If You're Out There(25)

I skipped school for two glorious days at the start of the week—told Mom I was sick, though she barely believed me by yesterday. Today I went to the nurse’s office instead of Spanish—said I had a stomachache and blamed it on a bad breakfast burrito. The nurse didn’t seem entirely convinced either, but she gave me some Tums and let me lie down for a while. Logan texted midway through class (you okay?), but I never responded.

Lacey raises an eyebrow. “You’re telling me there’s nothing happening there.”

“Not a thing.”

I think of Logan’s gentle wave from my doorstep. I was mortified that he’d seen me like that, all puffy and splotchy and sniffly. I think he tried to pat my back at one point on the train. That did not go well for him.

I didn’t even say good night.

Lacey examines her nails. “Well, if you are lying, which you obviously are, be careful. People say he’s dangerous. And sells drugs.”

“No way,” I say. “Who are your sources?”

“All right,” she says, rolling her eyes. “So some of this may be conjecture.” I smile. For a gossip, at least Lacey has a sense of humor about herself. Her face lights up. “Speaking of . . .”

I glance back and catch a glimmer of Logan’s yellow hair in the distance. Without a thought I yank Lacey by the arm to hide behind a tree. “Ow!” she cries as I shush her. She rubs at the spot where I grabbed her, then pokes out below me to peek.

“Shit!”

He was facing this way, but I don’t think he saw us. I sigh. Lacey’s delight is evident. “Acquaintances, huh?”

“Yep.” I peer out again. He’s walking toward the opposite end of the park, languid, his headphones in, a notebook tucked beneath one arm. I’m relieved as his wiry body gets smaller and smaller and disappears around a corner. “Phewf.” I plop down on the ground to rest against the tree trunk, sending a cloud of dusty dirt into the air.

Lacey sighs down at me. “Alexandra Martini, what did you do? Were you mean to him?”

I crinkle my nose. “Maybe a little?”

At this, Lacey slides down the trunk beside me, letting her pristine white jeans squish right into the grass. “Tell me. Is it true you’ve never dated anyone?”

“There have been guys,” I say. “I don’t know. Little sparks. But it never goes anywhere. What?” I must sound defensive.

“Just curious,” she says, her hands up. “If you wanna talk about it, it would stay between us. Believe it or not, I actually can keep my mouth shut from time to time.”

“It’s fine,” I tell her. “Priya used to bug me about it, too. She and my mom diagnosed me with chronic boylessness.”

“How is Priya anyway?” asks Lacey. “I’ve been following. The pictures are so pretty. Does she love California?”

“Yep,” I say quickly. It’s easier to lie by omission than get into it.

Lacey thinks a moment, then turns to me decisively. “So where do you think the chronic boylessness comes from?”

I shoot her a look. “Are you trying to therapist me right now? Because you may remember, I have enough of that at home.”

“Oh right,” says Lacey. “I forgot about that. I’m just saying. If it’s a shyness thing, I would happily coach you. It’s all about confidence.”

“Well, that’s very charitable of you,” I tell her.

“Zan.” She looks almost stricken. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, I know,” I say, smiling at her. “I’m just giving you shit. Anyway, I wouldn’t say it’s a shyness thing. It’s more like . . . I don’t know. Like maybe I’m just not a mushy person. And the thought of losing myself to someone? Sounds like a bad idea to me. People suck so much of the time.”

“I get that,” says Lacey. “I definitely get that. And I guess it doesn’t help if the guy in question has a past.”

She says that last word so dramatically it makes me flustered. “No, that’s not . . . I don’t know what people are saying, but I doubt you have your facts right.”

“Okay,” says Lacey. “Hey, if you trust him, I’m on board. I say go for it. Because, honestly, I think people forget—in cases like these, you have to consider the extenuating circumstances.”

I meet her eyes, dubious. “Like what kind of circumstances?”

Lacey gets up, brushing herself off. “Like the kind where the guy is just really, really hot.”

The track lights in Dad’s new condo are dimmed, apart from a single low-hanging lantern that glows above the bright white kitchen table. It feels like Dad wants us to like this place, and I’ll admit the Wicker Park location is pretty cool—in a self-aware hipster sort of way. Harr and I each have our own rooms now, which is nice. But it’s probably a waste if I’m being honest. We’re not here enough for it to matter.

Tonight, though, I’m happy to sleep somewhere that isn’t mine—to leave the shit-storm-of-perpetual-misery that is my actual life behind for a night.

“Got any homework?” Dad asks, setting down a stack of plates and a handful of forks and spoons. We’ve both cleaned up since our one-on-one game. I can’t remember the last time we played soccer together, but I was struck by how easily we picked it up again. I think Dad was surprised I suggested it.