“I never wear that thing,” I said.
“You gotta keep that up or your teeth will move back,” Digby said.
“Now you sound like my great-aunt Ruth,” I said.
Digby opened the packages and dumped the peas, biscuits, and candied ginger on my duvet. I instantly felt crumbs stabbing my legs.
“Do you mind?” I said.
Digby sipped the soda water. “Tastes like sweaty bubbles.”
The two of them ate off my duvet, trying different combinations. Peas and cookie, cookie dipped in soda water, peas in the water, peas with cookies while gargling soda water, and finally, the winner: a mouthful of peas chewed with candied ginger, washed down with soda water. Watching them picnicking on my bed reminded me of a Discovery Channel show where chimpanzees broke into the cameraman’s supplies and ate his lunch.
“You guys going to the winter dance?” I said.
“Dances? We don’t need no stinking dances,” Digby said. “Besides, what’s a big-city gal like yourself going to a small-town shindig for?”
“You’re not going?” Henry said.
“Not unless I’m guaranteed an actual pig-blood prom queen sideshow,” Digby said. “Are you going? What am I talking about? Of course you are. No way Sloane’s passing up the chance to sashay . . . especially when her parents are paying for the party.”
“They are?” I said.
“After the homecoming dance got canceled, the Blooms volunteered to arrange a winter formal for the juniors and seniors of the two schools in its place,” Henry said.
“Who’re you going with, Princeton?” Digby said.
“I thought I’d just go and see what’s up,” I said.
“What, alone?” Henry said.
“That’s a bold statement. Sure you want to make it?” Digby said.
“The poster said it was a chance to meet people from Chester, so I thought maybe I’d meet people there,” I said.
Chester B. Arthur was the school on the other side of River Heights. Our schools held joint dances from time to time, supposedly to help us to socialize, but from what I could tell, what the dances really did was make rivalries personal.
“You believe everything you read on posters, Princeton?” Digby said.
“Seriously, Zoe, River Heights is like Noah’s Ark. People come in pairs,” Henry said.
“Or what?” I said.
“Dunno . . . spend the dance alone?” Henry said.
“What’s the difference between being alone at home and being alone at the dance?” Of course there was a huge difference. I just didn’t want to admit it to these guys. “Anyway, it’s, like, two months from now, so who knows.”
“It’s six weeks from now and Sloane has her dress already. Girls, am I right? Whatcha gonna do?” Henry said, looking straight at me, like we played on the same team.
“Nothing. I don’t have to do anything. Because I am a girl.” It felt dumb saying it, but seriously, it didn’t look like that fact registered with either Digby or Henry even when I did say it. To make sure, I added, “Who likes boys.”
An awkward second passed, then Digby pulled something out of his pocket.
“Look at this for me, guys,” Digby said.
“Guess we’re done talking about the dance,” I said.
He passed us a picture of a blond girl whose face looked like it was carved from wax. The bottom caption explained: “This photo was produced by Computer Age Progression by the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.”
“I think this girl”—Digby handed me a printout of the photo he took of the girl in the mansion’s window—“is Holly Marie Taylor. Went missing four years ago in Ithaca.”
“How can you tell? This window shot’s basically just blond hair,” I said.
“Her bone structure’s right,” Digby said.
“Bone structure? This could be a fuzzy Sasquatch photo, bro,” Henry said.
“Can I see those selfies you take, Princeton?” Digby asked.
I found them on my computer. Digby zoomed in on the girls cleaning outside the mansion in the background.
“I smell their chemicals all the time, but when they’re out there cleaning, my eyes actually burn,” I said.
“No one complains?” Digby said.
“Mom tried, but Zillah gave her a ‘next to godliness’ lecture.”
“That woman’s name is Zillah?” Digby said.
“You didn’t ask me to come here just to show me this, did you?” Henry said.
“No, we’re here to watch the Dumpsters burn,” Digby said. “The show’s starting in a few minutes.”
“How do you know that?” I said. “Please don’t tell me you’re lighting the fire yourself.”
“Mrs. Preston was watching Magnum P.I. at the time,” Digby said. “No way she pays ten extra bucks for a rerun channel, and Magnum P.I. only reruns once a week on basic. On Thursdays. Now-ish. So, if I’m right about Mrs. Preston’s cheapness, and the fact that these fires aren’t random, we should be getting something in . . .”
A bicycle creaked down the street and turned into the alley below my window.
“D’you hear that?” Digby said.
“That bike?” Henry said.
“No, from the other side,” Digby said.
Windows wrap around my room, so I could see both the alley behind my house and part of the mansion’s front, but the sound Digby heard came from the part you couldn’t see. Before I could stop him, he’d opened the door and run to the window on the landing. Henry and I followed.
“Get back in my room, Digby.” Funny how panic-whispering is actually louder than just normal low-talking.
“Look,” Digby said.
“I don’t see anything,” Henry said.
“Above those bushes.”
It was Ezekiel hanging from an upstairs window. He dropped onto the lawn and jogged toward the back of my house. We ran back into my bedroom.
Digby lowered the blinds and turned off my bedside lamp. We peeped through the slats at the alley.
Here’s what we saw. Bicycle Guy was nervous, smoking and jigging in place. He flicked open his Zippo, struck it, and shut it over and over.
Ezekiel pounded out a greeting with Bicycle Guy and took a brick-sized package from under his shirt. They got to work. It looked like they were opening paper packets and collecting whatever was in them into a Tupperware. When Bicycle Guy stooped, the butt of a gun flashed from his pants’ waistband.
“Gun!” I said.
“Let’s get a closer look,” Digby said.
Henry grabbed Digby’s arm. “They aren’t messing around, dude. They will shoot us.”
“They won’t see us . . . c’mon, Princeton. You don’t wanna see what these people are doing in your neighborhood?”
“Wow, easy question—no. Not even a little,” I said.
“We’ll go to your back fence and listen. They won’t even know we’re there,” Digby said.
Digby left. We had no choice but to follow.
The backyard was freezing and I shivered in my pajamas. I didn’t realize I was being loud until Digby jammed a finger between my chattering teeth and shushed me. He removed his jacket and slipped it around my shoulders. The pockets were packed with stuff. I flapped the jacket, feeling its weight.
“It’s full of junk.”
“Batman has a utility belt . . .”
We snuck behind Mom’s car and looked out the fence into the alleyway. Bicycle Guy tucked the Tupperware into his backpack and handed Ezekiel a big roll of bills. They were talking, but all I heard were them repeating the words used whore. Gross. Bicycle Guy picked up the empty paper packets, sprayed them with lighter fluid, and lit them with his lighter. He tossed the flaming bouquet into the Dumpster. As had probably happened before, the garbage in th
e Dumpster caught fire too. Bicycle Guy whooped and gave the trash a squirt of fuel that made the flames dance higher. They shared a dudely hug/back-pat combo and split up.
They were barely out of the alley when Digby threw the gate open. “I need to get into that Dumpster.”
I think we actually did have the whole “It’s on fire, are you crazy?/I need to see what they set on fire” argument telepathically. I lost.
“Wait!” I ran into our shed to retrieve the mini fire extinguisher Mom was planning to install in the kitchen.
Digby was already running down the alley when I got back. Henry grabbed the fire extinguisher and sprinted after him. Digby leaped from a trash can straight into the burning Dumpster. Henry followed, spraying the extinguisher from the moment he got air. When they finally climbed out, they were covered in white extinguisher dust. The Dumpster was fizzling.
“Dude, I hope that was worth it. My new jeans are wrecked,” Henry said.
“Check it out.” Digby showed us a shred of brown paper with a sticker of a skateboarding banana with an Afro wearing sparkly gloves and an eye patch. “Does this look familiar?”
We stared at the sticker in the half darkness.
“Let’s go inside . . . I’m freezing.” I led them back through the house.
Digby somehow managed to snag the fruit basket on his way up and was eating the plums Mom was saving for her lunch. Henry noticed me noticing and patted my back.
“Dude, get used to it. Just so you know, putting ‘do not eat’ notes on your food won’t help,” Henry said.
So annoying that he called me dude.
“It looks familiar. Like a tattoo or a T-shirt I’ve seen . . .” Digby said.
“Zoe?” Mom was groggily calling to me from bed.
“Party’s over,” Digby said.
Henry climbed out the window. I gave Digby his jacket and he handed me the basket and last half-eaten plum.
“By the way, Princeton, I’d describe you as a classic wide-eyed American girl next door with a nice-to-meet-you vibe who’s hiding behind a disappointed divorce-kid downer persona,” Digby said.
“Zo? Are you watching TV?” I heard Mom getting out of bed.
“Go,” I said.
“And looks-wise, I’d say a young Anne Hathaway.” Digby stepped out onto the tree. But, just in case that left me feeling too good about myself, he ducked back in for an encore. “Except horsier. Seriously, Princeton, wear your retainer.”
He disappeared just as Mom came in and flicked on the light. She saw me holding the half-eaten plum.
“You ate all my plums?” she said. “And what’s that smell? Barbecue?”
FOURTEEN
Even though it was my twentieth-something day in River Heights High and I was getting used to eating solo (heck, doing everything solo), I was glad when Digby came over with his tray the next day.
“That skateboarding banana haunted my dreams last night,” Digby said.
“At least you could dream. I was wide awake after you guys left,” I said. “I was so stressed about getting the fire extinguisher back in the shed before Mom noticed.”
“You put the fire extinguisher back into the shed?” Digby said.
“Yeah.”
“Um . . . so when there’s a real fire and your mom goes for the extinguisher, it’s actually totally empty . . . ?”
“Oh, God . . .”
“Yup.”
“So, I gotta sneak it back out . . .”
“Yup.”
“Buy a new one just like it . . .”
“Yup.”
“And then sneak that one back in . . .”
“Yup.”
“Being friends with you’s more stressful and expensive than getting mugged,” I said. “Which happened to me for real, by the way, so I know what I’m talking about.”
“Gun? Knife?”
“Screwdriver. Hey, you know what’s funny? I’m getting more screwed hanging out with you than when I was getting mugged by a guy who had an actual screwdriver.”
“Um-hm, um-hm . . . I get it. Wordplay.”
Henry came and sat down with a tired sigh. “So, this morning, Mom found my jeans . . . you know, with the ashes and food scraps and fire extinguisher crap all over them. She assumed it was from a kitchen fire at the diner. She called Jorge and, of course, he denied it like I denied it and so she thinks we’re all hiding some fire from her,” he said. “Now Jorge’s in trouble. Jorge doesn’t need the aggravation. So, how do I tell her that I was in a totally different fire somewhere totally else without getting in more trouble?”
“Henry, man, there’s something about your problems . . .” Digby said. “Maybe it’s this weird thing you have with Hestia or maybe it’s the way you talk about them . . . you always sound like a middle-aged accountant.”
“Whatever. Digby, you owe me an explanation for a pair of slightly burned pants covered in food and fire extinguisher powder,” Henry said.
“Oh, it’s harder than that. You need an explanation that at the same time completely excuses you for lying to her this morning,” Digby said. “You need the lie to work retroactively too. Challenge accepted.”
“Wow,” I said.
“And I need it before my shift today,” Henry said.
“Don’t sweat it. I do my best work after lunch,” Digby said.
“Hit me with a text,” Henry said.
“‘Hit you’? Seriously? You know, it’s that other crowd you’re running around with. Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” Digby said.
“Not everyone can do the lone wolf thing like you and Zoe. I’m a team player,” Henry said.
Great. Now I was officially a lone wolf too?
“Speaking of teams. The lawyer that Coach hooked me up with wants to talk to your lawyers before our desk appearance for the vandalism.” Henry held out two copies of his lawyer’s business card.
I was relieved that Digby’s face looked blank too.
“I have to ask my dad for a lawyer . . . I’ll do it soon.” I took the business card. It was on thick ivory paper embossed with DEIRDRE KLEIN-ESSINK, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.
“You haven’t told him yet?” Digby said.
“Have you told your dad?” I said.
“Nah . . . it’ll probably be legal aid for me,” Digby said. “It’s not even a misdemeanor. I’ll save the legal dream teams for my future felonies.”
“Ugh . . . did you say ‘felony’?” It was Sloane, wearing her dance leotard and tights under denim short shorts. She was so pretty, it was ridiculous.
“‘EES.’ I said ‘felon-ees.’ Plural,” Digby said.
“Whatever. Just better not drag Henry into it,” Sloane said.
“Worried about your plan to become prom king and queen?” Digby said. “But, Sloane, when you rule the school, isn’t every day prom?”
“I quote myself: ‘Whatever,’” Sloane said. “Henry, let’s go.”
Henry pushed spaghetti down his throat really fast.
“Ew. Stop eating that crap.” Sloane took the fork from Henry and smacked away his hand when he tried to reach back for it. She returned to her table and immediately started bossing around the girls sitting there.
“Aw, hell, no. If someone took the food out of my mouth like that . . .” Digby said.
“Yeah, we all know how excited you get about your food, but I gotta go. Seriously, she hates your guts,” Henry said. “She doesn’t want me being friends with you anymore.”
“Speaking of . . . did I miss something?” I said. “You two don’t talk for years, then suddenly you’re breaking into places together, you’re sleeping at his house . . . what’s up?”
“Do you mean did we kiss? And make up?” Digby said.
Henry and Digby hugged and made moany and kissy noises to each other to mock me.
<
br /> “Oh, Henry, it’s not wrong to feel.”
“Aw, Digby, my pal, how I’ve missed you.”
“Guys are weird,” I said.
“Girls are weird. Not everything’s gotta be a big drama, you know,” Digby said.
“Yo. Big drama looking this way right now.” Henry pointed with his chin.
Musgrave was in line with a salad and a bottle of water, glaring at us.
“Check it out. He’s amping himself up,” Digby said.
From across the cafeteria, I could see Musgrave’s face getting redder and puffier as he stared at us.
“He’s dying to come over here.” Digby waved at Musgrave. “Look at him fighting it. He’s so crabby. I bet it’s the diet. Just have a hot dog and chill, Musgrave.”
“Cool it, dude. He’s one of my assistant coaches,” Henry said.
“Think he’ll give me a break, then?” Digby said.
“Doubt it. He and Coach gave me the whole ‘bad influence’ talk the other day and I couldn’t really defend you, seeing as how I’d just asked for the name of a good criminal defense lawyer,” Henry said.
Musgrave paid and approached our table, clearly about to start another cafeteria fight with us.
“Here we go,” Digby said.
“Mr. Petropoulos, I see you didn’t understand the thrust of our last conversation,” Musgrave said.
“Uh . . . no, sir, I got it,” Henry said.
“Henry!” Sloane, back at her table, was tapping her foot, waiting for Henry to heel.
“May I be excused?” Henry said.
“I think you’d better go,” Musgrave said.
“Hey, good thinking with the fire extinguisher.” Henry thumped me on the back so hard, I burped. Having established me firmly in bro territory, Henry jogged off to Sloane.
“Something about you ain’t right,” Musgrave said to Digby. “I can spot a criminal in the making a mile away. I see you, kid. I see you. And you . . .” He turned to me. “How’s that independent study coming?”
Trouble is a Friend of Mine Page 9