and Harr, Priya was the only other real exception. Maybe she just wore me down, after days upon days of her arms on my shoulders or her feet on my lap. After a while it felt normal. She couldn’t invade my space because she belonged in it.

Logan clears his throat, eyeing the gap I’ve left between our fingers.

“So,” I say. I start to walk again, leading us down the path. The distant music echoes off of buildings, drawing closer. “Are you going to play basketball for our school this season?”

“Maybe. I’m pretty rusty. I didn’t play much last year.”

“How come?”

He kicks a rock in his path and watches it sputter away. “It wasn’t really up to me. I kinda got kicked off.”

“For what?”

Logan stops walking, and for a moment there’s no winning smile or eyebrow raise. “For getting expelled.”

I study his face under the light of the moon. “Huh.” I wonder if I’ve just seen a flicker of sadness or if that look was something else. “Are you a bad boy, Logan Hart?”

“Nah. You saw me back there.”

I perk up suddenly.

“What?” he says.

“Mulan and Belle,” I say. “Twelve o’clock.” I pick up the pace as a third friend converges with them along a connecting path, waddling with her legs stuck close together. “Oh my God, it’s Ariel! Follow that mermaid!”

We hurry past the glass entrance of a residence hall. I notice someone inside and start to glance back when Logan nudges me, pointing up ahead. A few buildings away from us, the girls are filing in. I spot a Snow White out front, already drunk, crying to a consoling Pinocchio on a smoke break. “Well, this should be good,” says Logan.

I hesitate along the path. “No. Wait a minute,” I say, turning back the way we came.

Logan follows until I stop in front of the entrance to squint. Amid a smattering of colorful chairs in a brightly lit common area, a boy stands in an undershirt and striped pajama pants, appearing deep in thought.

I get out my phone for reference, checking back and forth. After a moment, a student walks out, and I lunge to catch the door.

Inside, the common space is silent, and I realize the boy is studying a vending machine. He still hasn’t moved. Like . . . at all. “Tough decision tonight?” I ask, coming forward.

The boy’s shoulders lift for a silent, breathy laugh. “Sadly my evening snack has become one of life’s happier moments. Best I choose wisely.” He sighs to himself. “Do you have any opinions on Combos? I haven’t managed to try them since my arrival to this innovative, snack-tacular country of yours.” He vaguely glances back at us before returning his gaze to the rows of snacks. “It’s sort of a strange name, Combos,” he goes on, the emphasis on the word drawing out his crisp British accent. “It’s as if they believe it’s some unusual accomplishment, combining two foods into one. A peanut butter cup is a combo. So are yogurt raisins. You don’t hear either of them raving about it.” He thinks a moment. “Then again, I suppose by claiming the name Combo you are sort of suggesting that pretzels and synthetic cheese are the ultimate combination. So that’s something.”

Logan’s eyes widen, amused, and I smile.

“All right, then.” The boy inserts a dollar and presses the button. “I suppose it’s time I take the leap.” The machine releases the bag, and soon he’s reaching down to cradle the snack in his hands like something altogether precious. “Combos, I’ve put my faith in you.” When he turns around, my chest tightens but I take a deep breath.