If You're Out There(32)

“I’ll be there,” I tell him.

“And you, Logan?”

Logan smirks in my direction. “Of course. I wouldn’t want Zan to go alone. It’ll be like a date.”

“Not like a date,” I say, straight-faced.

“Date adjacent.”

“Not date adjacent.”

“Date analogous.”

“Date antithetical.”

“Ooo, good word,” says Logan.

I nod. “SAT prep.”

Arturo watches happily. “I love this so hard.”

The doors swing open and Samantha walks out, her hands buried in her apron pockets. “You off to rehearsal?”

“Yeah,” says Arturo.

They kiss quickly. After a pause she says, “You’ll be great,” like giving compliments is just a tiny bit painful.

Logan glances at the clock above. “Crap. I better go, too. I have to pick up my sister from after-school.” He stands and slips a pen into his bag. “But uh . . . Thanks for the sodas.”

Samantha hesitates a moment, then walks to the takeout bag on the next table over. “These the chickenless nuggets?”

“In all their glory,” I say.

She and Arturo share a look. “You know what? It’s dead in here. There’s no sense in both of us staying, and I’ve got studying to keep me busy. You should go with your”—Logan slips a sweatshirt overhead and Sam smirks my way—“friend.”

“Oh yeah, you should,” says Logan, popping through the neckhole. “That’d be great. You could meet my sister. Stay for dinner. She’ll love it.”

A part of me wants to disappoint my smug, smiling colleague with her all-knowing face, but something makes me say, “Sure,” and before I can change my mind, I head for the kitchen to clock out.

I. Am. The champion!

But I’m too out of breath to gloat.

I’m soaked and dripping inside the school entrance, heaving as I grip the banister. We sprinted the whole way from where the bus dropped us, an edge of giddy competition coursing palpably between us. “Goddamn,” says Logan. The doors click shut behind us, silencing the rain. He pushes back the wet hair clinging to his forehead. “You’re fast.”

“Yeah,” I pant, swallowing hard. “I’m a sore loser too. So it’s a good thing I whupped you.”

“Hey now,” he says, still winded. “I think we both know . . . that ‘whupped’ . . . is an overstatement. Also, it wasn’t . . . a race.”

“Losers always say it wasn’t a race.”

“Fine,” he concedes with a grin. “But for the record, you’re also a sore winner.”

Pleased with myself, I follow Logan down the steps to the school’s basement, past dull cement walls offset by colorful kid-painted murals. We turn a corner, our energy settling, and Logan greets the counselor standing guard at a set of propped-open doors.

“Brittany Hart,” says Logan.

The man checks his list and gestures ruefully to the other side of the cafeteria. The back wall is lined with backpacks on hooks and rain boots on trays. The counselor hesitates. “She’s been a little—”

Logan raises one hand, quieting him gently. “It’s okay. Thanks, man.” I trail behind as Logan weaves through a sea of directionless children. After a moment I spot her—the girl from Logan’s phone. She’s sitting in the corner, staring at the pink windbreaker folded in her lap.

Logan jogs the last few paces. “You okay, killer Bee?” I hang back as he crouches down and tucks the girl’s hair behind one ear. Her bottom lip begins to quiver. “Hey . . .” he says. His worry makes me worry. And it’s strange to see him in this light. Logan is someone’s big brother.

The girl notices me suddenly, her big, curious eyes staring, unblinking.

“Hi there.” I do this weird little wave. “I’m Zan.” I wonder if I sound too casual. “Rough day at the office?” I ask, deciding to just run with it.

She stands to lean against her brother’s rain-soaked hip, and he hoists her up until her little legs clasp around his waist. “You’re okay,” he says into her hair. He gives me a reassuring look as he swipes a yellow backpack covered in cartoon pugs from a hook and heaps it over his own.

Back at the entrance, the counselor checks Bee’s name off a list and gives her a cautious pat on the shoulder. “Weren’t quite yourself again today, were you, kiddo?” But she stays buried in her brother’s neck.

The bus is pulling away from the stop as we arrive. “Noooo,” cries Logan, abandoning his sprint. The rain is pouring down in sheets and there’s not one umbrella between us. It feels like I have fallen in a dunk-tank, save for a few dry patches—which I do appreciate. At the very thought, a little stream makes its way into the space between my bra and skin, and I shriek.

I hear Bee giggling softly as her brother groans. I look past him, to the bar-studded strip glittering ahead. A little ways up the block, by the will of some merciful traffic god, our bus has hit a red light.

“Hold on!”

I sprint into the intersection, plunging through puddles until I’ve caught up. I bang on the glass doors, but the driver keeps her eyes ahead. “Hey!” I pound again, with both fists, but I may as well be invisible. The water is well above my ankles now, seeping deep into my defenseless canvas sneakers. “Come on!” I whine to the stone-faced woman. “Please? We’ve got a kid out here!” After a moment, the driver shifts her gaze, and I point an emphatic thumb behind me. Logan has caught up with Bee in his arms. The driver squints, something shifting in her expression, and I know that I have broken her.