If You're Out There Read online

  Dedication

  to my bright spots

  & to all the friends and fighters out there

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Katy Loutzenhiser

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  From: Zan Martini

  To: Priya Patel

  Date: Fri, Jul 6, 11:32 pm

  Subject: I’M DOING DRUGS! LOTS AND LOTS OF DRUGS!

  Okay I’m not really doing drugs. Just thought this might help get your attention. Seriously, where the heck are you? Read my texts woman! And CALL ME!

  * * *

  From: Zan Martini

  To: Priya Patel

  Date: Sat, Jul 7, 4:09 pm

  Subject: I’M PREGNANT!!

  Someone’s gonna be an aunty. . . .

  Okay I’m obviously not pregnant. But wtf? Do they not have wifi or phone service in California? We have so much to discuss! How are things with Nicholas Wallace Reid? How’s the apartment? And how soon can I come swim in your pool??? You DO realize that this year’s impending sucktitude is all your fault, don’t you? The least you could do is hit me back!

  * * *

  From: Zan Martini

  To: Priya Patel

  Date: Mon, Jul 9, 10:20 pm

  Subject: PHEWF!!! SEX TAPE TAKEN DOWN!!!

  Okay, really, I promise. That will be the last in this series of delightful announcements. Maybe you’re busy unpacking and don’t find this as funny as I do (I find it hilarious actually). I considered I’M COOKING METH! and ALL CLEAR GONORRHEA-WISE! But I decided to spare you the mental picture (well, until now). And the meth thing was too similar to the drugs one. And anyway let’s be serious—you’re the chemist in this relationship.

  Since you’re clearly DESPERATE for the details of my life, soccer camp was fun, though it did little to alleviate my chronic boylessness this time around (sorry if that’s disappointing). Anyway, back to work tomorrow. Did I tell you Whit’s moving in? We’re going to Michigan next week. It won’t be the same without you . . .

  * * *

  From: Zan Martini

  To: Priya Patel

  Date: Sat, Aug 4, 11:30 pm

  Subject: Hey . . .

  Did I do something wrong?

  One

  Tuesday, September 4

  I keep coming back to the same shot. A pair of sandy to-go cups, sort of leaning into each other—like a contented couple, looking out at the distant city lights against a watercolor sky. It was May, almost her birthday, and we’d spent the afternoon bundled in sweatshirts on one of Mom’s ratty yoga blankets, blowing dollar store bubbles at the lake.

  “You know what’s weird, Zan?”

  The ice in our Vietnamese coffees had nearly melted, the half-filled cups slick with condensation. Priya’s eyes were closed, her face bathed in peachy light. She’d used my actual name, which meant she was thinking serious thoughts. Otherwise I’d be ZanaBanana, or Prescription Xanax, or Alexander Zamilton.

  “What?” I said, dunking my wand into the suds.

  She made a visor with her hands and looked at me. “Before my mom got married, she had your mom down as the person who would get me if something ever happened.”

  I unpursed my lips, just before the bubble broke. “I didn’t know that.” I staked the bottle into the sand and brushed my hands clean. “Would I have gone to you guys? If something happened to my parents?”

  I felt terrible before she even said it.

  “Doubt it. You have a whole family.” She flipped onto her stomach. “It’s so wild to think about. We would have been like . . . sisters.”

  I sprawled out beside her. “We are like sisters.”

  She hadn’t quite been her chipper self all day. But I believed her when she smiled and said, “True.” She bent down to take a sip without moving her cup. “I guess all roads lead to us.”

  “Alejandra?”

  I’m still lost in the picture—in that day at the lake—when someone clears her throat.

  “Alejandra.”

  I don’t recognize my Spanish name at first. Then I glance down at the Sharpied name tag emblazoned across my chest. Señora O’Connell is standing over me, her eyes on the cell phone resting not so subtly against the frayed hem of my denim shorts.

  I steal a final glance at those happy, sunlit to-go cups on the screen. “Sorry,” I say, the word slow to arrive. I slip the phone into my backpack. “I mean, lo siento.”

  Señora O’Connell lets out a clipped breath, as if determined to stay positive. At the whiteboard, she begins scribbling in bright green loops, her ponytail bobbling along as she talks—each orange strand practically screaming, We’re Irish! And no, this is not our first language! I can’t say her accent is all that good—the vowels dull, consonants soggy.

  I feel bad for her, though. She’s new, and no one’s really paying attention. Skye and Ying, fellow soccer girls, are whispering in front of me, while Eddy Hays, resident idiot, has formed a pillow with his hands at the next desk over, not even trying to hide his plans to nap. I guess this year I might as well be new myself. My older friends have graduated. And Priya, well . . . It’s going to be a long year.

  I’m still observing Eddy, mildly impressed by the boldness of his sleep, when he pops up. “Hey‚ Zan,” he says, as if suddenly confused. “Where’s your other half?”

  The words sting. “She moved,” I tell him under my breath.

  Señora O’Connell turns around, the Spanish trailing off. She surveys the room and glances at the clock: still ten minutes before the bell. “Oh whatever.” She sighs, her shoulders slumping with the sweet relief of English. She nods to a kid up front and holds out a stack of papers. “Pass these back, will you?”

  “Uh. Hello?”

  When I look up, a boy is standing in the doorway, all legs and sunken chest, his grown-out blond hair swept back into a short knot. He takes a step inside the room. “I think I’m supposed to be in this class. I was in AP by mistake and it was over my head.” His eyes settle on Eddy, who has since resumed his nap. “This seems . . . more my speed.”

  La Señora tucks the flaps of her cardigan around herself. “I’m going to choose not to take that personally. But hey.” She finds a sheet of labels on her desk. “¡Bienvenido!” she pronounces, a dry-erase marker flying from her hand as she slaps a name tag on his shirt pocket.

  I find myself mirroring the boy’s curling lips as amusement flits across his face. “¿Gracias?” He bends down to grab the marker from the floor and catches me watching him. I don’t look away, and for a moment, he doesn’t either. “I think you dropped this,” he says, returning the marker to our teacher.

  La Señora studies him a moment, through narrowed eyes. “You’re one of the nice ones, aren’t you? Please tell me you’re one of the nice ones.”

  The boy smiles. “I’m one of the nice ones.”

  “Manny! Where are my buffalo wraps?”

  It looks like a head of purple cabbage has exploded at the salad station.

  “Manny?” I had to run to make my shif
t after school let out, shoving past hordes of Cubs fans as they spilled out from the Red Line. It felt good to run, to think of nothing but the clock. Now I’m hacking away at veggies while my tables wait, enjoying a familiar rush of frazzled self-importance.

  “Hello?” I crane my neck as I chop. “I need one seitan and one tofu. And table six wants more veg gravy for the meatless loaf.”

  Manny shakes his head and pulls a basket of zucchini from the deep fryer. “I don’t understand these people.”

  “Just cook the food,” says Arturo, entering the kitchen through the swinging double doors. Manny grumbles something in Spanish and reaches a tatted arm to raise the volume on his banda music, which, to my untrained gringa ears, sounds a little like polka and mariachi had a baby.

  Arturo slides his messenger bag onto the counter by me. “Busy out there.”

  “Seriously,” I say. “Who knew so many vegans liked baseball?”

  He chuckles, wiping the grease from his glasses with the bottom of his checked shirt. “How was school?” he asks. “First day back, right?” My face must give me away. “Aw. Poor Zanny-poo.”

  “Stop,” I say with a deadpan expression I hope will discourage any further sympathy. I scrape a mound of cabbage into a plastic bin and slot it into the salad bar. “I’m handling a serious salad shortage over here. Not to mention a major meatless loaf emergency. The lady at table six says it’s dry.”

  “Wonder why that could be,” mutters Manny.

  Arturo yells over the trilling trumpets, “You do know I could fire you, right?”

  “Your own uncle? Please. You don’t have the cojones.”

  Arturo sighs, resigned. “Never work with family, Zan.”

  I bend down to grab cucumbers from a box on the floor. “Well, related or not, you need to hire another person to do this prep work. This is well beyond a waiter’s job description.”

  “I know,” says Arturo. “I’ve been meaning to. I think I just got used to . . .” He grimaces.

  “What?” I say.

  “Priya was always doing prep in her downtime. Said she found it therapeutic.”

  “Yeah, well,” I grunt, carrying an armful of cucumbers to the sink for a rinse. “I find it to be a pain in my ass.”

  Arturo laughs. “You’re right. I’ll post an ad.” He clears his throat as I begin to chop. “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t bring her up.”

  “It’s fine.”

  He hesitates. “Well, I guess . . . While we’re on the subject.” He fishes through his messenger bag and pulls out an envelope. “Priya’s last paycheck keeps bouncing back in the mail. She must have given me the wrong address for the new apartment. Or maybe I took it down wrong. I don’t know. Do you have it?”

  I swallow, my saliva thick, and wipe my hands on my apron before pulling out my phone. After a quick search, a June email from Priya comes up.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I read it anyway.

  Your semi-weekly love letters may be sent to: 418 Bellevue in Santa Monica, Apartment C. Care packages welcome. Send cake. We have one week left, Zan. One week! Wait a minute. WHY AREN’T WE EATING CAKE RIGHT NOW? Okay fine, you convinced me, I’m coming over.

  Over my shoulder, Arturo looks back and forth from the phone to the envelope. “It’s the same address I have,” he says. “I’ll check with the post office. Maybe I need the extra zip code numbers or something.” He frowns suddenly, looking me over. “Who’d you sit with today?”

  For a minute I’m somewhere else, still hazy from her lingering words. “Hm?”

  “For lunch. At school. Who’d you sit with?”

  “Oh.” I’m back to hacking at the cucumber again, just slowly enough to avoid mutilating myself. “I didn’t . . . It was nice out. I sat under a tree.”

  When I glance up, Arturo maintains eye contact in that awful way he does. I think it’s all the improv training. He and his teammates share a collective subconscious. They make up instantaneous scenes and say, Yes, and! to everything that comes their way. They also sing. In public. Arturo’s life is essentially my worst nightmare.

  “Can’t you sit with the soccer girls?” he asks.

  I stop chopping in a huff. “I was the only junior on varsity last year. Everyone I played with graduated. The other senior girls this year are . . .”

  “Better than a tree?”

  “They’re fine is what they are. I’ll get to know them when the season starts this spring. Happy?”

  Arturo scratches at his stubble. “I think I’m gonna have to cut back your shifts.”

  “What?” My hand flies open.

  “Jesus!” cries Arturo.

  I look at my clenched fist, wrapped around the handle I caught midair. A second later and the blade would have pierced one of his canvas flats.

  Arturo eyes me warily. “Nice reflexes, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” I breathe. “Sorry.”

  “What were we talking about?”

  “My shifts,” I say, still a little dazed. “The ones you cannot take away from me.” My heart pounds as I scoop cucumbers into a bin. This job has been my life raft all summer. It was a loophole, or a wormhole, or whatever kind of hole it is that lets your mind go blank.

  It’s not as if there aren’t reminders here. Priya and I applied to this job together—got hired the same week Arturo came on as manager. There were countless shifts, helping each other through dinner rushes, trading stories of our most eccentric customers, collapsing in those sparkling booths at the end of a long night.

  But Priya is at home, too. She’s at school, at the beach, on every walk through the neighborhood. At least in a restaurant there’s no time to think. Because in a restaurant, you’ve got zucchini and gazpacho and seitan wraps to attend to.

  “You took every shift I offered you this summer,” Arturo is saying. “You never had any plans! I can’t be the enabler here. You’re much too young to become a hermit.”

  “Look. Can we please . . .” I wipe my forehead with my wrist. “I’m drowning here.”

  Arturo slips on gloves and lets out a sigh. “You’re right.” He gestures to the knife. “Gimme. . . . Carefully.”

  “Thanks, boss,” I say, the to-do list already buzzing through my mind as I hurry away. Through the crack in the double doors, I peek at my tables, right as Samantha barges in with a bucket of clanging dishes. “Ouch!” I stumble back, the area around my eyebrow beginning to throb.

  “Shit! Sorry, Zan.” She whips her head back toward the kitchen. “Manny! I need polenta fries and a quinoa burger. And so you all know, I was up studying until three a.m. last night, so nobody bug me!” After law school, Samantha Yun will surely go on to be a state prosecutor, a federal judge, or some kind of badass bajillionaire litigator. But for now we serve Veggie Joes together, and she’s pretty much the greatest.

  “Hey, you okay?” she asks, swiveling back to me as I cup my forehead.

  “Yeah,” I say, laughing though it definitely still hurts. Arturo walks up and she lets him kiss her cheek. I avert my eyes out of respect. Sam hates PDA.

  “Have you been considering my proposal?” asks Arturo.

  “Uh, no,” says Samantha.

  I perk up. “What proposal?”

  “I’m trying to get her to introduce me to her mom,” he says, turning to her. “It’s not fair, you know. The entire Reyes family practically throws a parade whenever you come over.”

  I smile back and forth between my adorable bickering work-parents, but Sam just rolls her eyes and walks off to make a salad at the station. “You want to kill my mother?” she asks as Arturo follows, with me at his heels. “You want that on your head?”

  “So, what?” he says. “I just have to be Korean?”

  “Not necessarily.” Sam pauses in contemplation above the shredded carrots. “But maybe like . . . Like a God-fearing anesthesiologist. That’d be pretty good.”

  He groans. “At least let her give me a chance. You could take her to one of my shows!”

  S
amantha gives me a knowing look—the kind that makes me love her. “He really thinks that’ll win her over. Watching a bunch of guys in plaid pretend to be a talking spaceship.”

  “That was one scene,” says Arturo, possibly pouting.

  Sam softens a little, smiling his way before looking around, as if to regain her train of thought. “Oh right. Some lady keeps whining about veggie gravy.”

  “Crap,” I say. I rush to the back to ladle some out myself and bolt toward the double doors.

  “There’s a one-top for you, too,” Sam calls after me. “Reggie. Table nine.”

  Out in the crowded dining room, I deliver several salads, even more apologies, and the long-awaited gravy before finding Officer Reginald Brooks at his usual booth. He’s sipping ice water in full uniform, his radio crackling.

  “Let me guess,” I say, not even bothering with the notepad. “Zucchini fritters, extra sauce, vanilla-coconut milkshake. And a side salad so it’s healthy.”

  “It’s a common misconception,” he says, slapping his stomach. “Vegan and low-cal are not the same thing. My wife finally figured this place out. If you see her, maybe don’t tell her about the milkshake. Better yet, I was never here at all. We’re on a diet.”

  I roll my eyes. Reggie is looking lean as ever, strong and clean-cut, his dark skin practically radiating good health. “Your secret’s safe with me, Reg.”

  He nods up at me. “Hey, what’s up with you? Something’s off.”

  “Oh,” I say. And here I thought my mood was lifting. “I guess I haven’t seen you in a while. It’s . . . been a weird few months.” I’ve known Reggie since long before he started coming here—since middle school, actually, when my nut-ball of a mother dragged me into the Lakeview Community Center after a self-defense class let out and asked Reggie—a cop and perfect stranger—if he could teach her eleven-year-old how to box. I was the product of a newly broken home then, and she felt I had some anger to unleash. “It’s funny seeing you, actually,” I say. “My mom keeps hinting I should pick up where we left off. You know her theories on catharsis.” We share a smile.

  “Well, I still teach self-defense every Thursday,” he says. “However, boxing lessons remain exclusive to scrawny kids with persuasive moms.”