Trouble is a Friend of Mine

by Stephanie Tromly

  “Not exactly big news. Jock bullying nerd in cafeteria,” I said.

  “Except that’s not what’s happening,” Digby said.

  “What are you talking about? He’s practically sitting on poor Felix Fong, who looks like he’s crapped his pants.”

  “I mean that’s not all that’s happening. Bullies like an audience. This conversation’s way too quiet.”

  Meanwhile, my computer screen went white, then black.

  “Oh, no! I just got this,” I said. “It’s fried. What are the chances Musgrave will pay for this?”

  Digby barely looked my way. He was watching Dominic and Felix. “Zero.”

  “What are the chances he’ll give me an F if I complain to the principal?”

  “Like, a hundred percent. But you might as well since he’s gonna fail you anyway because you’re partners with me.”

  “That’s just great. So what about my computer?”

  Dominic left Felix looking miserable.

  “Yeah, this is definitely something else,” Digby said. “Oh, and . . . I was about to tell you this morning, when the Children of the Corn jumped us. I read Schell’s records. Guess what? Marina saw him right before she disappeared.”

  “Shouldn’t you tell the police? You know . . . plus that stuff about blurry fingerprints?”

  “Not yet. But we should get back in there to take another look.”

  “Whatever, dude. Told you. I’m not going back. He wants to do an exam on me and no way that’s happening.”

  “We won’t be going back during office hours this time.”

  “Yeah, right.” Then I realized he was serious. “Hell, no.”

  Felix got up.

  “Okay—gotta go.” Digby grabbed his tray and got up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Take care of some business. I’ll pick you up at your place.”

  “I’m not going with you,” I said.

  “Okay, great, see you at eight,” he said.

  SEVEN

  I admit it. I was a little happy that Digby was clearly unstoppable in his idiotic plan to break back into Schell’s office. It left me no choice but to go to the one person who’d know how to talk him out of it. Henry.

  True, I could’ve told Mom or even Please-Call-Me-Steve, who went around practically begging students to “share,” but Mom would’ve just freaked and called the cops, and no one ever got good guidance from a guidance counselor.

  And, yeah, I might’ve taken a little extra time getting dressed and I totally took three tries at my eyeliner before I went back to Olympio’s, but what can I say? Digby was right about Henry bringing all the girls to the yard.

  Henry was refilling salt and pepper shakers when I got there. It was empty except for two girls, who were giggling and pretending to read the menu but were actually flirting with Henry. I recognized them from civics. The blonde was Sloane Bloom.

  I later found out from Digby that Sloane’s family was practically county royalty. Her parents were pillars-of-the-community rich and her father’s a real estate developer who stuck a picture of himself on every building he owned or managed. Digby said it was back-door publicity for his congressional campaign.

  Sloane herself was a big deal in school because she’d modeled in New York City and had actually booked a zit cream advertorial in Seventeen. She and her posse were the kind of girls who “practiced” their cheerleading cartwheels in the mall and then complained when boys stared at their asses when their uniforms rode up. See what I mean? They were easy to hate.

  That day in Olympio’s, she looked murderous when Henry stopped what he was doing to talk to me. She and I were in hate at first sight.

  “Let me guess. He’s gotten you in trouble,” Henry said.

  “Not yet, but I’m pretty sure what he’s planning for tonight will,” I said.

  “Nah, it’s too late: You care. You’re on Planet Digby now. You’re already in trouble.”

  “If I tell you something, promise not to tell anyone?”

  “See? Secrets. Trouble.” Henry held up his hands. “I shouldn’t get involved.”

  “I just need advice.”

  Henry sat down in a booth with me. “I don’t think Digby would appreciate it if he found out you were talking to me about him. We have some history, you know.”

  “He said.”

  “But did he tell you what happened?”

  “About his sister? Sort of . . . plus, I read some stuff online. Is that what you mean?”

  “That and a whole lot else,” he said. “The police tore that family apart. Before his parents finally split, the three of them sat around at breakfast, wondering if one of the others did something to Sally. Digby basically lived at my house.”

  “So what happened with you two?”

  Henry got up for some pie. I tried to act cool when he brought over one plate and two forks.

  “They interviewed everyone. Digby had told me stuff about his mom that the police used against her. Digby assumed I was the one who told the police.”

  “And you weren’t.”

  “Of course not. I knew what that’d do. You met his mom?”

  “No.”

  “Val’s . . . well, Val’s cool, but when she goes off her meds . . . anyway, I think Digby’s therapist was the one who told the police.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell him that?”

  “This therapist was pretty much the only adult Digby would talk to. If I’d told him she was selling him out . . . anyway, she ended up recommending to the court that Digby move to Texas with his dad . . . which is exactly wrong. Maybe I should’ve spoken up. By the time that happened, though, Digby wasn’t talking to me anymore.”

  “What’s wrong with Digby’s dad?”

  I glanced at Sloane watching me share the slice of pie with Henry. She was livid. It was the most delicious slice of pie I’d ever had in my life.

  “He was a recovering alcoholic but he started drinking again when Sally disappeared. Maybe Digby never told his therapist that, but everybody could see.”

  “And telling Digby now that you didn’t tell wouldn’t help?”

  “Digby’s just spent five years in Texas with his angry alcoholic dad. What do you think?”

  His jaw muscle clenching and unclenching was hypnotic.

  “What’s happening tonight?” he said.

  “He wants to break into a gynecologist’s office. He’s convinced the guy had something to do with the girl who disappeared this summer.”

  “You mean Marina Miller? Digby knows something about Marina?”

  Henry’s phone rang. It was adorable he was embarrassed that “Can You Tell Me How to Get to Sesame Street?” was his ringtone. “My little sister picked it.”

  He read the message, gasped at the screen, and laughed. He turned to look at Sloane, who was giggling as she took her phone out from under her shirt. Henry got another message.

  “I’m sorry, these girls are crazy.” He actually blushed. “I’ll delete these because you know, I don’t need to be on some sex offender registry because I got sexted at.”

  “Heeeeeenry. It’s your turn,” Sloane said.

  Henry shook his head, but he definitely looked interested. Sloane and her friend started throwing fries at him.

  “I gotta deal with this.” He walked toward Sloane, picking up the trail of fries she’d thrown as he went.

  “Wait! What do I do about tonight? He’s picking me up at eight,” I said.

  “Where?”

  “My house. One fifty-two Ashton.”

  “Henry! We’re out of fries, so we might have to start throwing our burgers,” Sloane said.

  “I’ll think of something,” Henry said to me. Then to Sloane and her friend, he said, “Guys, stop throwing food around. I’m the one who’s gonna
have to clean up.”

  “Oh, boo, you’re no fun.” Sloane waited until Henry wasn’t looking and flipped me the bird.

  “That’s classy,” I said. It was a taste of things to come.

  EIGHT

  I tried not to act suspicious at dinner, but I was squirrely. I was becoming obsessed with the idea of Schell and his camera. I waited until my mom poured herself a glass of wine.

  “So, um . . . I wanted to talk about Dr. Schell.” There. I’d said it.

  “Dr. Schell? My gynecologist?” she said. “Wait. Is this about that boy who picked you up before school today? Is he why you’re so nervous?”

  “Digby. Yeah, actually, it is kind of about Digby.”

  “Is he . . . pressuring you?”

  “What?”

  “You know, Zo, you shouldn’t let people pressure you. Especially someone you’ve just met. Sometimes I worry you’re too trusting. They say it’s something I should look out for because children of divorce . . . and you know, you’re the new girl . . . and you’ve never really been that confident . . .”

  What the hell was she talking about? I’d lost control of the conversation. “Mom. Shut up and listen to me.”

  Mom took a big drink of wine. “Sweetie, if you need to see Dr. Schell, I’m okay with it, but we should talk more before we go see him. Together. All three of us. Because it’s important that, as your partner, Digby understands he has responsibilities too.”

  The idea of me and Digby. The idea of Mom imagining me and Digby. The idea of going to Dr. Schell with Mom. God. Classic Mom. She was trying so hard to confront reality that she was confronting the wrong reality. I shut the conversation down. We ate the rest of dinner in silence.

  Later that night, I sat on the steps outside my house. I’d gotten off the porch, gone back inside, and come back out twice already. The second time I came out wearing all black and a hoodie. By 8:15, it felt like I was daring myself to stay out on that porch for some reason I couldn’t really name.

  But I did really like my outfit.

  At 8:30, a crappy white Chevy Something stopped outside my house. I watched the driver grind the gears and do a sucky parallel parking job for a few minutes before I realized that, in fact, it was Digby driving. When he finally gave up, one front wheel was on the sidewalk and the butt of the car was sticking way out into the street. Digby got out and walked to my porch.

  “No way. There’s no way I’m getting in that car with you behind the wheel,” I said.

  “What?”

  “What d’you mean, ‘what’? Your driving is ridiculous. Even the car looks embarrassed.”

  “Do you suggest we take the bus home after breaking in?”

  “I’m suggesting we don’t break in at all.”

  “Let me show you something.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket. “This was on Schell’s computer. A list of his patients—some with numbers by their names. Including Marina Miller.”

  “Credit card numbers? Or something to do with their prescriptions . . .”

  “Your mother’s name has numbers next to it.”

  I grabbed the paper from him.

  “It’s not her Social Security number . . . and there aren’t enough numbers for them to be credit cards,” I said.

  “We really need to get back in there.”

  “Or we could tell the police.”

  “You know if we did, it’ll suddenly become about us—how’d you get this, are you aware that’s a crime, blah-blah-blah. We should just go and—”

  “This list probably doesn’t mean anything. He’s, like, one of two gynecologists in this dinky town. It’s probably just a coincidence that my mom and Marina were both patients—”

  “Digby!”

  Digby and I both jumped when Henry emerged from behind some bushes, sweaty and panting.

  “Oh, heeeey . . . Henry, I didn’t know you were coming,” Digby said.

  “Of course you did—that’s why you tried to run me over on Chestnut,” Henry said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that was you,” Digby said.

  “I could hear you laughing in your car, bro.”

  “You can’t stop me, Henry.”

  “What’s this doctor got to do with Marina?” Henry took the list from me. “Marina’s on this list . . . so’s your mom. You think because Val’s on this, he has something to do with Sally?”

  “Digby’s mom’s on the list too?” I said.

  “Stay out of this, Zoe. This has nothing to do with you,” Henry said.

  “Oh, but wait a second . . . this has something to do with you?” Digby said. “Why are you here, Henry? I know it’s not because of me . . .”

  Henry looked uncomfortable.

  “It’s not because of her.” Digby pointed at me. “She’s not your type. No offense, Princeton.”

  I hate when people use phrases like “no offense” right after they say the crappiest things to you.

  “Oh, buuuuut . . . Marina’s exactly your type. Senior girl. Niiiiice,” Digby said. “Although, super-bleached-out hair, heavy eye makeup, push-up bra on picture day . . . minus ten points. Insecure girls are easy pickings.”

  “D’you mind? A little respect,” Henry said. “Yeah, we went out. Just for a month. We broke up at the beginning of summer.”

  “What, she found out you still had a curfew?” Digby said.

  “Something like that,” Henry said. “Anyway, she went psycho on me. Texting, turning up at the diner. Then I get this crazy text from her telling me to suck it because she’s hooked up with some guy with lots of money. She kept calling him a ‘real man,’ whatever that means. Kinda gave the impression the dude was older. She disappeared a month later.”

  “Whoa, you think it was Schell?” I remembered Schell’s pink bald head. “Ewwww . . . he was so shiny and gross.”

  “You told the police?” Digby said.

  “Sure. They said Marina’s friends and family never heard of any rich guy. They said she probably made him up to get back at me. But I don’t think that’s true,” Henry said. “Look, I’ll come along. But leave Zoe out of it.”

  “Let her make up her own mind,” Digby said.

  “Yeah, I can make up my own mind,” I said.

  “So, you are coming?” Digby said.

  “No. But not because of what Henry said,” I said.

  “Doesn’t matter why. You should just stay home tonight,” Henry said.

  “Stop telling me what to do,” I said.

  “Yeah, you gonna let him tell you what to do?” Digby said.

  “And can you stop being on my side, please?” I said.

  “You don’t need her to come. I’m coming,” Henry said.

  “If I let you come, you’re not allowed to lecture me,” Digby said.

  “If you don’t want me to lecture you, let me do the driving,” Henry said.

  “I don’t get it. Suddenly, everyone’s got a problem with my driving?” Digby said.

  “After you jumped the curb and you tried—but failed—to run me over, you turned on your left turn signal and made a right,” Henry said.

  “What? That there was some good Texas driving,” Digby said.

  “Dude, seriously, you’d drive better if you were actually drunk,” Henry said.

  “Getting your mom to let you back the van into the loading dock doesn’t make you a driving expert,” Digby said.

  “Got my license last month,” Henry said. “Only way I’m going, Digby, is if I drive.”

  This was an argument Digby was only half interested in winning. He threw the keys to Henry.

  “Fine. But I call shotgun,” Digby said, pointing at me.

  “Take it. I’m not coming,” I said.

  “She’s not coming,” Henry said.

  “Of course she is,
” Digby said.

  They walked to the car.

  “She’s coming.” Digby held up his hand in Henry’s face, fingers splayed. “I’m putting five on it.”

  Watching my parents squabble after Dad moved out, it annoyed me that they couldn’t admit they missed each other. They fought about me, but really, I could’ve been a dog and the arguments would’ve been no different. Just kiss already, I used to think when I watched them. I thought the same thing watching Digby and Henry bickering on their way to the car. Just admit you’ve missed each other and kiss already. Sure, part of me wanted to go ride around town with them, but their bickering was seriously causing flashbacks. I’d heard enough bickering to last me a lifetime. Nothing could get me in that car.

  Inside the house, Mom yelled, thinking I was still in my room, “Zoe! Wanna come to the Scrabble mixer with me?”

  Except maybe that.

  “Sorry, Mom, my friends are here!” I ran off the porch.

  They were already pulling away when I opened the door and jumped in the car. Henry really hadn’t thought I was coming and he slammed on the brakes, surprised.

  “Welcome to the party, Princeton.” Digby handed me a stick of gum and made a greedy gimme-gimme-gimme gesture in Henry’s face until he slapped five bucks in Digby’s hand.

  NINE

  The parking lot outside Schell’s clinic was deserted.

  “Stop here.” Digby pointed at a chiropractor’s office next door. “There’s a camera behind that glass door. When it sweeps around, it captures everything from the parking spot next to us all the way to the entrance of Schell’s office.”

  “So what are we supposed to do now?” Henry said.

  “Princeton’s gonna spray the chiropractor’s camera.” Digby held up a can of snow spray, the aerosol kind you use to decorate windows for Christmas. “It’ll block out the camera’s view.”

  “What? Me? Why me?” I said.

  “You’re the only one dressed for it.” Digby flicked my top’s hood.

  “Uh . . . I’m not doing it. Let’s go to Plan B,” I said.

  “There’s no Plan B,” Digby said.