Trouble Makes a Comeback

by Stephanie Tromly

  From afar, I heard Digby say, “Get away from me. These aren’t for sale.”

  Now, I was used to seeing chaos follow Digby around, but the sight of a mob of little kids trailing him, begging for one of the dozens of balloons he was somehow now holding, was arresting.

  “Don’t come near me with those,” I said. But he did, and soon the kids were swarming around me too.

  “Not. For. Sale.” Digby swatted at one kid who was getting aggressive about snagging a balloon.

  “Digby, stop,” I said. “Hey, kids, the cotton candy stand’s giving out samples.” I immediately felt awful when I saw the cotton candy guy’s horrified face as the pack ran toward his booth.

  “Thanks for that, Princeton. I couldn’t think with all those brats on me,” he said.

  “‘Don’t assault little kids’ should be pretty much automatic, though,” I said.

  “You know, that’s how they should teach health class. Stand us in a swarm of deranged kids and talk about abstinence,” Digby said.

  “What’s the story with the balloons? Do I want to know or would I be an accessory if you told me?” I said.

  “Nah, these balloons are Felix’s.”

  He nodded in the direction of the Sayonara Smackshack and said, “Is that Sloane? Wow, Princeton, this is like the happy ending of a teen movie. You win.”

  “It doesn’t feel like winning,” I said.

  Henry Petropoulos, our school’s quarterback and the Ken doll to Sloane Bloom’s Barbie, walked up to us holding a giant slushie and a towel. “Hey, man.” He and Digby exchanged bro nods.

  Sloane waddled over and without acknowledging either Digby or me, grabbed the slushie and took a long pull. She instantly bent over as far as her suit let her, and screeched, “I’m dying.”

  “It’s just brain freeze, Sloane,” Henry said.

  “I know it’s brain freeze, genius,” Sloane said.

  A Sayonara Smackshack employee called out, “Sloane, we need you back now.”

  “Coming.” To Henry, she said, “I hate everything.” Walking away, Sloane took another huge sip of slushie and predictably, screamed. The cup exploded when she threw it against the wall and slush spattered two little girls who hadn’t run away fast enough.

  “Everything okay? Why’s she pissy at you?” Digby said.

  “Who do you think helped her get into that suit?” Henry said.

  “Shouldn’t she be doing the makeover booth or something? Whatever the pretty girl gig is around here?” I said.

  “Kissing booth.” Henry pointed to it being manned by a girl with gold mermaid hair. “Lexi Ford’s doing it this year.”

  “People paying money for physical contact. I don’t understand how that’s not prostitution,” I said. “Why do they still have these anyway? It’s so 1952.”

  “Kissing doesn’t go out of style, Princeton,” Digby said.

  I heard the word kiss and suddenly, I was back at the bus station where he’d left me five months ago.

  “You got five dollars?” Digby said.

  “You’re disgusting,” I said.

  But Digby didn’t take the bill I held out to him. “Not me.” He jerked his head toward Lexi. “Why don’t you go make a feminist statement?”

  “You need to learn what feminism is.” To Henry, I said, “Is Sloane okay? I mean, with Lexi taking her spot as our queen bee?”

  Before Henry could answer, he got a text. He read it, somber-faced. He passed his phone to Digby.

  “What?” I said.

  “Nothing,” Henry said.

  “There he is now.” Digby cocked his chin in the direction of the barbecue stall where John Pappas, an enormous defensive tackle people called Papa John, was struggling to eat an overstuffed sub with his taped-up hand.

  “John Pappas?” I said.

  “What’s up with his hand?” Digby said to Henry.

  I felt bad when Henry shrugged. I’d been around the football team a lot lately, because of Austin, and heard the guys trash-talking Henry. He didn’t know what was up with John’s hand or anything else about the team, because they’d frozen him out. Even though they knew that it had been Digby’s fault that their linebacker Dominic got arrested and expelled for having guns and drugs in school, it didn’t matter. Henry’s friendship with Digby had been enough to condemn him.

  “He broke two fingers cleaning his garage,” I said. Digby and Henry looked shocked. “What? Austin told me.”

  “Austin spends a lot of time with Papa John?” Digby said.

  “Not really,” I said. “Why?”

  “Nothing,” Henry said. “Coach Fogle wants me to help Papa John get back in shape.”

  “And speaking of athletic bodies . . . here comes Felix,” Digby said. “Looking good, Felix.”

  “Feeling good, Digby.” Felix jogged up wearing a River Heights Lioness Girls’ Soccer uniform.

  “Felix, tell me I don’t have to explain why that shirt’s not appropriate for you,” I said.

  Felix Fong was River Heights High’s genius and was a glorious example of why you should never judge a book by its cover. Maybe it’s because he was overcompensating for the fact that his parents had skipped him ahead three grades, but sweet and diminutive Felix Fong is fierce. If it weren’t for Felix, Ezekiel and his accomplices would’ve gotten away. I mean, I watched Felix defibrillate a man in the face.

  “Nope. It’s the girls’ team, I know. I’m their manager. Coach Bailey’s going back to coaching just the boys. I do the schedule, budget, roster, the bus, that kind of thing. One of the moms does all the sporty parts,” Felix said.

  Then I realized. “Wait. Neither you nor Henry is surprised to see Digby. Why am I the only one who’s surprised that he’s back?”

  “He texted me last week,” Henry said. “We text all the time.”

  “We meet up online,” Felix said. “We’re working on some stuff together.”

  To Digby, I said, “So, this whole time, it was just me you weren’t talking to?” To Felix and Henry, I said, “And where have you two been? Why didn’t you tell me he was coming back?”

  “Every time I saw you and Austin, you were always . . .” Henry said. “. . . having a private conversation?”

  “Oh? They were mostly Frenching when I saw them . . .” Felix said. He pointed at the balloons in Digby’s hand. “Thanks for holding that. I know the physics, but I can’t unsee all the cartoons of kids getting carried away. I had nightmares for months after I saw Up.”

  “What’s with the balloons anyway?” I said.

  “They’re for the team,” Felix said. “Here they come.”

  The soccer team looked like gazelles on the Serengeti, all long legs and high ponytails swishing in sync.

  “Whoa. There’s, like, a hundred of them,” Digby said.

  “Twenty-four,” Felix said.

  “Wait. How many players on a soccer team?” Digby said.

  “They’re all on the team, but we dress seventeen for each game,” Felix said. “Eleven start, six sub in.”

  “So not all of them get to play?” Digby said.

  “Not every game,” Felix said. “I mean, I’ll try to get everyone in at least one game during the season, but . . .”

  “Then what are you doing giving them balloons?” When Felix looked blank, Digby said, “You call yourself a genius and you can’t figure out how twenty-four girls divided by seventeen spots equals you don’t have to give anyone balloons?”

  “Oh . . .” Felix said as the Lionesses flooded around him and washed him away.

  “They’re going to eat him alive,” Digby said.

  At the Smackshack, Sloane had been toppled again. She panted and grimaced as she tried and failed over and over to get up.

  “Okay, I’d better go help her before she throws up,” Henry said before
running off.

  “What are you going to do with the balloons? Maybe you could give them to those kids now,” I said.

  “What? Reward them for being brats? Nope,” Digby said. “This is a teachable moment. I’m going to give them to those girls working the hot dog stand.”

  “Yes. That will definitely teach those brats.”

  “Why? Does that bother you?”

  “What? Please,” I said. “Go for it. A hot dog sugar mama sounds like your dream girl.”

  “Which reminds me . . .” He checked his phone. “Are you hungry? Or are you going to wait until Austin gets out of work?”

  “No . . .” Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw Allie and Charlotte coming over to us.

  I didn’t want them to see me with Digby. I didn’t want Digby to see me with them. But I had nowhere to go.

  “Hey, Zoe. Who’s this?” Allie said.

  Charlotte elbowed Allie in the ribs, cocked her head at Digby, and said, “It’s him.”

  Allie said, “Do you go to our school?”

  Charlotte eyed Digby from the toe up. “Wow. You’re exactly how I pictured. Nice suit.” When Allie still looked confused, Charlotte said, “He’s Zoe’s true detective.”

  Allie remembered, finally. “Oh . . . that guy.”

  I knew Charlotte’s and Allie’s exaggerated California glamazon makeup and slack-jawed party girl drawls were offering up primo slapdown material, but thankfully, Digby swallowed down whatever mean thing he was going to say.

  “Anyway, this place is lame without rides. Let’s go to Allie’s and make Rice Krispies treats and put in streaks,” Charlotte said.

  “I’ve got, like, five kinds of blond,” Allie said.

  “Coming?” Charlotte said.

  “Can I catch up with you later? I have to stick around and help my mom,” I said.

  The way Charlotte looked at Digby and said “O . . . kay . . .” made me dread my next conversation with her.

  When they left, he said, “Streaks? Those weren’t cool the first time they were in.”

  “Ha-ha . . . don’t be a hater. What do you care how people have fun?”

  “Is that how you have fun?” When I shrugged, Digby said, “So . . . does the fact you’re not going with them mean you’re coming to eat with me?”

  “No . . . it means I have to help my mom. Just like I said.” I started walking away.

  “Right now?” he said.

  “Right now I’m going to the bathroom,” I said.

  • • •

  I almost stroked out when I opened my bathroom stall’s door and found Sloane standing in my face. “I need your help.”

  That was the last thing I would’ve ever expected to hear from top-out-of-sight rich and top-of-the-social-heap beautiful Sloane Bloom.

  She pushed me back into the stall and locked the door. She still had on the bottom half of her inflatable sumo suit, so it was a tight squeeze for the two of us.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I said.

  “I don’t want to talk about it here. Come to lunch at my place tomorrow,” Sloane said. “I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Come to your place? You haven’t said a word to me since last semester and now you want to have me over for lunch?” I said.

  “What do you mean? I talked to you . . . um . . .”

  I let it hang a second. “Um-never. Never is the word you’re looking for. You talked to me never.” Sloane’s outfit was practically pushing me into the toilet bowl. “And move back. Why are we jammed in here anyway?”

  I got my answer when two girls walked into the bathroom laughing and bagging on some unnamed “she.” Sloane put her hand across my mouth and silently shushed me.

  “. . . her inner fattie finally came out.” I recognized the voice of one of Sloane’s blond backup girls, Denise. “Wait. Is someone there?”

  Sloane looked down at our feet and knitted her eyebrows: Please. Who the heck knows why I did it for her, but I climbed up onto the bowl so Sloane wouldn’t be the weird girl caught with a rando in a bathroom stall.

  “Sloane? Is that you?” When Sloane didn’t answer, Denise said, “I can see the feet on your costume.”

  “Um . . . yeah, it’s me,” Sloane said.

  “Are you okay?” Denise said.

  “I’m fine,” Sloane said.

  The awkwardness that followed was painful. Denise and her friend used the stalls on either side of us in a silence they didn’t break until after they’d washed their hands and left the bathroom. Before the door had fully shut behind them, they busted out laughing.

  “What is happening to you?” I said.

  Sloane unlocked the door and we stepped out.

  “Just come to lunch, okay?” Sloane said.

  Sloane Bloom wearing an inflatable suit, hiding in the bathroom, and being mocked? It was all very intriguing. “Yeah, okay.”

  “What’s your number? I’ll send you directions.” I told her and she started typing it into her phone. “What’s Digby’s number?”

  “Digby?”

  “Yes, I need both you criminals on the case.”

  “Wait, what’s going on? I just assumed your problems were . . .” I gestured vaguely at the door, meaning Denise.

  “That? No. And even if I were having problems with my friends, how could you help me?” Sloane said.

  Her messaged directions to her house came. “I’ve been to your house . . . this isn’t the way to the Crescent.”

  “Season’s started. We’ve opened up the summer house.”

  I didn’t even realize I was giving her attitude until she said, “Oh, spare me this eat-the-rich crap. It’s a miserable place and I’m miserable there. Boo-hoo. Does that make you feel better?” And then she left.

  The rage that lit me up when I walked out of the bathroom and saw Digby talking to Bill surprised me. Bill (whose real name was Isabel but went by “Bill” because, well, it got her extra attention) was wearing a cowboy hat. It was probably a reference to something clever and relevant, but to me, it was just annoying. Of course, I knew my hostility wasn’t real. It was just after-burn from Sloane. Or maybe it was from last semester when Bill had pretended to be my friend only to get close to Digby. But in that nanosecond, the word MINE flashed across my brain and I was bathed in hate. It didn’t help that Digby and Bill looked guilty when they saw me seeing them. By the time Bill said good-bye to Digby and scurried off, though, I’d gotten my feelings in check.

  “I guess Bill’s Internet famous now?” Digby said.

  Since Bill and I last hung out, a post she’d written about her intentionally controversial lunchtime surveys and social climbing experiment had been republished by a bunch of snarky in-group blogs. After that, she’d become a commentator for a handful of them. This I knew from Bill’s own blog, which I’d started off hate-reading but now legit-read to keep up with what was happening in school.

  “Yeah.” I didn’t trust myself to expand on that.

  I guess my curtness got to Digby, and he said, “She wanted to say hi—”

  “I’m not asking you to apologize for having other friends, Digby.”

  “So, is it me or is everything upsydownsy around here?” Got to give it to him. The dude can turn on a dime and reset. “You’re getting your hair did with the populars and Sloane’s in a sumo outfit asking me to lunch. We are going, right?”

  “Well, the idea of helping Sloane is . . .” I stuck out my tongue. “But on the other hand, the idea of Sloane having a problem . . . what would that even look like—” Then I remembered. “Damn. I can’t. I’m seeing a movie with Austin tomorrow.”

  “How long do you think lunch is going to go?” Digby said. “What time’s your movie? Seven?”

  “The movie’s at noon,” I said. “The Big Sleep at the Cineforum.” />
  Digby laughed. “Austin? The Big Sleep? You’ll spend half the movie explaining what just happened.”

  “Okay, whatever. You’ll have to go to lunch without me,” I said.

  “Wow, Princeton is double-booked. How do you like life in the fast lane?” Digby said. “Is it everything you thought it would be?”

  Good question.

  FOUR

  The next morning, I’d just put away the contraband honey I used to sweeten my tea when Officer Cooper came in the door with an armload of files from work.

  “Mike? Is that you?” I used “Mike” to his face to put him at ease, but really, he’d always be Officer Cooper: The guy who arrested me. Even after he started dating Mom and moved in with us, he was still Officer Cooper in my mind.

  “Man, they need to plow those streets. Someone’s going to wreck their oil pan on a snowbank,” Cooper said. I guess Mom hadn’t mentioned our little adventure in his car.

  I pointed at the stack of files he was cradling. “Homework?”

  “Budget cuts . . .” He stripped off his gear. “They won’t pay for overtime and it’s not like criminals suddenly decide to commit twenty-five percent fewer crimes when they hear the police department’s shrunk by twenty-five percent. Know what we need? Interns. Hours of paperwork for no pay. Interested?” He laughed at his own joke.

  I tried to stay cool when Cooper took a sip of my tea. I worried he’d taste the honey and I really didn’t need to hear him preach about the enslavement of bees again. “Mmmm . . . your tea always tastes better than mine. What’s your secret?”

  “I, uh . . . put the Stevia in before the hot water. It’s less bitter that way,” I said.

  “I’ve got to try that,” he said.

  My phone buzzed. Finally, a text. The movie was in half an hour and I still hadn’t heard from Austin that morning. I grabbed my phone in a most uncool way.

  “Is it that Austin kid?” Cooper wound up to pitch something profound my way. “Zoe . . . you know . . .”

  “It’s Digby. He’s back,” I said.

  Cooper’s big speech was under way.