If You're Out There(47)

“Yeah,” he says, his exhale scratching at my ear. “I’ve been wondering how you might be taking that.”

“I mean, it sucks.”

“I’m sure,” he says gently. “And, well, not to get involved, but I don’t totally get her reasoning with this one.”

“Which is . . . ?”

He breathes out. “That’s what I mean. I don’t entirely know. I think she’s, I don’t know, maybe going through a period where she needs some space.”

“Yeah,” I say, my heart sinking. “Well, I don’t expect you to tell me anything personal. But I guess I was starting to feel worried. You’d tell us if something was wrong, right? I mean. Like . . . she’s okay?”

He hesitates. “She’s fine. It’s . . . complicated. But she’s fine.”

“Okay . . .” I say, my worry spiking. “Wait, no, Ben. What the heck does that mean?”

He laughs lightly. “I just mean she’s . . . going through some stuff. She’s not talking to me much, though, either.”

“Oh.” I’m still not sure what to do with that. I look at Mom. “Hey, one second, okay?” I walk to the kitchen, out of earshot. I know Mom will respect my privacy enough not to follow me, but I keep my voice low anyway. “Did something happen at your house before you guys left? I . . . sort of went by today.”

“What do you mean?”

I think a moment and decide to go with partial honesty. “I was there, so I . . . peeked in the window. I noticed you didn’t bring all your furniture. And it was a mess inside.”

“Ah,” he says. “Well, we had to get the truck back by a certain hour here in Santa Monica. The bulk of our stuff was supposed to end up in storage, but we were so behind, rushing around. We just skipped it.” He laughs. “It was a truly chaotic day.”

“I gotcha,” I say, bobbing my head. “Well. I don’t know. I guess something just felt off.” I perk up, suddenly remembering. “And there was a guy there.”

“At our house?”

“Yeah. Like, sort of lurking around. He said he knew you and Priya, but I’d never seen him.”

“Huh,” says Ben. “What’d he look like?”

“Tan skin. Dark hair and eyes. Glasses. I can’t remember much else.”

“Weird,” he says, clearing his throat. A pause. “Hey, I know it’s not my place, Zan, and I wish I could be more helpful, but I do hope she’ll come around. She’s been . . . changing. Nothing bad. I’m not sure when you two stopped talking, so maybe you already know this, but she’s at a boarding school right now.”

“Oh,” I say. “I, uh. No, I didn’t know that.”

“A spot opened up last minute,” he says. “The environment there is pretty different from Prewitt. It’s possible she’s bending to peer pressure or struggling to adjust. I’m not sure, but I think it could explain some of this.”

“Huh,” I say, nodding slowly. “But you still see her?”

“We Skype sometimes in the mornings before her classes. I’m actually visiting tomorrow. It’s a bit of a drive, but I go when I can.”

“So the school is driving distance?” As it flies from my mouth I realize how obsessive it must sound, but I’m saved by a click.

“Hey, Zan? Hold on one second. I have another call. It’s . . . Well, it’s Priya.”

“Oh,” I say, my heart constricting. “Please don’t tell her I—”

“I won’t,” he says. “Just a sec.”

I wait on the line, my thoughts swirling. I feel like I’ve woken up in the middle of this crazy conversation. This is crazy. I sound crazy.

He comes back. “Sorry about that. She needs me to send over some paperwork for school. I should call her back, but uh. Sorry, what were we saying?”

“Nothing. It’s okay. Thanks for talking to me.”

After a pause he says, “Take care of yourself, Zan, all right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.” I drift into the living room, where Mom is clearly straining to listen as she runs a hand along the sequins of her dress. “Bye.”

I take a few breaths as Mom’s X-ray eyes scan through me. I’m sure she can see the way my throat is closing—the way my whole entire body wants to cry. She’s trying not to seem smug. Trying not to say, I told you so.

I return the phone before heading for the stairs. I seriously can’t stand to look at her. “Boop?” she calls after me. “You’re going to be okay.”

“Don’t!” I say, not turning back. My walk turns to a run and soon the door is slamming shut behind me. I lock it, my pulse racing as my chest rises and falls.

I see the standing bag in the corner of my room and run to it. I throw a punch, hard. From the shoulder, with all my weight. Again and again. I punch the shit out of that bag, until I lose myself. Until my knuckles ache. Until I’m breathless and heaving, with tears all down my face.



N? h?o.

Me again. (Who else would it be?)





DONGGGG-GEE-DONG-GEE-CCCCHHHHHH


See above for the soundtrack of my brain. It’s like a looming question mark, and I seriously can’t stop hearing it. I suppose it’s a nice break from Amanda’s tunes, though.