Trouble Makes a Comeback

by Stephanie Tromly

  “Wow. You are having all the sticky drama tonight,” Digby says.

  I point at the huge stash of food in the room. “Why are you sitting in a locked room? Looks like you have your own sticky drama,” I say. “You know, Bill thinks you’re avoiding her.” When Digby rolls his eyes, I say, “What? That fake accent finally got to you?”

  “I went to the bathroom at her place and when I got back, meds were missing from my jacket,” he says. “The fun ones.”

  “Let me guess . . . she helped you look for the bottle for a while and then she found them in a place that you know—you know—you were never at.” When he nods, I say, “Oh, I am very familiar with this move. This is how she got your number from my phone and started texting you behind my back last fall. And by the way, now she says she has some X she wants to take with you.”

  “She’s exhausting. Like, her on top of everything else that’s going on is just . . .” Digby says. “I can’t anymore.”

  “It’s been crazy since you got back, all right,” I say.

  “Hey, Princeton, do you think I’m sexist for assuming my father was the one doing all the important work?” He looks crushed by the idea.

  “Digby, your mom worked on a top secret project and lied to you about being an assistant. Were you supposed to investigate her when you were seven years old?” I reach over and pat his arm.

  He squeezes my hand to thank me for comforting him, but after a couple of seconds, I realize that we are still holding hands. He starts pulling away, so I squeeze his hand a tiny bit to let him know I don’t want to stop. Digby leans over me slightly but hangs back enough to give himself plausible deniability.

  “Wait. I have to ask,” I say. “Why didn’t you call me when you were away?”

  Digby tilts his head back and sighs. “Really?”

  “Yes,” I say. “It’s been bothering me for months.”

  “Fine. You really want to know why I didn’t call?” I nod and Digby says, “Because you didn’t kiss me back at the bus station and I just assumed I’d made a mistake and . . . I was embarrassed. And then Henry tells me you’re with Austin . . . what would you think?”

  “Okay,” I say. I notice how nervous he looks. “I will take that answer. But to be fair, you just suddenly took off. I wouldn’t have had a chance to kiss you back even if I wanted to.”

  “And did you?” Digby said. “Did you want to kiss me back?”

  I pull him closer and nod.

  Every thrill of every rule we’ve broken together, every electric jolt I’ve ever gotten when he peeled back my defenses and exposed the real me, everything that’s good and true about being Digby’s friend . . . I feel all that when he buries his face in my hair and breathes in; when I turn and find his lips and kiss him. The first few seconds are intense. The roughness of his stubble against my cheek makes his soft lips even more of a surprise.

  I am pushing off his jacket when Digby suddenly stops. He looks worried.

  “What?” I say.

  “Bill,” Digby says, kissing my cheek.

  “What about Bill?” I say, kissing him back.

  “Technically, Bill and I are dating, so . . . I shouldn’t . . . with you . . . until I talk to her,” he says. “Dammit, Princeton. I’m sorry.”

  “What? First of all, don’t act like you pity me because I can’t have you,” I say.

  “I wasn’t—”

  “And second, you and Bill were serious already?” I say. “You’ve gone on one date.”

  “Or four—”

  “When did you have the time to do that?” I say.

  Digby gets up, walks into the en suite bathroom, and splashes his face with water. “Okay. Let’s do this.” He towels off. “Let’s find her and tell her.”

  I remember her line about my staying “classy.” “I’m not coming with you. I’m pretty sure she just warned me off you downstairs,” I say. “You can do it alone.”

  “What if she cries?” Digby says.

  “Unbelievable,” I say. “So what if she does cry?”

  “I can’t make a girl cry,” he says.

  “You know before, you were worried about being sexist? Well, now you’re being sexist,” I say. But he looks so worried, I give in. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  “Thanks, Princeton.”

  • • •

  “Remember how this afternoon, you asked if I wasn’t glad to be back to just dealing with teenage drama?” I say. “Well, I’m not. I’m really, really not. I’d rather deal with murderers and arsonists. All day.”

  We wander back out into the party and are in the kitchen when booing breaks out in the living room. Digby turns to me and says, “Sounds like this party just got more interesting.”

  Every head is turned toward Musgrave standing in the corner. Digby catches Musgrave’s eye and when Musgrave points at first Digby and then me, it becomes clear that he has come here looking for us. Digby signals for Musgrave to come outside the house to talk. While Musgrave picks his way through the crowd to the door, Digby and I climb out of the living room window onto the porch and then onto the turf beside the house.

  “What do you think he wants?” I say.

  Digby shrugs and says, “I don’t know, but if I know Musgrave at all, he’s here because he’s managed to screw up what little he had to do today.” When Musgrave finally lumbers his way to us, Digby says, “Hey, Harlan. What’s up?”

  “What’s up? What’s up? You messed me up is what’s up,” Musgrave says and then, weirdly, points at me.

  “Excuse me? Uh . . . and how did I do that?” I say.

  “Uh . . . by leaving your little red notebook in the bag of evidence you had me turn in is how you did that,” Musgrave says.

  “Notebook? Princeton?” Digby says.

  I rewind the day in my mind and find the memory of putting the red notebook into the bag but then, when I try to conjure the image of taking it back out when I unpacked my test-taking stuff earlier that morning in school . . . nothing. “Damn it,” I say. “I was so stressed about taking the test, I didn’t even remember that I’d brought it.”

  Digby asks Musgrave, “Okay, so . . . did you get it out?”

  “Get it out? Get it out? Did I get it out?” The veins in Musgrave’s neck are throbbing. “No. I did not tamper with police evidence. And by the way, I thought you said you saw Fogle put it in the locker. Does this mean you planted it yourselves?”

  “Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. Fogle is selling. John Pappas—the kid they call Papa John—will flip and testify against him. That’s all you need to know,” Digby says. “Where’s the bag now?”

  “In the evidence locker. Where else would it be?” Musgrave says.

  “They logged the notebook already?” Digby says.

  “Well, they logged the bag and the stuff inside, but no one’s processed what’s actually in there,” Musgrave says. “Except the drugs. Those have already been sent to the lab.”

  The three of us watch a shiny black sedan cruise up and park just short of the house’s circular driveway. A door opens and a man in a suit steps out and dials his phone. A second later, Digby’s phone rings.

  “What the hell?” Musgrave says.

  Digby picks up, doesn’t say a word, and he and the man in the suit hang up at the same time.

  “Princeton?” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m coming with you.”

  We walk away with Musgrave yelling out his demands for an explanation at us. Neither of us even needs to ask what’s going on. We get in the car with the man in the suit and he drives us up the road, where we see an enormous black high-top custom van parked with the engine running. There are two SUVs in front and behind it.

  I can see Digby is trying to put on his game face. We get out and walk to the van.

  The door slides open to reveal de Groot ensco
nced in a plush throne at the center of the customized passenger compartment. As always, he is hooked up to his oxygen. We are ushered in and the door is closed again. In the silence that follows, the sound of his wheezy respirations are thunderous.

  De Groot raises his arms and says, “I am ready to have that conversation.”

  “I’m listening,” Digby says.

  One of de Groot’s anonymous security guys hands Digby a large brown envelope. From the way it crinkles, I guess that it contains something made of fabric. Digby takes the envelope but just puts it on his lap and stares at it.

  After a long minute, I touch his arm and say his name.

  He nods and I take the envelope and tear it open to find a small hot-pink T-shirt. A Dora the Explorer T-shirt. I remember Digby had said his sister was in the grips of a Dora the Explorer obsession when she’d been taken. “This is Sally’s.”

  “I can tell you what happened to her,” de Groot says. “All you need to do is get me the research.”

  “This . . .” Digby struggles to get himself back in control. “This could be any kid’s T-shirt.”

  I search the fabric for a clue. I flip over the tag and find “Sally D.” written on it in now-faded marker ink. There is an ominous bloodstain near the neck. I am still digesting all this when suddenly, Digby explodes beside me. He lunges for de Groot.

  De Groot doesn’t twitch, much less duck. He doesn’t have to. Two of his security guys have Digby pinned to the seat before he gets within touching distance of de Groot. I never even see a gun come out, but as soon as Digby is fully subdued, I hear the metallic clicks of at least two guns de-cocking.

  “I need to get out of here. Let me out. Let me out,” Digby says. He’s grabbing at the latch and pounding on the door, but he isn’t able to open the van door himself, so I reach over and open it for us. I’ve never seen him this way—not even when we thought we might die—and I am terrified.

  We climb down and Digby fast-walks back toward the house. When we get to the perimeter of the party, I reach for him and pull him toward me.

  Digby wraps his arms around me and whispers, “Princeton, I can’t do this.”

  “Digby, I think you have to at least try,” I say. “You need to know the truth about what happened to Sally. It needs to be over.”

  He stands still, thinking. Finally he says, “You’re right. It needs to be over.”

  Then, not caring whether or not we’re seen, Digby kisses me. This kiss isn’t the tender stuff of walks on the beach or shared plates of spaghetti. This feels apocalyptic. He clings to me long after our lips part. And I suppose it’s natural that Digby is apprehensive. I’ve often wondered whether he knows who he will be once he comes out the other side and no longer has Sally’s disappearance to tell him how to feel and what to do.

  “Zoe, this time, it might be real,” he says.

  “The explosion, the fire, getting gassed,” I say. “Wouldn’t you call those real?”

  “Do you really want to do this?” he says.

  “I do,” I say.

  We run back to the road and flag down the convoy of cars. Digby bangs on the van’s window. When it slides open, Digby says, “Yes. I’ll do it.”

  “You will get me the rest of your mother’s research? All of it?” de Groot says.

  Digby nods.

  “How?” de Groot says.

  “That’s proprietary,” Digby says. When de Groot looks unsold, Digby drops his smile and says, “I’m going to break into Perses and steal it.”

  “That facility has an enormously complex security system,” de Groot says. “How will you do it?”

  “It’s going to be an inside job.”

  A long beat passes while de Groot and Digby stare each other down. De Groot smiles and extends his hand for Digby to shake but Digby ignores it and walks away.

  • • •

  On our way back to the party, I feel that electric jolt pass through me again. This time, I recognize that there is so much more to it than the thrill of breaking rules and whatever attraction I have to Digby. It’s knowing that what we are about to do matters.

  Here we go again.

  Acknowledgments

  When in the acknowledgements of my last book, I thanked Kathy Dawson for giving me an education in writing YA, I hadn’t meant for it to sound like some kind of graduation day speech. The gods must’ve gotten angry at my hubris, though, because they set out to show me exactly how little I know about writing. Thank you, Kathy, for being so patient and thank you so much for finding the book I was trying to write. Thank you so much, Claire Evans, for sharing your sports expertise and for all your help getting this book out. Thank you also, Regina Castillo, for your sharp eyes. I also want to thank Anna, Venessa, Marisa, Rachel, Carmela, and so many more awesome Penguin Random House family members . . . you really know how to take care of your authors!

  Thank you, David Dunton, for knowing exactly how to ‘agent’ me when not even I knew what the heck my problem was. Nikki Van De Car, you are awesome and you know what the heck my problem is. Thank you so much for your notes and comments.

  Thank you also to my family—Mom, Dad, and Steve—for coddling me during some pretty dark days. Never once did they make me feel bad that I wasn’t keeping it together very well. People ask where the laughs in the books come from and the answer is: these frickin’ guys.

  Luke and Stella get an extra big thank you for dragging me across the finish line. No one would believe me if I listed all the things they did to keep me alive and working. I’m so lucky to have their awesome minds helping me.

  And, finally, a big shout out to my kid who is young but already has more chill than I ever will. Hey, Henry: manual, manual, automatic!

  About the Author

  Stephanie Tromly was born in Manila, grew up in Hong Kong, graduated from the University of Pennsylvania, and worked as a screenwriter in Los Angeles. She is the author of Trouble Is a Friend of Mine and Trouble Makes a Comeback. Stephanie lives in Winnipeg with her husband and son.

  Follow Stephanie on@StephanieTromly

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