Trouble Makes a Comeback

by Stephanie Tromly

  “. . . you learn to tell good ones from bad ones pretty quick doing my job.” Cooper stared at me hard. “I’m not trying to act like I’m your father and I hope I’m not stepping over the line, but . . . that kid’s not everything you think he is.”

  “He’s bad news, I know,” I said.

  “You do?”

  “Of course I do. He’s inconsiderate, he’s always got some scam going . . . It pisses me off the way he only calls when he needs something,” I said.

  “Then why are you still going out with him?” he said.

  “What? I’m not going out with him.”

  “You broke up?”

  “We were never dating . . . that was just the one kiss,” I said. “And it was months ago, anyway.” I realized I’d never said that aloud before. I’d never even told Mom.

  “One kiss?” he said.

  “Wait, what?” I said. “Who are you talking about?”

  “That kid Austin. Who are you talking about?” he said. “Wait. Did you say Philip Digby’s back?”

  He was as embarrassed as I was when we mentally rewound the conversation and realized our wires had crossed. Thankfully, another text came right then. This time, it was from Austin.

  Sorry Zero cant make it lets go out tonite, it said.

  I despised Austin’s autocorrect always calling me Zero. But what upset me was that I’d already suspected he’d planned on bailing on me from the start. He’d muttered something ominous when I’d told him the movie was black-and-white. If I’d known he wasn’t going to turn up, I could’ve done something else with my Saturday. For example, Sloane’s weird lunch.

  Then I realized it was only 11:40 and I could still make it if I wanted to. Which I really did because Austin would be upset I was hanging out with Digby and that would be exactly perfect. I texted Digby.

  “Whoa. Your face like . . .” Cooper did jazz hands in front of his face. “. . . totally switched. What was that text? Digby?”

  “Austin.”

  Then, suddenly, I heard myself scream from the porch. “I hate his ringtone,” I said.

  “Austin?” Cooper said.

  “Digby.”

  Digby was standing at the door when I opened it.

  “What are you doing here? I told you I had plans,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” Digby held up his phone and recited the text I’d sent: “‘Hey, too late for me to come to Sloane’s? I’m home.’”

  “Yeah, but I just now sent that,” I said. “And you were already here.”

  “Should I have waited in the car to be polite?” he said.

  “So you assumed my plans would be canceled?” I said.

  “Relax, Princeton, I took a chance,” he said. “Is that cake I smell?”

  “In this house? Not likely,” I said.

  Digby pushed past me. “Officer Cooper.”

  “Call me Mike, Digby.” He and Digby shook hands. “You all healed up?”

  “My right arm clicks and it’s maybe not as strong as it used to be, but I’m okay,” Digby said. “So, I heard the city cut your budget.”

  “It’s brutal. Half the office is empty desks and stacked-up chairs. Morale’s in the toilet,” Cooper said. “Hey . . . you ever think of maybe going into the academy after graduation? Play cops and robbers for a living?” Cooper turned to me because I was laughing so hard. “Why’s that funny? He’s a natural.”

  “A natural what? Cop?” I said. “More like robber, right?”

  Digby looked at us watching him for a long second. “Do I have to decide right now or can I use the bathroom first?”

  I pointed at the downstairs guest bathroom.

  “Mind if I use the one upstairs? I’m a little shy.” Digby ran up the stairs.

  Once we were alone, I said, “Um . . . about that thing I said a while ago. Can we keep that between us?”

  “Keep what between us?” Cooper said.

  “The whole thing . . . with the kiss . . .” But he wasn’t picking up what I was putting down. “And the confusion with the names . . . Austin, Digby, Digby, Austin . . .”

  Cooper made a big show of getting it. “Oh . . . that. Yeah. Got it. Well, I mean, I’ll try, but it’s really hard for me because I can only keep one secret at a time. They never let me go undercover.” He was messing with me. I dreaded finding out just exactly how. “So . . . I can either keep the secret about the confusion over the names or I can keep the secret about the honey you keep in your backpack.”

  Damn it.

  “I taste the hot tears of exploited bees in every sip of your tea,” Cooper said.

  “Is it even technically a secret since you already knew?” I said.

  “Well, if that’s how your secrets work, then . . .” He pointed upstairs. “I guess it’s okay to talk about your ‘just one kiss’ with Digby since he already knows . . . .”

  I gave him my bottle of honey when I heard Digby’s footsteps coming down the stairs.

  Cooper pointed at the box of Pop-Tarts Digby was eating from and said, “Where did you get that?”

  Pop-Tarts weren’t among the outlaw foods I was keeping in my secret stash of non-vegan food, so obviously, Mom was hoarding junk too.

  “My pocket?” Digby said. I hated when he didn’t care enough to bring his liar’s A-game.

  “It’s mine. They’re mine. Sorry,” I said.

  “Do you know what’s in those? Gelatin,” Cooper said. “You know how they make gelatin?”

  “They boil cow feet. Yeah, you told me.”

  “Any more surprises hidden away?”

  I didn’t have it in me to lie again. “Sorry. There are.”

  “Maybe I haven’t described the horror show that is the American processed food industry,” Cooper said.

  I dragged Digby away. As we were going out the door, I said, “Let’s talk later, okay, Mike? Promise I’ll read the pamphlets this time.”

  Once we were farther down the path, Digby said, “Vegan household, huh?”

  “Yeah . . . a lot of changes since you left,” I said.

  “Like you suddenly becoming a good liar? These weren’t your Pop-Tarts. They were under the bin liner in your mom’s trash can. With her cigarettes, by the way. And I found your Oreos. How are Oreos not vegan?”

  “Sugar’s filtered through slaughterhouse waste, apparently,” I said. “Hey, wait a minute. Those Oreos were in my underwear drawer. What were you doing there?”

  “Following the smell of food, Princeton,” he said. “I didn’t see anything.”

  When we got to the curb, Digby unlocked an old windowless white panel van with OLYMPIO’S DINER stenciled on its side.

  “It’s a straight-up serial killer murder mobile,” I said. “Do Henry’s parents know you have their van?”

  We climbed in. “Ha-ha,” he said.

  I strapped in and waited for him to start the engine. And I waited. And waited. “Is something wrong?”

  Digby was staring out the window at two men sitting in the front seat of a black SUV parked in the driveway beside my house.

  “Who lives next door to you now?” Digby said.

  “Um . . . I don’t know . . . They’ve been renovating since the place sold after Christmas. I haven’t seen the new owners yet.”

  “Hunh. So, more new people . . .” Digby said. “Don’t you think that’s interesting?”

  “Breaking news: People move into a house?” I said. “Anybody ever tell you you don’t deal well with change?”

  Digby climbed out of the van and leaned against the door, arms crossed and staring at the occupants of the SUV. I waited a minute or two and then got out to join him.

  “What are you doing?” I said. The guys inside the SUV noticed us staring at them. “You’re freaking them out.”

  “Ac
tually, I’m not. And isn’t that strange?” Digby said. “They’re just sitting there.”

  I let him play his game another minute. “You’re being weird.”

  “And look at their car . . . all the badges and logos are gone. Dealer plates . . . I’m pretty sure those windows are blocking more light than the legal limit . . .” Digby said.

  “Really? Now you think my other neighbors are shady?” I said. “God, please don’t tell me you’re going to blow up yet another house on my street.”

  The SUV’s doors opened and two men in dark suits got out and walked up the porch.

  “Men in black suits,” he said.

  “You’re a man in a black suit,” I said.

  The two men paused at the front door. One of them vaguely glanced in our direction. Maybe it was a little interesting how nondescript they were in their suits and sunglasses. I could barely make out any of their features.

  “It’s not their house . . .” Digby said.

  “Maybe they’re visiting,” I said. “Or they need to find their keys.”

  “Or. They need to pick that lock,” Digby said.

  My front door opened and Cooper ran out with an empty baking tray. He crossed the lawn and handed the tray to the two men Digby and I had been watching. I called Cooper over.

  “What was that?” I said. “Who were those guys?”

  “Who? Dan and Dan? I borrowed their cookie sheet. They bought the place for a steal after . . . you know . . .” Cooper pointed at the now-empty lot across the street where the drug ring/cult’s mansion once stood. “Apparently, it was still smoldering when they had the open house.”

  “Okay, are you happy now?” I said to Digby. “I know that you’re determined to play this game, but I’m cold. And we’re late for lunch.”

  • • •

  Once we were on the road, I said, “Well? Do Henry’s parents know you have their van? Or will we get stopped for driving around in a stolen vehicle?”

  “What? Of course I asked, and by the way, did you really mean that back at the house? That if I had to choose between cops and robbers, you think I’d be a robber?” Digby said. “That hurts, Princeton.”

  “Oh, please,” I said. “Actually, you’ve never told me what you want to be when you grow up.”

  “Ah . . . the hopes, dreams, and aspirations talk,” Digby said. “What do you want to be?”

  “My father calls that the three-hundred-thousand-dollar question,” I said.

  “Go to college for four years and then punt and go for three more in law school?” Digby said. “At the end of that, you’ll be so deep in debt, the decision will have been made for you: lawyer.”

  I shrugged.

  “Or maybe get out of college and work a finance gig in the city?” he said. “Car service and an expense account?”

  I shrugged again. It had occurred to me.

  “Who’d be the robber then, huh?” he said.

  Digby turned onto the freeway and drove us across some shockingly beautiful upstate-y countryside. I realized from how taken aback I was that I hadn’t spent much time outside city limits.

  “Hey, let me ask you something, Princeton. How’s Austin’s money scenario?”

  “What do you mean? His parents aren’t super-rich or anything . . .”

  “But, like, does he seem like he has a lot of stuff? Does he buy you nice gifts?”

  “Nice gifts? I mean, he buys me things. Takes me out. He works.” I looked over at him. “What are you asking me?”

  “Just curious about the material realities of dating in high school today . . .”

  “Yeah, right. What’s going on?”

  “You’ve been living with a cop too long, Princeton. You’re starting to sound like one.”

  But I could guess what was behind his deflection.

  “Are you doing research? Because Bill would be less flowers and fancy dinners than hot dogs and some danger zone make-out session she can post about on her feed,” I said.

  “Well, up to the part about posting stuff online, I would’ve said the same thing about you,” he said. “Or are flowers and fancy dinners your thing now?”

  I couldn’t explain the mix of embarrassment and defensiveness I felt. I mean, since when did liking roses and chocolate lava cake make me a defective?

  But Digby changed the subject before we could have that fight.

  “You ever been to Bird’s Hill?”

  “No. What’s up there?” I said.

  “You are in for a treat. People like the Blooms only live down in River Heights with us plebes during the winter. Soon as spring rolls around, they all move up to their summer houses. It’s a tradition from when this place was first settled and people in the valley dropped dead of malaria every summer,” he said. “Bird’s Hill is where the richest and oldest families have theirs.”

  “Summer houses? But there’s still snow on the ground.”

  “People that rich, the stuff they own owns them right back. Calendar says it’s time to go up the hill, so up they go,” Digby said. “In our case, I hope the lunch cart’s telling Sloane to roll out some shrimp cocktail and pastries.”

  “So this whole thing’s just about food to you?”

  “It’s not not about food.”

  “I mean, you aren’t more curious why Sloane would invite me—who she hates—to her house? What kind of problem could she have that makes her actually want to talk to me?”

  “You people-pleasers. Seriously. You’re so worried people don’t like you, you can’t even tell the difference between good hate and bad hate.” Digby laughed. “She hates you for the same reason she’s asking you for help. She respects you. She knows you’re smart.”

  “Do you think that’s why everyone hates you?”

  “Nah . . . this town hates me because they think my family and I got away with killing my sister. And then I shoot my mouth off and they start to think maybe I enjoyed doing it too,” Digby said. “Actually, the real question is, why are you here?”

  I didn’t know at first. Then the answer came to me and I was ashamed.

  Digby smiled big. “It’s okay, Princeton . . . it’s okay that you want to see her beg.”

  FIVE

  We got off the freeway and headed toward the base of a small mountain.

  “Bird’s Hill?” I said. “That’s no hill.”

  “Right?” Digby said.

  We turned onto the winding road and passed one elaborate gate after another, each increasing in ornateness as we went uphill. Digby said, “Screw the shrimp cocktail. I expect nothing less than an omelet bar and a chocolate fountain. White and milk chocolate.”

  The gatehouse security guards found our names on the list and let us in. On the long drive up to the main house, Digby said, “There’s a half a million bucks of gravel on this road.”

  Sloane was waiting when we got to the front of the huge house and signaled us to drive around to the parking area in the back, where a fleet of catering, florist, and chair rental trucks were unloading.

  “For real, Sloane, you shouldn’t have . . . all we really needed was the catering truck . . .” Digby said.

  “It’s for my mother’s young voters tea. Wait. I asked you here specifically because I didn’t want it to get back to Henry that I was talking to you.” She pointed at the Olympio’s van. “Did you tell Henry you were coming here?”

  “As every Cosmo girl knows, keeping secrets from each other is a Relationship Don’t. The honesty you give is the honesty you get,” Digby said. But Sloane looked genuinely worried, so he said, “Relax, I said I was taking Princeton to lunch. I didn’t tell him where.”

  Sloane took us through the back door into the kitchen, where uniformed staff were putting together the tea party. We passed into the main part of the house and went along a wood-paneled hallway lined wi
th enormous doors.

  “What are in these rooms?” Digby said.

  Sloane half-assed a tour. “Study . . . library . . . my mother’s sitting room . . .”

  Just as we passed, the sitting room door opened and Sloane’s mother ran out. I assumed her no-makeup makeup, perfectly bobbed hair helmet, and floral garden party dress with a cardigan caped over her shoulders were a campaign costume. Who knows, though. These people might walk around looking like this all the time.

  “Sloane? Where’s Henry?” Mrs. Bloom said.

  “Not here,” Sloane said.

  “I don’t understand. Security said his parents’ van is here,” Mrs. Bloom said.

  Elliot, the smooth-talking guy managing Sloane’s father’s campaign for Congress, burst out of the room reeking of stress and coffee. “Where’s the QB? He’s the entertainment. There are a lot of young jock voters coming.” Elliot pointed at Sloane. “And why aren’t you dressed? Who are these two?” Then he recognized Digby. “He’s not staying, is he? Wait, why isn’t the quarterback coming?”

  “What’s the big deal? I’m going to attend, Elliot. I’m the commodity,” Sloane said.

  “Now, how can you argue with that?” Elliot said. “But . . . there isn’t going to be any blowback, is there? I mean, if you and the quarterback split?”

  “What do you mean?” Sloane said.

  Elliot just gawped.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Elliot, Sloane is a big girl.” To Sloane, Mrs. Bloom said, “He means, does Henry have anything compromising he might, say, put on the Internet if he were angry? If you broke up?”

  “Excuse me?” Sloane said.

  Mrs. Bloom and Sloane stared at each other. Sloane flinched first. “He doesn’t have anything compromising, Mother. Not that Henry would ever do anything like that even if he did.”

  “But there are problems between you and Henry?” Elliot said.

  “And now I’m done with this conversation,” Sloane said. She took Digby and me upstairs.

  • • •

  My breath caught when Sloane opened her bedroom door. The room was a fairy princess dream of pink and gold filigree. There was a canopy bed in the form of an open gilded lily. All the furniture was plush or velvet or brocaded. Look past the initial prettiness, though, and what you saw was . . .