If You're Out There(35)

“Thanks,” I say, crossing my arms around the loose-fitting top. The open door has brought in a draft. “Nice to meet you.”

Bonnie kicks off kitten heels, losing another inch. “Where’s your brother?” she asks Bee.

Bee’s shoulders drop. “Phone.”

A flash of understanding registers on Bonnie’s face, and I wonder if this is nothing new. “I . . . better check on him.”

When Logan calls us for dinner, Bee is showing me her extensive library—a gift from her aunt upon moving to Chicago. She doesn’t falter as she reads from Angelina Ballerina, not quite looking at the page. I suspect she’s memorized it.

“Brittany,” says Logan for the second time, tossing a dish towel over one shoulder as he steps into the room. “I said come eat.”

Bee slaps the book shut. “Sorry, Zan. We’ll have to finish the story later.” Logan grins and we follow him toward the scent of meatballs.

“So, Zan,” says Bonnie as we sit around the table. She scoops a second helping of salad onto her plate from a big ceramic bowl. “What do you think of my nephew’s cooking?”

“It’s amazing,” I say, dabbing my mouth with a cloth napkin.

“I’ll tell you,” says Bonnie. “This kitchen has gotten more use in the last month than it has in the previous three years combined.” She reaches across the table to take Logan’s bashful face in hand. “How about you try for local colleges next year, hm? Stick around and cook for me?”

“He wants to go to the Art Institute of Chicago,” says Bee through a mouthful of pasta. “He could still cook for us if he went there.”

“Is that so?” says Bonnie with a glance at her nephew. “Well, I think that would be terrific.”

Bee seems cheered by her aunt’s mood. “It’s only three miles from here. I looked it up on the computer. He should definitely go there.”

“How do you know about the Art Institute?” asks Logan.

Bee’s eyes dart to her lap. “I saw some papers in your room.”

“I told you not to go through my stuff.” She sulks and Logan seems to soften a little. “Anyway I wouldn’t get your hopes up. My grades sucked last year.”

“Well, that’s what this year’s for,” says Bonnie, making another dive for the meatballs. “And you’re more than what’s on paper, my darling. But what about you, Zan? What are your plans for next year?”

“I’m not sure,” I say honestly. Every adult seems to ask this question, and I never know what to say. My ambivalence toward the future used to baffle Priya. Unlike me, she had the picture in her head. Ivy League school. Nice, big family. A career in something like global health or public policy.

“You must have some idea,” says Bonnie—parroting Priya to a tee.

Whenever we had this talk and I didn’t have some idea, Priya would spin out into a list-making frenzy. Teacher? Doctor?? Zookeeper???

“I guess it’s weird to me,” I remember telling her once on the futon in her attic. “We’re supposed to make these huge decisions when we haven’t done enough or seen enough to know who we are or what we even want.” Priya sat cross-legged above me, listening in her thoughtful way. “But wherever I end up, I hope I do some good,” I told her.

I can still remember Priya’s face—how she’d looked so unbelievably certain. “’Course you will, ZanaBanana.”

I startle as a cell phone rattles against the coffee table in Logan’s living room, bringing me back. It’s mine, actually.

“Sorry,” I say, getting up. “I’ll turn it off. It’s just my”—the screen flashes MOM, but my stomach catches at the thought of Bee—“friend.”

“Please,” says Bonnie. “We’re not exactly formal around here. Take your call.”

I walk down the hall and hit the button. “Hey, what’s up? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“Real quick,” says Mom. “Are you working tomorrow?”

“No, I think I’m off.” I lean against the wall by a cracked-open bedroom door.

“Great,” she says with relief. “Can you pick up Harr from after-school and bring him to Dad’s?”

I frown. “But we were just there.”

“Well, Whit and I are going to her work thing and he offered. Harr had a sleepover but it fell through. Anyway, Dad can’t get there until seven.” She pauses. “You know you can eat dinner with your dad more than once a week.”

“I know,” I say. “I didn’t mean it like it was a bad thing.” I peek in through the crack in the door and nudge it open a little more. Big sheets of paper covered in ink and charcoal are tacked all over the walls. It must be Logan’s room. The drawings are mostly faces, peering out from shadows. Grief seems to pour from each pair of eyes, even the smiling ones.

“Some medical group is putting on a big banquet for the doctors,” Mom is saying. “Whit’s actually getting an award! I’ll just be the arm candy.”

I laugh. “Nice. You should definitely go. You two will have fun.” I catch a glimpse of a sketch pad leaning against the base of Logan’s desk and do a double take. Is that me?