If You're Out There(31)

“Yeah,” I say, breathing a little easier. “That’s something.”





Five


Thursday, September 13

At a window booth at the cleared-out restaurant, Logan and I are both three Italian sodas deep when we start to go loopy. The glittery table has become something of a work space, covered with papers and used dishes from the afternoon.

One thing has become clear—I am now the master of the bullshit call.

For example, “Yes, hello, I’m calling on behalf of my niece, Priya Patel. My brother and I are planning a family vacation to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Orlando next month and we’re hoping to pull Priya out of school for a few days. This really will be a dream come true for her. I’m sure you’ve seen her cape. So! How do we go about requesting an excused absence?”

Or, “Good afternoon. This is Dr. Anna Thermopolis, family physician for one of your students—Priya Patel? We recently got back some pre-tty interesting test results, and I’m not sure her stepdad’s gonna love them. Trust me—whatever you’re thinking, it’s worse. I’m talking seriously disgusting stuff. Anyhoo. How might I get these results to her?”

Or better yet, “I’m calling from Guinness World Records. I’m doing a bit of follow-up on one of your students, Priya Patel? Did she mention she holds the world record for most consecutive consumption of human hair? Head hair only, of course. My legal team tells me we’re contractually obligated to check in on the state of her gastrointestinal tract. Could you pass along a message for me?”

I keep wavering as to whether all this digging is justified or just batshit stalkerish, but we’re in it this far. Between occasional tides of panic, I keep feeling what can only be described as slaphappy. I think I like making Logan laugh.

I sigh into the phone. “Well . . . thank you for your help.” The woman clucked and said “Poor dear” when I told her of Priya’s newly deceased cat, but a quick search produced no such student for a sympathy card. “You must have the wrong school,” she said.

We’ve been hearing that all day.

“Not your best,” says Logan from across the booth when I hang up.

I take off my apron—it’s dead in here anyway—and walk to the bar to refill our sodas. “Even geniuses run out of material eventually. I’m washed up. Old news.” I add syrup. “The secretary sends her condolences, by the way.”

Logan nods, solemn. “Poor Carl.”

“Carl?”

“The cat,” he says.

“Ah.” I walk back to our table and hand Logan his drink. “Well. To Carl.” We let our glasses touch and I slide in across from him.

Logan chews on ice as he studies the printed Google Maps search, scattered with Saint Annes all along the western coast. The margins are covered in phone numbers, scratched out in my lazy loops and Logan’s jagged handwriting. “Another one bites the dust,” I say, taking the map from him to draw another X.

I slump against the window. Rain streaks the glass, blurring headlights and neon signs against the gloomy sky.

“How many does that leave us?”

“Two,” I say, defeated. “And I don’t think they’re boarding schools. Are there live-in Montessoris?”

Logan wobbles the pencil between his fingers. “Maybe I heard him wrong. Saint Anna’s? Saint Andrew’s?”

“He never said the school was in California.” I tug on my bottom lip. “Maybe it’s somewhere really random, like Delaware. Maybe that’s why Priya’s lying. Who would want to tell the world they go to school in Delaware?”

“Where is Delaware?” ponders Logan. “And what do people do there?”

I shake my head gravely. “No one knows.”

I hear scuffling in the kitchen and after a moment the doors to the dining room swing open. Arturo walks over and sets down a bulging takeout bag onto the table behind ours. “Someone should be picking up soon. I think it’s for a birthday party. Five orders of chickenless nuggets.”

“Those are going to be some disappointed children,” says Logan.

Arturo laughs. “Keep an eye out for me, Zan?”

“Sure,” I say, scanning the empty dining room. It’s early, and the Cubs got rained out. I should probably be mad (I’ve made exactly twelve dollars in tips so far), but there are worse ways to spend an afternoon. Arturo slips into a jacket and grabs an umbrella from behind the bar. “Where are you off to?”

“Rehearsal with my coach. Remember? My showcase is on Saturday. All solo acts. There’s talk of agents coming, producers, scouts. It could be huge for me. There may even be SNL people.”

“Holy shit,” says Logan. “Hey, good luck, man.”

I kick him under the table. “You’re supposed to say break a leg.”

Logan frowns. “People really say that?”

“Yes,” says Arturo, a bit bashfully. “At least superstitious people like me. If you could, perhaps you could suggest that I sustain some kind of horrible injury?”

“Okay,” says Logan with a smile. “Break your legs. And arms. If possible, please break all of your limbs.”

“Thanks,” says Arturo. He turns to me. “You’ll be there, right? Laughing super hard at everything I say, even if I suck real bad?”