Trouble Makes a Comeback

by Stephanie Tromly

  I have a vague memory of some TV show about a murder victim who died of a head injury after being hit in the head many hours before. I wonder if I should worry. I take heart, though, when the crowd picks up Mason and passes him around over their heads. Chances look good he’ll injure his head at least once more tonight.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “That’s my girl! That’s my girl!” Austin dances over to me. I cannot help noticing how insanely handsome he is. All he is wearing is a black evening jacket with tails he’s probably taken from one of the closets. He’s shirtless underneath and every hour he’s ever spent in the gym is recorded on his Hershey’s bar abs. I let him nibble on my neck for a second because I don’t want to make another scene.

  “Let’s go somewhere, okay?” I keep my tone light and I even find the right muscles to smile. But I soon realize he isn’t in any shape to decode subtle hints about my mood. “Wait. You’re drunk? Already?”

  “Nah. Just a little happy . . .” Austin says. “Happy you’re here now. Finally.”

  “Oh . . . that’s great, Austin. I’m glad to see you too.” I am too exhausted to put much genuine emotion behind that, but he is too excited to notice.

  “Yo, Shaeffer! What’s up, my bruvva.” Kyle Mesmer high-fives Austin. “Hey again, Zoe.”

  “’Sup, Mesmer,” Austin says.

  “Hey, I heard Coach is in the hospital,” Kyle says. “What does that mean?”

  “I heard he’s going to be all right,” Austin says.

  And then he’s going to prison, I thought.

  And then ensues a roll-call of people who’d heard about something awesome that Austin did earlier involving a keg and a Frisbee and want to congratulate him. After a few minutes, my face hurts from all the obligatory smiling. At one point, I feel like I’ve sprained my cheeks, because while I am already smiling and chatting with one of Austin’s teammates, another cluster of people arrive and I smile even more widely to reassure them that yes, in fact, I am very excited to see them too. This, by the way, is one of the earliest lessons I learned when Austin and I started dating: It is vital to act intensely happy to see people. In fact, it’s kind of important to maintain a minimum excitement level all the time or they’ll say I’m “off.” If I failed to consistently match their level of enthusiasm, they would call me “boring” or, worse, “artsy” or, even worse than that, “emo.” Certainly, all the times Digby and I have sat in silence watching Twin Peaks would be unthinkable with this crowd.

  But, after a while, I realize that, since I am about to break up with Austin, I don’t have to care if these people think I’m not cheerful enough. I let my smile drop. As Austin and Kyle continue to talk, I look around and notice the crowd’s energy is dialed up higher. The whole scene feels . . . different.

  “This party suddenly got insane,” I say.

  Austin says, “Dude, yeah. It got hectic up in here.”

  Kyle points at me and whoops. “What did I say? What did I say? The moment.”

  There’s a loud crash inside the house and Kyle’s face momentarily freezes before he starts the crowd in a triumphant new chant of “Bust it up! Bust it up!”

  The swarm of people isn’t moving out of our way, so Austin sweeps me off my feet and with me cradled in his arms, he gets people to step out of our way and we’re able to get off the porch.

  Once in the open, I say, “Okay, I can walk now.”

  “That’s all right, Princess, I don’t want your pretty shoes getting muddy,” Austin says. “Those are staying on later, by the way.”

  I climb off him and we cross to the pool house. I remember the promise Sloane forced me to make about giving her feedback on the outfit and I construct the wording on the first line of my report to her: Know your terrain. A power stomp across my bathroom floor does not translate to a fierce walk across Kyle Mesmer’s muddy lawn.

  The moment we are inside, Austin grabs my waist, pulls me in, and mashes his lips onto mine.

  I say, “Stop stop stop, Austin. I have to . . .” But he won’t get off me, so I softly knee him in the groin and pretend it was an accident.

  Through his moans, Austin says, “God, what? That really hurt.”

  “Did you tell Coach Fogle about the gym bag?” I say.

  I have to give it to Austin. His face barely twitches before he says, “What are you talking about, babe?”

  “I’m talking about your almost getting us killed just because you wanted a shot at Henry’s spot on the team this fall,” I say.

  “That’s ridiculous,” he says. “Is this Digby’s idea? Is he getting you all paranoid and crazy?”

  “Don’t turn this into a Digby thing,” I say.

  “Are you kidding? That kid’s been trying to break us up since he got into town,” Austin says.

  It’s true, of course, and admitting that to myself sparks a moment of weakness in me during which Austin leans in, all beautiful white teeth and soft floppy hair. He pulls me in by the waist. When I don’t immediately respond to him, though, his smile drops and he lets me go.

  “Actually, I’m not done talking about this,” I say. “Did you tell Coach we had the bag in school? Because I saw you talking to him today.”

  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Austin says. “Okay, look, alls that happened was . . . Coach talked to me about maybe taking over as QB next season. That’s all he said.”

  “I don’t believe you. I don’t trust you.” I want to slap the smirk off his weasel face. “What are we even doing together?”

  “That’s a great question,” Austin says. “And I’ve been trying to ask you that all week long. I tried on Thursday afternoon, but you and Digby made me drive to the grocery store in Digby’s clothes for some reason. I still don’t know why those guys were following you, by the way—which, if you were really my girlfriend, is kind of a weird thing not to tell me.”

  And then it dawns on me. “Are you implying that you’ve been trying to break up with me?”

  Right then, the door to the pool house slides open and Charlotte and Allie stumble in.

  “So sorry,” Allie says. “Oh. Wait. Are you breaking up with her right now?”

  Austin and I both say “Yes” at the same time.

  “Wait. Did you just say ‘breaking up with her’?” I say. “You knew?”

  Charlotte says, “Okay, Allie. You’re on,” and leaves the three of us.

  Thank goodness it all gels into place quickly so that even before Allie gets all the way across the room to stand with Austin, I know what they were going to say.

  Allie actually has the audacity to look sorry as she takes Austin by the hand. “Zoe, we—”

  “Never mind,” I say. I’m surprised and pleased by how not upset I feel as I walk out.

  • • •

  I go back into the party and find Charlotte sulking in the kitchen.

  “Did you know?” I say.

  “Hey. Don’t you yell at me,” Charlotte says. “I told her it was shady. Maybe, though, none of this would’ve happened if you weren’t so busy having your little adventures with Digby.”

  “Are you blaming me?” I say. “Besides, Digby’s only been back for a week. How long have Allie and Austin been together?”

  “Okay, she’s shady, but she isn’t a snake. They weren’t ‘together’ together . . . but they will be now,” Charlotte says. “Anyway. What did you expect? You’ve been dating almost four months now and it’s not like he’s getting any from you.”

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  “I’m just saying,” Charlotte says. “You probably shouldn’t expect too much from Austin.”

  “Well, now I don’t expect anything from him,” I say. “I hope he and Allie are happy together. They so belong together.”

  I go to the wet bar in the kitchen and hands shaking, I pour myself a soda. All
I want to do is go home and crawl back into bed.

  Bill saunters up, smoking very self-consciously, and says, “So, from the look on your face, I am guessing you’ve found out about Allie and Austin?”

  “You knew?” I say.

  “Yeah,” Bill says.

  “So people know?” I say.

  “No, no . . . sorry. I didn’t mean that,” Bill says. “I saw them talking earlier tonight and I figured . . .”

  I wonder where Digby is, but given the topic of the talk I want to have with him, I don’t think it’d be cool of me to ask Bill where he is.

  “Thing is, high school dating is like musical chairs,” she says. “Whoever gets up is going to want to sit down somewhere. Oh, hey, if you see Digby, tell him I found a guy with some X and I got one for him.”

  “X? Like . . . ecstasy?” I say.

  “Yeah, dance a little trance, throw some shapes,” she says. “I want to do a whole ’90s thing this spring.”

  “Is it safe for him to take X with his other meds?” I say.

  “Are you kidding? I was actually thinking he might not even feel it, the stuff he’s on is so strong,” she says.

  None of what she just said involves any kind of rational reasoning.

  “Anyway, I feel like he’s been avoiding me all night,” she says. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, right?”

  I try to look innocent. I don’t think it works, though, because as she leaves, she says, “Well . . . keep it classy.” And then she drops her cigarette in my soda.

  I chuck my soda in the trash and head toward the back of the house to find Felix in a scrum of players on the girls’ soccer team he manages. He builds a row of short shot glass pyramids with an overturned shot glass at the apex of each one and then expertly pours tequila over the butt end of the upended shot glass so that the glasses below all fill at the same rate.

  “Wow, Felix, how are you doing that?” one of the soccer players says.

  “It’s easy, actually, it’s all about creating laminar flow . . .” Felix says. But he senses his audience isn’t into that and he pulls up short. Instead, he yells, “Tequila!” And they all drink their shots and fling their glasses into the fireplace across the room. Felix then reaches into a brown box of new shot glasses that he starts to stack into another row of squat little pyramids.

  I approach them and say, “Um, hi . . . can I just borrow Felix for a second?”

  There’s a round of disappointed moans when Felix gets up.

  “Hey, you’re okay?” I say.

  Felix says, “Yeah, I finally found something they enjoy more than tormenting me.”

  “So you’re going to let yourself get alcohol poisoning just so they don’t attack you?” I say.

  “Nope. I let all of it run down my chin. My shirt’s practically flammable at this point,” Felix says. “Feel.”

  “It’s okay. I can imagine,” I say. “Look, if something goes wrong, come find me, all right?”

  “Yeah, sure . . . but what could go wrong? It’s a party,” Felix says.

  The soccer team cheers him upon his return and I pour myself another soda before I push off again on my search for Digby.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  On the second-floor landing, I find a series of doors lining a hallway dead-ending at a door that’s larger and much grander than the others. It is quieter here and there’s a sprinkling of couples pushed up against the walls, talking and making out. I can’t help being that nerd: I take a cigarette out of the hand of one guy who’s so deep into his make-out partner’s face, he doesn’t realize he’s about to set her hair on fire. I drop it into my soda. Another drink bites the dust.

  The rooms are full of people, but Digby is not in any of them. In one of the more crowded guest bedrooms, I find Henry sitting in an armchair, getting a little too cozy with a sophomore girl I recognize from the yearbook committee. Daisy? Pansy?

  “Heeeeey . . . it’s my friend, Zoe! Zoe! Come and talk awhile,” Henry says.

  “I thought you didn’t drink.” I point at the red cup in his hand.

  “I don’t, but I do tonight. Because tonight we’re going to have fun.” Henry tries to take another sip from his cup but I get it away from him before he can. “What? Boring!” The girl boos me and Henry says, “Maisie thinks you’re boring too.”

  Maisie grabs the cup from me and hands it back to Henry.

  “Okay, Maisie, if you think you’re ready to take on Sloane Bloom, then be my guest,” I say. I tap on my phone’s screen and make sure she hears it send. “She’ll be glad to see you’re keeping her seat warm.”

  “Sloane! Maisie was just asking me about Sloane, actually,” Henry says. “I haven’t even seen her tonight. Is she at the party yet?”

  “Oh, yeah. She was my ride up here.” To Maisie, I say, “You should probably go find your friends now.”

  She doesn’t want to but Maisie gets up, sneers at me, and says, “I like those boots. Are those even yours?”

  “No, in fact, they’re Sloane’s.” I point at the door. “And you can tell her how much you like them yourself, because here she comes now.”

  Maisie takes a few quick steps before she realizes I’m messing with her. She leaves anyway, cursing me out as she goes.

  “Oh, no, ladies . . . why are my lovely ladies fighting?” Henry says. “Why did you make Maisie go away?”

  “Really? Her?” I say. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but she’s quite a step down from Sloane.”

  “What? That was nothing,” Henry says. “We were just talking.”

  “I don’t think Maisie thought it was nothing.” When Henry rolls his eyes at me, I say, “I just don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret later.”

  “Then where were you when I was torching the school earlier?” Henry says.

  After I check that no one nearby is listening to us, I lower my voice and say, “Henry, you need to stop saying that kind of stuff, okay? Someone’s going to hear you and if you think your life is bad now—”

  “Oh, it would get worse? Worse than no football?” Henry says. “You don’t get it, Zoe. Football. I was all set.” Henry drinks deeply.

  I take the cup away from him. “You’ve probably had enough, Henry—”

  “I was going to go to Florida State, earn the starting QB spot, throw at least three thousand yards—”

  “You could still go to Florida,” I say.

  “What?” he says.

  “Just because you aren’t playing football, it doesn’t mean you can’t go to school in Florida,” I say.

  “What? No, you don’t understand. It’s not about Florida. I don’t like the humidity,” he says.

  I say, “Then go somewhere else—”

  “No, that’s the point. There is nowhere else. I needed football to pay for college. Now what? What do I even tell my family?” he says. “I mean, how would you tell your parents if you didn’t get into the school they wanted you to go to?”

  Thoughts of a skinny envelope and my father’s angry face flash before my eyes.

  “Now imagine telling them you didn’t get in anywhere and you weren’t going to college at all,” Henry says.

  It’s a sobering thought, all right. I give him back his red cup. “But take it easy on that, because I’m seriously telling Sloane you’re up here this time.” I message her on my phone.

  “Didn’t you already before?” he says.

  “Nah. That time I put up a post about these boots,” I say. “If I leave you, can I trust you to stay out of trouble until Sloane gets here?”

  “Where are you going?” Henry says.

  I say, “I need to find Digby. I’ll see you later—”

  Henry grabs my arm. “Hey. Do me a favor?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Don’t hurt him,” Henry says.r />
  “Who? Digby? How could I even—”

  “You could. So please don’t. You’re with Austin now. Stay in your lane,” Henry says.

  I want to object, but Sloane comes in the door just then. As I pass her, she says, “Is he okay?”

  “Nope,” I say. “Not okay at all.” I push off and leave them to it.

  I get to the last door at the end of the hall and find it locked. I twist and yank at the doorknob and then finally knock. “Umm . . . Digby isn’t in there, is he?” I say. I immediately feel like a nerd and right then, I decide I should just go home before I humiliate myself any more at this party. But then the locked door opens and I’m pulled into the room.

  “You made it, Princeton,” Digby says.

  “Why are you lurking in here?” I say.

  “Hungry?” Digby points to a desk where he’s set up a little buffet of chips, guac, salsa, and a sushi plate. “I caught the caterers when they were setting up,” he says.

  “Do you mind if I . . . ?” I point at the bed. The relief I feel when I sit down is immediately complicated by worry about making saggy knees in my leather pants. I lie down, unbutton my fly, and breathe deeply for the first time in hours.

  “Well, Princeton, your seduction game is interesting,” he says.

  “Sorry, these are Sloane’s pants and there are a lot of rules to follow when you wear leather,” I say.

  “Where’s Austin?” Digby says.

  I say, “How am I supposed to know?”

  “Uh-oh. Do we have a number five?” Digby says. He sits down next to me.

  “What?” And then I see that he has one of Bill’s annoying party bingo cards.

  “She’s the worst,” I say. “No, wait. I take it back. Austin is the worst. And by the way, I lied before when I said it was a good luck ritual. Austin really does still confuse his left and right when he’s under pressure, so he labels his hands with marker.”

  “So you did break up with him tonight?” Digby says. When I nod, he says, “Should I be sorry?”

  “I’m not,” I say. “He wouldn’t admit it, but he totally told the coach about the drugs. But the main reason I’m so annoyed is that he and Allie are together now. They claim nothing happened before we broke up, but you know . . .”