If You're Out There(42)

“Just stop,” she says through a sigh. “I saw you leaving school.” I open my mouth but come up short. “For future reference, the teachers’ lounge has windows. Big ones. And they look over the park.”

“Oh,” I say, my shoulders slumping. “Look, I’m sorry. This really isn’t like me. Or Logan.”

“I believe you,” she says. “And one unexcused absence isn’t going to kill you, Zan. But you might want to work on being a better influence. Logan’s off to a bad start with his attendance. If he keeps this up, he could be suspended.” My heart sinks a little. Logan said he couldn’t afford to miss another class, and I went and made him do it anyway. “Now, if you don’t mind me,” says la Se?ora, “this is the one day a week I get out early, so I am off to have a long, romantic evening with two very handsome golden retrievers.”

She turns to leave and I hear myself say, “Wait!”

I look down, surprised to see my own hand gripping her tightly by the upper arm. “Sorry,” I say, my wide eyes mirroring hers. “I shouldn’t have done that.” This time she really leaves. “No, please! Hold on!” I trail her down the hall. “Is there any way you could excuse Logan’s absence today? It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t even want to go with me.”

“Then he shouldn’t have,” she says as I struggle to keep up with the fast clip of her heels.

“But if you knew the whole story . . . He was only being a good friend.”

She shakes her head, a long fiery ponytail swinging side to side. “I’ll admit, Logan seems like a super-sweet kid, and I’m totally rooting for him, but faculty members overhear things through the grapevine, too, you know. Not every young guy gets the kind of second chance he’s been given here. After what he pulled, if he wants to go and get himself into more trouble, I’m sorry but that’s on him.”

I study her face, confused, and she stops beneath the Exit sign. “Se?ora O’Connell. What are you talking about?”

A look of understanding clicks in and she winces. “He hasn’t told you. . . . Has he?”

“Told me what?”

Jamming her fingers into her eye sockets, she says, “Goddammit, Megan,” apparently berating herself.

“Hey.” I take a step closer, my heartbeat speeding up. “Told me what?”

Her face falls. “Okay. Zan? I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . I don’t even know the whole . . .” She looks to the ceiling. “That wasn’t cool of me. Ugh. I am literally failing at so many aspects of my life right now.” She collects herself, meeting my eyes again. “If you were wondering? All the adults around you pretending they have their shit together? They don’t.”

I’m still waiting for my answer. For a moment, I imagine shaking her like a pi?ata just to get it out.

“Look.” She steels herself. “I didn’t mean to reveal, or suggest, anything . . . confidential about a student. Logan has the right to a clean slate. Whatever the story is there, you should be hearing from him, not me.” She bites her lip. “Is there any way we could forget I said anything?” After a beat, despite the rising angst inside, I manage a nod. Her shoulders relax. “Thank you, Zan.” She walks backward toward the stairs. “And don’t worry about class today. Let’s just . . . call it even.”

Midway through English, I’m pulled out for a guidance counselor meeting. We talk about college, and I answer most questions with, “I don’t know.” Would you like a small school? Greek life? Any majors calling to you? How about nature? Do you like big cities? Come on, Zan. Work with me a little. Where do you see yourself next year?

Even if I weren’t so distracted, I’m not sure I’d have an answer to that question. The bell rings and I say goodbye. The meeting is unsuccessful.

After school, I walk with Logan to the restaurant. He pushes his bike. I don’t ask him about what la Se?ora said, but I find myself watching him more closely. I’m still trying to make sense of it—this whole swirling mess of a day. Every time I picture Priya’s house—the phone, the note—my stomach plummets. I wasn’t scheduled to work, but I figured I could help Sam teach Logan the ropes. The restaurant is where I want to be.

My mood somehow perfectly matches Manny’s never-ending banda playlist. There’s something sort of melancholy about the elephant-like honk of the baseline tuba. Once in a while, Arturo pops in and takes me for a spin around the kitchen against my will. It sort of helps. No matter how stressed or down I feel, Arturo always finds a way to make me laugh.

“It’s not rocket science,” Samantha is saying. “These are purple onions.” She hoists a big box from off the ground and drops it on the counter. “You slice them into rings and store them in bins.” She lifts a dripping wet container from the dishwasher. “The bins slide right into the salad bar.”

“Got it,” says Logan, following her in his apron as she buzzes around the kitchen.

“Make extra,” says Sam. “So we don’t run out.” She pulls hard against the heavy door to the walk-in fridge. “Then stack the bins you’re not using in here to stay cold.”

Logan steps into the steaming air and rubs his hands together. “I’m ready, Coach. Put me in.”