“Okay, Digby,” I said, “that’s—”
“I’m the backup QB. I play plenty. You’d know that if you knew anything about football,” Austin said.
“Got me there, sporto,” Digby said. “I’m up nights worrying about everything I don’t know about football.”
“Should I get the hose?” I said. “Digby, can we talk later? Austin and I were about to go to the mall.”
“Afternoon mall date?” Digby said.
“No, we’re going to work,” I said. “I’m going to Spring Fling afterward.”
“Spring Fling? Is that on today? Wait—work?” Digby said. “You mean that stuffed shirt of a father really did cut you off?”
“Dad’s a man of his word,” I said.
“You didn’t use the secret I told you about him?” Digby said. “That information’s good.”
“You mean that stuff you got on him hiding money from Mom? No,” I said. “I’m not a natural-born extortionist like you. I can’t suddenly start blackmailing people.”
“It’s light blackmail,” Digby said.
“I’d rather just work,” I said.
“What’s wrong with working?” Austin said.
“Wait a minute . . . this isn’t your mom’s car.” Digby hooked his fingers on the gunlock bolted onto the dashboard. He found a removable police siren under his seat. “Is this . . . Officer Cooper’s take-home car?” He worked it out. “They’re still together? Your mom and the cop who arrested you are in a serious relationship? Princeton, your life is interesting.”
“He moved in three months ago,” I said.
“Wow . . . monotone. That happy, huh? Liza works fast.” Digby dove across me and fished around under my seat.
“Hey, man. Not a fan of your face in my girlfriend’s lap,” Austin said.
There was a loud rip of Velcro and Digby’s hand came up holding a mag of ammunition Cooper had stashed under the seat. “Whoa, I wonder if the gun’s in here somewhere too.”
“Maybe you should put that back,” I said.
“Babe, I’m going to be late,” Austin said. “We should take the bus.”
“Come to think of it, I have mall stuff to do myself,” Digby said. “I’ll come with.”
“Good,” Austin said.
“Good,” Digby said.
“Great,” Austin said.
“Great,” Digby said. He had that lethal bored expression I wished Austin knew to fear as much as I did.
“Wonderful,” I said. “I better tell Mom we’re not waiting for the tow truck with her.”
TWO
Longest bus ride of my life. Austin is an old-timey Lady and the Tramp sweet kind of guy and he was being his usual affectionate self, sharing headphones with me and holding my hand. I’d seen Digby actively lash out at this kind of sentimental display before, but this time Digby just smirked at me. I was amazed we made it to the mall without incident.
“See you later, Austin. I’ll walk Zoe to work.” Digby’s tone reminded me of the obnoxious message shirt a friend of ours used to wear: YOUR GIRLFRIEND IS IN GOOD HANDS.
Austin flinched but said, “That’s cool, dude. I know how it is.”
“Oh?” Digby said.
“Sure,” Austin said. “Zoe told me everything.”
“Really? What did she tell you?” Digby said. “Just so we’re on the same page.”
I’d been dreading this moment. Austin had gotten into the car before I’d had a chance to tell Digby there were things I hadn’t told Austin. Our kiss, for example.
“About what happened last year with the explosion . . . I know you guys were tight,” Austin said. “Like the brother she never had.”
What a great thing to say to a guy with a missing sister.
“That’s right. Brother she never had . . . that’s me,” Digby said. “Exact same page.”
Austin gave me an extra-assertive kiss and left for work.
“Maybe if I hug you later, he won’t have any choice but to whip it out and mark you with his pee,” Digby said. “Better spend some time reassuring him tonight . . . sis.”
“I didn’t know what to tell him. You were gone—”
“Of course. What’s to tell?” But his tone was all accusation.
“It’s so annoying that you make me feel like somehow I’ve done something wrong.” I walked away. He let me get pretty far before running after me.
“Hey, wait up,” he said. “Where are you going?”
“I told you. Work.”
I stopped for coffee. When he added two cookies to my tab, I said, “You still eat like a wolverine?”
Digby gave me his lazy sad-eyed smile. I wondered if, as he’d done before, he was planning on sleeping in his mom’s garage, living on soup crackers and to-go packets of ketchup again.
“Work, huh?” Digby looked me up and down.
“What? You’re freaking me out,” I said.
“Give me a sec, I’m a little rusty. Okay, no makeup, so not any kind of cosmetics gig. Vintage dress, frumpy, dowdy housewife-y flavor . . .”
The barista helping me frowned at Digby. “Excuse you. Rude or anything?” she said.
“. . . so not any kind of trendy retail. The food court’s out. The face you pull whenever I eat . . . you don’t have a future in food service,” Digby said. “Those heels are surprisingly high for you, so you’re not walking across a big department store . . .”
“Come on, let’s speed this up,” I said.
“Okay, fine. I’ll go with either intern at the bank or the Hallmark store,” he said.
Watching him flounder was comical.
“The florist? The crystals place? Not the Lotto shack?” he said.
“Uh-oh, you’re more than rusty, my friend,” I said.
We walked into The Last Bookstand, the used books place where I worked.
“Wait, this is new. It wasn’t here when I left,” Digby said.
“Excuses, excuses. Old Digby would’ve memorized the new mall map at the entrance,” I said.
“Dammit,” he said. “Old Digby would have memorized the map.”
The store was empty, but I heard my manager working in the back. “Fisher! I’m here . . . sorry I’m late. Car trouble.”
Digby sniffed. “Is that patchouli? Incense?”
“Patchouli incense,” I said. “Listen, my manager, Fisher, had a hemp farm in Vermont. When you meet him, you’re going to want to make fun, but you’re not allowed. He’s the nicest man I’ve ever met and he’s had a tough year.”
“Okay. No jokes. Hippie jokes are too easy anyway,” Digby said. “Hey, uh . . . Princeton? I think I missed a birthday somewhere. I got you something.”
The box’s shade of blue was guaranteed to generate excitement from twenty feet away.
“Tiffany?” I said.
“Well, Tiffany dot com,” he said. “Open it.”
“You got me a locket?” I was surprised enough when I saw that he’d cut out and mounted photos in the little oval frames, but when I saw he’d chosen decent selfies of us at the winter ball, I was speechless.
“But maybe don’t shower with it on . . .” he said.
“Right. The silver will tarnish . . .” I said.
“Also I hid two micro SD cards in there,” he said.
“Of course you did,” I said, passing the box back to him. “What’s on them?”
“When I got home to Texas, I backed up my dad’s computer onto those SD cards,” he said.
“Backed up? You mean stole his files.”
Digby popped out the pictures and showed me the SD cards walled in behind a clear coating.
“I potted them in resin so they wouldn’t rattle around,” he said.
“So, in sum, you stole top secret government information from Perses Analytics
that you think people are kidnapping children to get, you put it in this necklace, and you now want me to hang it around my neck,” I said.
“It’s my backup . . . in case they find the copy I’m working on,” Digby said.
“Why can’t we bury it or something? Or put it behind an air-conditioning vent?” I said.
“You mean with my clove cigarettes and Victoria’s Secret catalogs? Don’t be ridiculous, Princeton,” he said. “This is serious.”
“No.”
“Come on . . . the answer to who took my sister could be in one of those things,” Digby said, pushing the box back across the counter.
“Then you wear it,” I said.
“Are you kidding? They’ll search me first thing,” he said.
“And they’ll search me second. I’m always with you,” I said.
“Always with me?” Digby raised his eyebrows. “And how will Austin like that?”
Austin. Right.
“Hey, Zoe . . .” Fisher walked out of the back holding a vase of hydrangeas Austin had given me a week ago. “Check it out, these are still looking good . . . even though I absolutely loathe hydrangeas.” I slid the box off the counter and into my jacket pocket. I just didn’t feel like Fisher needed to see Digby giving me something in a Tiffany box.
“You’re the hippie hemp-head from Vermont?” Digby said.
“I guess so,” Fisher said. “Are you a friend of Zoe’s?”
Kudos to Fisher for not flinching when Digby leaned into him and took a deep sniff.
“I’m so sorry, Fisher,” I said.
“You must be Digby,” Fisher said. “Recognize you from Zoe’s stories, man. I like the suit.”
Digby paced around Fisher. “And you’re Fisher. Allegedly.”
“Allegedly? Yeah, I am. No ‘allegedly,’” Fisher said.
“I’m so sorry, Fisher, he’s . . .”
“Your beard’s new and still itches . . . I smell the alcohol in the anti-itch stuff you put on. Half your hair’s glued-on hairpieces . . . like you had to grow it really fast . . . looks like six months’ worth. Right when you showed up in town, I bet,” Digby said.
“Digby. Hair? Really?” I said.
“But what’s really interesting is the layout of this place.” Digby was excited now. “See how the aisles are arranged so customers have to pass by the front desk to get in or out of the store? It looks like a crazy hippie hoarder maze but really, it’s an Army Ranger ambush . . . the thieves are canalized past this choke point. How d’you know how to do that?”
“How do you know how to do that?” Fisher asked Digby. “Canalized? Wow . . . that’s some word.”
“So sorry, Fisher. Although, now that I’m thinking about the shelves . . . is this a fire hazard?” I said.
“Fire hazard. Wait.” Digby ran out of the store and came back holding a fire extinguisher. “Princeton, did you have to rearrange the shelves? Around . . . December 20?”
“Uh, actually, yeah . . . we put in a rack of fancy booklights before Christmas—”
“But then he had you put the shelves back into this maze shape a couple of days later?” Digby said.
“Well, yeah, the booklights weren’t selling,” I said.
Digby showed me the fire extinguisher’s tag. “The fire inspector checked this mall on the twenty-first of December.” Digby pointed at Fisher. “You made her move the shelves on the twentieth for the fire marshal’s visit and then after you passed inspection, you had her rebuild the ambush.” Digby pumped his fist. “Old Digby. What are you? Cop? Military?” Digby said. “Or . . . worse?”
Fisher looked mostly sad for Digby. “The smell of alcohol’s probably from the mouthwash I used after my breakfast burrito. The store’s laid out like this because the collectibles are in the back and this ain’t my first time at the rodeo,” Fisher said. “And I put in hairpieces because my hair grew out patchy after my chemo last year. Lion needs his mane, man.”
Digby kept going. “Chemo, huh?”
“Digby, if you’re ever going to draw a line . . . ever? Cancer’s got to be over that line,” I said.
“Chemo. That’s a good explanation. Solid.” Digby walked toward Fisher, not stopping even when he got so close that Fisher had to start backing up. “But explain this.”
Digby swatted my coffee cup off the counter. My scream turned into a swallowed gurgle when Fisher caught the cup without spilling a drop.
“Those are great reflexes,” Digby said.
Keeping the rest of his body perfectly still, Fisher swept my vase of hydrangeas off the desk. Digby similarly caught it.
“I could say the same thing about you,” Fisher said.
“Would you two idiots have this stupid argument with someone else’s stuff?” I snatched the coffee and vase from them. “Digby, stop picking fights. Are you tired or something? Hungry?”
“So hungry,” he said.
“God, you’re a toddler. Why don’t you go eat something?”
“Yeah . . .” Digby said. “See you after you get out of work? We should talk.”
The way he suddenly got intense when he said that made my heart thump. I didn’t know if I was ready to talk.
Just when my awkward unresponsiveness started to get painful, Fisher said, “If you like, it’s pretty slow right now . . . you could go hang out. I can text you if things pick up.”
“That’s the weirdest, most un-manager thing I’ve ever heard,” Digby said.
“Happy workers work happily, man,” Fisher said.
“More like employee turnover makes it hard to maintain a cover identity.” Digby grabbed a book. “How much is this?”
“On the house, kid,” Fisher said. “I’d pay money to get young people to read Pynchon.”
“See what I mean? Weird.” On his way out, Digby said, “Watch him.”
“That’s dark, man,” Fisher said.
“That’s nothing. He carries around a notebook where he keeps a list of suspects and motives so the police will have leads if he ever turns up murdered,” I said.
• • •
Digby wasn’t in the food court when I got off work. Or the video arcade by the movie theater. Or the game store either. I even checked with the ladies at the taco place where he used to score free food. They were excited to hear Digby was back, but no, they hadn’t seen him. I gave up.
Mom was expecting me at Spring Fling, so I decided to head out. On my way to the bus stop, I called him to tell him so. As I walked by Ye Olde Tea and Crumpets Shoppe, I heard screaming followed by a huge crash. Then I heard it again. On closer listening, I realized it was in fact me screaming. My scream played over and over, my distress memorialized in what could only be Digby’s ringtone.
Sure enough, there, laid out on a banquette in the teashop, was Digby. His head was propped up on his backpack, his parka was zipped up to his chin, and he had a cloth napkin draped over his face. The usual guy, Chad, was behind the counter.
“Is he with you? ’Cause homie can’t sleep here,” Chad said.
I tapped Digby’s arm. “Digby. Hey.” I kneed his ribs. Nothing. To Chad, I said, “Wow. He’s out. I feel like I should be worried.”
“Watch this.” Chad came over and grabbed the plate on the table in front of Digby.
The plate got a half inch off the table when Digby muttered from under the napkin, “Not done with that.”
“All day long,” Chad said.
“Digby, come on, get up,” I said.
“What time is it?” Digby said.
“It’s Spring Fling time,” I said. “I told you.”
“Why are you going? Duck shoots and cotton candy? That isn’t very NYC . . .” he said.
He was right. River Heights’ famously hokey Spring Fling involved things like petting zoos and talent shows. This year promised to be
even less entertaining because snow had been falling practically nonstop since February, and Spring Fling had been moved from its normal fairground site into the community center.
“Mom’s running a literacy booth,” I said. “I promised I’d help out. Plus, the SATs are a week from tomorrow. Spring Fling and the movie I’m seeing with Austin this weekend are the last fun things I’m allowed to do until then.”
“Won’t Austin mind if you and I went together?”
“He works until closing tonight,” I said.
“So this is how it’s going to be, Princeton? I get you after hours?”
We stared at each other and I wondered. How would it work out with Digby, Austin, and me?
“Whoa.” Digby laughed. “Too much realness . . .” He picked up his backpack. “Duck shoot it is.”
THREE
Spring Fling was never going to be any big whoop, but the relocation indoors eliminated whatever excitement there might’ve been. The rides stayed disassembled and only the smaller booths had been set up in the gym. But people were so thirsty for any hint of spring that the whole town came anyway. NYC Zoe would’ve hated the crowds, but River Heights Zoe actually found the packed community center festive.
Or maybe it had something to do with the sight that greeted us when we got there: my former tormentor-in-chief Sloane Bloom wearing an inflatable full-body sumo suit and a helmet shaped like a head of hair twisted into a topknot with a chopstick through it. For five bucks I’d have the chance to smack her down at the Sayonara Smackshack that was being run by the Blooms’ pet charity, the River Heights Children’s Hospital. Her current opponent was a similarly outfitted preteen boy whose friends stood at the ring’s edge, chanting, “Kill, kill, kill.” I guess their guy wasn’t getting it done, because after a while, they hopped the barriers and charged Sloane.
“One at a time, you animals,” Sloane said. But they toppled her over and she rolled across the line, screaming, “No. No way. You’re not getting a prize.”
Sloane looked pathetic turtled on her back with her face streaked with melting makeup. I had to reach into my bag of memorable traumas I’d suffered at Sloane’s hands to stop myself from feeling too sorry for her. I’ve never enjoyed watching the mighty fall.
Trouble Makes a Comeback Page 2