If You're Out There(41)

Every time my eyes land on the shattered phone, I get a little shiver. “I really think we should report this,” I say again.

Logan doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me. “What’s the charity?”

I check the file cabinet—still full—and snap it shut, annoyed. “The GRETA Fund. Girls Reaching Equality Through Academics. They fund girls’ schools around Mumbai and in some rural areas.”

“And you and Priya were involved?”

“Yeah. GRETA is getting ready to send student volunteers for the first time this summer. It was Priya’s idea, actually. We were going to work for them after graduation.”

“The India trip,” he says, his face getting slightly less stupid. “I remember now.” He glances at the clock. “Crap. We’re missing Spanish. We should get going.”

I drag my hand along the wooden desk and open one last drawer. There’s a slip of paper inside. It’s creased like a letter, and when I open it, I see a single sentence, typed.

Found you

Logan reads over my shoulder. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“No idea,” I say, feeling winded again. I fold the note and drop it into my bag. “I’ll file it into evidence.” I heave a sigh. “This is definitely weird. You have to admit, it’s weird, right?”

“It’s weird,” Logan concedes, slinging on his backpack. He swivels back when I don’t follow.

“You go ahead, actually,” I say. “I . . . I don’t know, I need a minute.”

I can tell he’s concerned. “Are you sure? I can stay if you—”

“No, no,” I say. “I already made you miss one class. Go. I’ll be right behind you.”

When he’s gone, I wander through the house. I sit on the couch where we sometimes studied and slide my hand along the cold granite kitchen counter.

I stop in a doorway and peer in. Even the bathroom is sentimental.

The inspirational plaque was displayed prominently—albeit begrudgingly—over the sink for the rare occasions when Ben’s mother came to visit. This was hardly necessary by the time they moved. She hadn’t come in years. Maybe the whimsical fonts just grew on them.

EVERY FAMILY HAS A STORY. WELCOME TO OURS.

I guess this particular slab of pseudo-Buddhist wisdom didn’t make it into first-round packing. I take the stairs and check the second-floor bathroom.

A true love story never ends.

I stare at the mirror, noting my tired eyes. What makes it a love story, anyway? Something about this particular plaque always made me sad. As I’d wash my hands up here, I’d find myself wondering about Sita and Ben. Or Sita and Priya. Or my mom and my dad. Everyone who’s ever loved and lost. But as the attic bathroom will tell you,

Better to have loved and lost

than to have never loved at all

Cheesy, yes, but probably true. Who knows? Maybe Bed Bath & Beyond really is the great purveyor of wisdom when it comes to the human heart.

I take it all in one last time as I return to the first floor. I really shouldn’t miss another class. I lock up from the inside and step out into the sun. As the door shuts, I realize that I locked the back door too. That was dumb. Now I won’t be able to get in again if I think of something.

I notice a man outside the gate then. He has tan skin and dark hair, and he’s staring intensely in my direction through thick black-rimmed glasses. I check behind me, in the weak hope that he’s looking anywhere else.

“Who are you?” he asks as I walk down the porch steps.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

“Oh, uh . . .” I plaster on my best totally normal expression. “I’m a friend. Of the people who own this house. I was dropping in to . . . water the plants. Because, you know. No one likes a dead plant.” I hear myself—What?—but the man seems too preoccupied to notice.

“So you know these guys? Ben and Priya?”

“Oh, uh. Yeah,” I say. “Priya. She’s . . . Well, she’s kinda my best friend.”

“Oh,” he says. “Okay. So . . .” He frowns. “So they still live here?”

“Um.” I bite my lip—I guess that’s what I just said, isn’t it? “Yes?” I peek at the gate between us, which the man is continuing to block. “Sorry, who are you?”

“Family friend. Just came by for a visit.” Odd. I’ve never seen him before.

“Well, they’re not here right now,” I tell him. I look at the gate again and clear my throat, an obvious hint that I want to leave. But he doesn’t move. “I should . . . go.”

“Right,” he says, stepping out of the way. “After you.” I graze past him and start heading down the street. To my back, I think I hear, “Bye, Zan.”

I’m halfway to school when I realize I never told him my name.

My next class has already started when I slip back into school, the garbled thoughts competing for space in my head. I missed lunch and my stomach is growling. I’m glad I left some popcorn in my locker.

“Alejandra.”

I close the locker with a jump. Se?ora O’Connell is standing in the center of the hallway, with a purse on her arm and keys in her hand. My stomach tightens, but I try to come off cool and collected. “Oh, hey. Sorry about missing class. Logan and I both had a test. It ran long, and—”