From the very beginning, TFS has been a family-run business. Started in 1762 by Thomas Leatherwood, TFS has been passed down from father to son all the way to the current chief executive officer of TFS, Ronan Trouble (also known by the title Mr. Trouble).
To tell the history of TFS is to tell the history of the Trouble family.
THOMAS LEATHERWOOD (Mr. Trouble 1762-1789)
Thomas Leatherwood (b. 1740, London, England) decided to turn the wealth he’d earned running several cargo ships between England and the American colonies into something that better served those in need. (The exact reason he did this is unimportant and a matter for the private family archives.)
Born in London, Thomas moved permanently to North America the same year he established TFS, settling first in Boston then moving to New York after the Revolutionary War.
Of course, the business was not known as TFS at that time. Thomas simply took on clients as his services were needed. Thomas and his wife Barbara had only one child, a son named Edward. Thomas remained in charge of the business until his death in 1789.
ROBERT LEATHERWOOD/TROUBLE (Mr. Trouble 1895-1896)
It is remarkable that Robert Leatherwood (b. 1843, New York, NY) is responsible for so much of what the family business is today, given the fact he was head of the family for only one year. In part, his short tenure was due to the fact his father, Byron, held the position for half a century, but mostly it was because of the bad luck suffered on the project in rural Iowa that took his life.
Robert was the first head of the family who kept a diary, something he started at the age of 17 and continued after he became Mr. Trouble at the age of 52. The diary is a tradition that continues through present day. From these diaries we know that Robert proposed the most significant change for the family to his father many years before he was able to make it a reality when he took control. That, of course, was changing the family name from Leatherwood to Trouble.
“We’re in the trouble business,” he wrote. “Trouble is part of who we are. So Trouble should be our name.”
From that point forward, everyone born into the family bore the surname Trouble. But Robert didn’t stop with just changing the family name. He was the first to look at the family’s business as a business, creating The Trouble Company (later changed to Trouble Family Services.)
Finally, he was responsible for moving the family west to St. Louis.
He and his wife Edith had one son, Fredrick.
7
It didn’t dawn on Eric until he woke Friday morning that he’d forgotten to fix his bicycle, so he would have to walk to school. To make matters worse, he’d overslept, meaning his walk would have to be more like a run if he didn’t want to be late again. That’s what he got for staying up late reading the pamphlet from Mr. Trouble.
At least he remembered to stick the tracking discs in his backpack and his pants pocket. The unicorn necklace was another matter. Mr. Trouble had neglected to mention that the unicorn’s eyes were pink rhinestones and that its horn was covered in glitter. He weighed the possibilities of complete embarrassment if one of his friends spotted the necklace in his bag against that of him being in a situation where he needed the Troubles’ help right away. The first seemed more likely so the unicorn stayed home.
He alternated between running fast and running faster as he tried to avoid another tardy. He was a block away when he heard the warning bell. With only two minutes left to get to class, he put his head down and sprinted the rest of the way.
Stopping by his locker to pick up his math book was out of the question. He’d just have to wing it. He hoped he’d be in less trouble for not bringing it than he would be for being late.
The tardy bell started ringing as he opened his classroom door, and ended just after he plopped down at his desk.
He smiled to himself. He’d actually made it. Maybe…maybe things were getting better. He sneaked a peek at Maggie. Her desk was across the aisle and one row back.
“Thought I was going to be late,” he whispered, smiling. “Can’t believe I made it.”
But there was no smile on Maggie’s face. Instead, her lips were pressed tightly together in a straight line. Apparently she was still mad at him. But then she nodded toward the front of the class.
Eric felt a sudden dread that Ms. Lindgren, their homeroom and first-period math teacher, was standing a few feet away, looking down at him. He turned around slowly, hoping she wasn’t going to give him a tardy anyway. But Ms. Lindgren was clear on the other side of the room, going through her briefcase at her desk.
He glanced back at Maggie, holding up his hands and silently asking her “what?” She nodded toward the front again. He turned and looked once more. Nothing there.
She is mad at me, he realized. She just doesn’t want me looking at her. Fine. Whatever.
Another moment later, Ms. Lindgren closed her briefcase and walked over to the lectern.
“Good morning, class,” she said.
There was a chorus of “good morning, Ms. Lindgren.”
“Before I take roll, I have some introductions to make. We have two new students starting with us today.” She smiled at someone sitting up front.
Eric, whose desk was in the third row back, barely paid attention.
“They’re sisters,” Ms. Lindgren said. “Twins, I’m told. Though not identical, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” someone in the front row said.
Eric sat up. The voice sounded very familiar.
“Ladies, do you mind standing up so everyone can see you? Class, these are the Leatherwood sisters.”
A chair scraped back on the tile floor, and a moment later a second chair did the same. The two new girls stood up and turned to the class.
They weren’t Leatherwoods, and they weren’t twins, either.
They were the Trouble sisters.
“This is Fiona,” Ms. Lindgren said. “And this is Keira.”
Both girls gave unenthusiastic waves and sat back down, neither having made eye contact with Eric or Maggie.
Someone tapped Eric on the arm. He looked down and saw a folded piece of paper being held out to him by Jerome Usher, the guy who sat behind him. He took the note and unfolded it in his lap as Ms. Lindgren took roll.
What are they doing here?
The handwriting was Maggie’s.
Eric gave her a quick look over his shoulder, shrugged, then turned back so he wouldn’t get in trouble.
But trouble seemed to be something he wasn’t going to be able to avoid.
“Nancy Long?” Ms. Lindgren said.
“Here.”
“Henry Miner?”
“Here.”
“Eric Morrison?”
“Here,” Eric said.
Ms. Lindgren paused. “Eric, it’s nice of you to actually make it on time today. I assume you’ve actually done your homework, too.”
“Yes…”–oh, no–“…ma’am.”
His math homework. He had done it. In fact, he’d done it during lunch the day before and stuck it in his math book so he wouldn’t forget it. His math book that was still in his locker.
He was able to get through the class by sharing Jerome’s textbook. As soon as the bell rang, he headed quickly for the door so he could catch up to the Trouble sisters.
“Eric?” Ms. Lindgren said.
Eric stopped in his tracks. “Yes, Ms. Lindgren?”
“I did a quick look through the homework stack and didn’t see any with your name on it.”
His shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. I did do it. I just forgot it in my locker.”
She held up a finger, indicating he shouldn’t move. Then, once the other students had all left, she said, “I know you’re a good student, Eric. You’ve been doing great so far this year. But the past couple weeks you’ve just fallen apart. Is something going on? Is everything all right at home?”
Not even close. “Everything’s fine at home.”
“Then why the tardies? Why the mis
sing homework?”
“I did do my homework. It’s in my locker. I swear!”
She was silent for a moment. “All right. You go get it and bring it back to me now. If you do that, I’ll mark you as turning it in on time.”
“But…”
“But what? You did do it, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. I did it.”
“If you’re worried about being late to your next class, I’ll write you a pass.”
He took a breath then nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
He exited the classroom and looked around. As he’d feared, neither Fiona nor Keira was around. But Maggie was.
“What took you so long?” she asked.
“I left my homework in my locker. Ms. Lindgren wants me to go get it.”
“You want me to come with you?”
Eric shook his head. “She said she’d write me a pass if I’m late, but I don’t think she’d write one for you, too. I’ll just meet you in Spanish.”
She gave him a smile. “At least you’ll get credit for your homework this time.”
He walked toward his locker, his head down, his mind on his problems. There had to be a cause for all this, something he must have done. But he had no idea what it could have been. Distracted by trying to figure out what it could possibly be, he turned the corner into the hallway where his locker was located.
“Hey!”
With a stutter step, he came to an abrupt halt. Standing less than a foot in front of him was Peter Garr.
“Sorry,” Eric said, trying to move around the other boy.
But Peter stepped in front of him. For a split second, Eric wondered if the bigger boy was going to start sniffing the air again.
“You need to watch where you’re going,” Peter said. Unlike at the library two days ago and last night in Maggie’s front yard, he was talking like he normally did.
“You’re right,” Eric replied. “I should have been paying attention. I’m sorry.”
As Peter grunted, Eric tensed, preparing himself to be pushed to the ground. But the bully surprised him. “Next time, I won’t be as nice.”
He knocked shoulders with Eric as he walked off, but that was as bad as it got.
The sense of relief Eric felt was intense. Maybe my luck is turning.
He had a smile on his face as he walked the rest of the way to his locker, but as soon as he saw what was waiting for him, it disappeared.
If his luck was turning, it was only going from bad to worse.
8
Eric’s locker was a mess.
In addition to the gum from the day before that had hardened on his lock, someone had shaken several cans of orange soda and opened them directly into the vents of his locker. A sticky, brownish-orangey film covered the door, while more of the soda had traveled through the inside then seeped out the bottom and drained onto the locker below his. It must have happened before school, he thought. Otherwise it would have been wetter than it was.
Knowing he had little choice, he worked his combination and slowly opened the door. A sickly sweet smell rolled over him like a cloud of his grandmother’s perfume, forcing him to clamp his hands over his face until it passed. When he was finally able to breathe again, he took a look at the damage.
Soda was everywhere—on the walls, on his books, even on the hook at the very top. And at the bottom, a pool of orange soda oozed around the edges of his math book.
“Just…great,” he said.
He pulled at his homework until it came free of the book. He wasn’t surprised to see orange soda had found it, too. He considered just throwing it in the trash, but right at that moment the warning bell rang. There was no way he was going to make it to Spanish in time so he was going to need that note Ms. Lindgren had promised him. And the only way to get that was to bring her his homework.
Reluctantly, he made his way back to her classroom and set the wet sticky paper on her desk.
She looked at it, then at him. “What’s this?”
“My homework. Someone shot soda into my…” He stopped and shook his head. “Never mind.” He was sure she was going to see it as just another excuse and refuse to give him a hall pass. But though she didn’t look happy, she was true to her word and wrote him the note.
When he walked into Spanish, Mrs. Muñoz was handing something out.
“Hola, Eric,” she said. “Class started three minutes ago.” He gave her the hall pass. She nodded after looking at it. “Hurry and sit. Pop quiz.”
If he could have melted into the floor right then, he would have. The last thing he wanted to do was take a pop quiz. He walked over to his desk and slumped into his chair.
“Pass them back, please,” Mrs. Muñoz said as she gave the students sitting up front enough sheets of paper for their row.
When the girl in front of Eric turned to give him the remaining stack, it wasn’t Angie Chang, the person who usually sat in front of him. It was Fiona.
“Take one and pass it back,” she told him and then faced forward again.
After he’d passed them on, he leaned toward her. “What are you doing here?”
Turning her head just enough, she whispered, “Taking a pop quiz. What are you doing here?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Eric, is there something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?” Mrs. Muñoz asked.
Eric sat up. “Uh, no. Mrs. Muñoz.”
Mrs. Muñoz stared at him, waiting.
“No, Señora Muñoz.”
She smiled. “All right, class. You have fifteen minutes to finish the quiz. Ready, begin.”
The quiz was a disaster. Eric had a hard time focusing on anything besides wanting to know what Fiona and Keira—she was there, too—were doing in his class. He was barely able to get through half the questions, and most of those he knew he’d gotten wrong.
When Spanish ended, he tried again to catch up to the sisters before they were gone, but once more they gave him the slip.
His next class was P.E., where boys and girls were separated, so he didn’t expect to see them there. But he was wrong.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Coach Roberts said as soon as Eric’s class assembled in the gym. They were at the end of the first of two basketball weeks. That morning, there were four balls lined up on the floor at the far end of the court. “Today we’re going to do some speed drills. I want four equal lines at this end. When I say go, the first person in line will run down to the other end, pick up the ball, run back, and give it to the next person. That person will then take the ball back to the other end, put it down, and run back. We keep going until everyone in your group has done it. And just to make sure there’s no cheating, I’ve enlisted the help of a couple girls from Coach Trenton’s class.” The coach looked down the court and called out, “Girls?”
From around the side of the bleachers, two girls appeared. Fiona and Keira, of course. Eric knew it would be them before they even stepped out.
“They’ll make sure you cross the line before you pick up the ball,” the coach went on. “If you don’t, they’ll blow a whistle, and you’ll have to come back to the start and do it again. The last team done does ten laps around the court. All right. Everyone ready?”
Eric was the second-to-last person in his group. His task was to take the ball back up and put it down on the line. When Jerome Usher shoved the ball into his arms, the other members of his line started yelling, “Go, Eric! Go!”
As he raced down the court, he could see there were only two other teams behind him, and neither by very far. If he didn’t want to be responsible for his team running laps, he needed to turn on the speed.
Putting his head down, he ran as fast as he could to the line. When he reached it, he put the ball down and turned to run back.
Suddenly a whistle shrieked.
“Morrison!” Coach Roberts shouted. “Pick up the ball and come back. You need to go again.”
“What?”
“Oh, no!” some
of the guys in his group groaned. Eric was going to be in last place by a long way. There was little chance they would avoid the laps now.
As he grabbed the ball, he looked over at Fiona leaning against the wall, her whistle in her hand.
“Thanks,” he said sarcastically.
“You’re the one who missed the line,” she replied.
He glared at her then raced back to the starting line. When he was halfway there, the whistle went off again.
Here Comes Mr. Trouble Page 7