Trouble is a Friend of Mine

by Stephanie Tromly

  Whatever. He looked like he had something to hide.

  I felt like someone was hiding behind every bush on the way home, waiting to jump me. I was never this scared in the city.

  I got home and collapsed into bed. At eleven-something that night, my phone woke me up.

  “Hey, where’d you go?” Digby said.

  “You ass. What if they saw me? Unlike you, my face wasn’t hidden,” I said. “I went out the back.”

  “You’re the one who set off the alarm?” Digby laughed. “Then stay away from the tea place for a while. They got fined a thousand bucks for that false alarm.”

  “It’s not funny. Did you know that psycho living across the street knew Schell?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Don’t you think you should’ve told me that before you made me piss them both off? And I’ll kill you if you tell me that you just did tell me. You drag me around town getting me in trouble . . . Why do you call me to go on these things? Why do I take these calls? I’m done. I don’t care if I have no friends. This isn’t worth it.”

  I hung up on him. I wondered if we were really done as friends. I sat in the dark, trying to decide if I was glad or if I regretted saying it.

  Then, just when I got the sinking feeling that maybe I did regret it, Digby slid open my window. He sat on the windowsill, holding takeout Chinese food.

  “I’m sick of following you around, not knowing what’s going on,” I said.

  “I’ve watched Schell and Ezekiel have dinner at the mall every Friday night since September. Usually they just talk, but today Schell gave Ezekiel some keys. I don’t tell you things because you freak out. I keep calling you, Princeton, because you’re good to have around during an emergency. Plus . . . you’re cool.” He mumbled the last bit. He held out the Chinese food to me. “The ladies running Wok Palace had extra when they closed. Kung Pao shrimp.”

  It was pathetic how good it felt to hear him call me cool. I took the food.

  “From now on, you tell me what’s going on. Deal?”

  “Deal. So tomorrow, eleven o’clock at the Big Field? It’s Saturday practice and Henry’s QBing.”

  “Okay.” It sounded kinda nice. I could bring some smoothies . . .

  “Great. And since we’re doing the whole full disclosure thing . . . we’re also gonna score from the dealer who hangs around during practice, so maybe bring a twenty.”

  “There’s a dealer who hangs around practice?”

  “Yeah, you know . . . lots of people, but not too many people . . .”

  “I’m not asking about her marketing strategy, I’m more curious how the police don’t know.”

  “Oh, they know . . . but they leave dealers like her alone. This one mostly just sells pot . . . ’shrooms . . . hash . . . hippie stuff,” he said. “River Heights, Princeton. This is the town that drugs built. During Prohibition, Canadian rum-runner trucks pit-stopped here and the cops used to help change out flats. River Heights has a hierarchy, and pot dealers don’t rate.”

  “Okay . . . that’s fascinating civic history and all, but you can’t snow me. I’m not buying drugs with you.”

  “Just relax . . . it’s not like we’re gonna do the drugs we buy. We’ll flush them right after we ask a few questions.”

  “Can’t we just ask questions without giving my twenty bucks for drugs we don’t want?”

  “Drug dealers don’t chat, and I don’t think they’d be excited about talking to some looky-loos.”

  “Oh, so to be safe, we’ll pretend to buy a bunch of drugs? Because that’s the safe thing to do?”

  “No, no . . . we’re actually gonna buy the drugs. We’re pretending we’re going to use them. Come on, Princeton, don’t get it twisted.”

  SIXTEEN

  Mom got in really late that night and was still in bed when I left the next morning. She barely reacted when I told her I was borrowing her aviators. Part of me wanted to wear something cool like a short skirt/long jacket/ankle boots outfit, but I considered myself warned by Digby, so I wore jeans and motorcycle boots in case I had to run across mud or climb over barbed wire. I also threw water and PowerBars in my backpack. Preparing to survive a typical day of being Digby’s friend wasn’t that different from preparing to survive the apocalypse.

  The Big Field was the midpoint between River Heights High and Chester B. Arthur High. It had a full-sized track, and both schools played their football, soccer, and baseball games there. It was the town’s ground zero of teen heart-throbbing.

  That day, our football team, the Buccaneers, was sharing the field with the Chester cheerleading squad. Neither team could keep their minds on their own tasks. The football players watched the cheerleaders in between plays and the cheerleaders lingered over water breaks, showing off for the footballers.

  One cheerleader who was clearly the queen bee of that school pranced in front of her phalanx of pom-pommed Spartans. She did a coy cheerleader point at Henry and yelled into her mini-megaphone, “Hey, number thirteen, why doncha come over here and sack me?”

  Okay, so, I’ve only seen random bits and pieces of football games on TV (plus Varsity Blues twice), but even I knew what she said didn’t make sense. Her cheerleaders laughed and clapped supportively anyway.

  Some of Sloane’s blond posse was sitting near us. One girl said, “Oh, he dead,” and started texting furiously when Henry jogged over to the Chester cheerleaders.

  Digby arrived and climbed the bleachers toward me. “See Sloane’s spies watching Henry for her? They follow him around town to make sure he isn’t hooking up with other girls.”

  “Why doesn’t she just come and see for herself?” I said.

  “Sloane would never do anything that desperate.”

  “Right, because this is not at all desperate.”

  “You know, if you keep questioning the rules of their games, these girls aren’t ever gonna invite you to play with them.”

  “I’ll try to get over my disappointment,” I said. “These girls are out of control.”

  “You think the girls in private school are gonna be any different?”

  “Stop trying to make me feel bad about Prentiss. I might not even be able to go now anyway, thanks to you.”

  “You know, Princeton, one day, you’ll figure out that where you go to school doesn’t determine what you actually learn.”

  “No offense . . . I think you’re, like, life smart and everything, but I don’t think I should be taking academic advice from you,” I said. “Being that you’re generally not pro-school.”

  “I’m a straight-A student,” Digby said.

  “How? You never go.”

  “Look. A miserable senior year to maybe get into Princeton? It’s not a fair trade. Your father’s only asking you to make that trade because he was miserable when he was your age. He thinks misery’s normal.”

  “Well, it paid off, because he went to Princeton and now he’s a success machine,” I said. “‘Success machine’ . . . his words, not mine.”

  “You can become the kind of person who says stuff like ‘success machine’ if that’s really your life goal,” he said. “Even if you start in regular old public school. There’s more than one way to make that duck quack.”

  “Please-Call-Me-Steve better update his résumé, because you’d make an outstanding guidance counselor,” I said.

  “Me, a guidance counselor? Yuck . . . No. Can’t stand kids. Why d’you think I skip school so much?”

  “Uh, yeah . . . sarcasm.”

  Henry ran up the bleachers to us.

  “You two are, like, two overheard anti-social comments away from having all ten warning signs for school violence.” Henry pointed at my all-black clothes and Digby’s usual black suit. “You’re supposed to wear school colors. It’s kind of tradition.”

  Oh, yeah. Everyone else was weari
ng purple and gold. “I don’t get it. It’s just practice.”

  “We are true to our school in this town,” Henry said. “So why are you here? You like sports now?”

  “We’re gonna score some stuff,” Digby said.

  Near the boys’ locker rooms, a steady stream of smoke escaped from a small window in the equipment shed.

  “Dude. Be careful. Someone got stabbed in there this summer,” Henry said.

  “Yeah, I heard. Could get hectic. That’s why you’re coming with us,” Digby said.

  “What difference can I make?” Henry said.

  “Two people are whatever, but three’s basically a gang. Plus . . . football.” Digby flexed his biceps.

  “Coach is on us about representing the school. We’re not even supposed to jaywalk in our uniforms. He’d cut me from the team if I got caught with drugs.”

  “Yeah . . . let’s clarify that.” I got nervous. “This isn’t like with the break-in, where we’re gonna accidentally on purpose get caught with heroin down my pants, is it? Because if it is, then I’m out.”

  “Nice, Petropolous. You see how negativity is contagious? No one’s getting caught. We’re getting rid of the drugs right away,” Digby said. “And, Henry, I watched the backup QB take a marker and write a giant L on his left hand and an R on his right hand to keep them straight. You’re not getting cut from the team any time soon. But if the uniform bothers you, take off your jersey and wear my jacket instead.”

  “Dude. I don’t think I could even get my arm in that,” Henry said.

  “Nah, you’ll fit.” Digby took off his jacket. “It’s like the traveling pants. It fits everyone with a pure heart. Isn’t that how it works, Princeton?”

  I rolled my eyes, but yeah, I’d read that book. No, the pants didn’t work that way. I mean, they fit Effie, and she was a brat.

  “You should’ve just worn your jersey inside out. You look ridiculous,” I said.

  He did. Even shirtless, he couldn’t button the jacket. The sleeves ended above his wrists and the jacket’s hem was above his shorts’ waistband.

  “I like it. I look like the Hulk,” Henry said.

  “You look like a stripper. Not the expensive kind, either.” I also thought, Who knew a sixteen-year-old boy who wasn’t a werewolf fighting sparkly vampires could have a six-pack of abs?

  “What would you know about strippers, Princeton?” Digby said.

  “Tell me you’re seeing this,” I said.

  “I like it. It’s seriously like the traveling pants,” Digby said.

  We got to the door of the equipment shed.

  “Okay, now what?” Henry said.

  “First, Princeton will give me twenty bucks.” I slapped a twenty into Digby’s hand even though I knew it was a Bad Idea. “Then we’ll go in and buy the stuff. While we’re there, I’ll just ask about the banana sticker.”

  “Just ask?” I said.

  “It’ll come up,” Digby said.

  “It’ll come up? How exactly?” I said.

  “I don’t know exactly. I’ll bring it up. Casually,” Digby said.

  “Casually bring it up? That’s the plan? That’s not a good plan. That’s not even really a plan,” I said. “That’s like a daydream of how you want this to go.”

  “She’s right. That’s not a good plan,” Henry said.

  “See, this is the problem with democracy. Everyone thinks they have a better way to do everything,” Digby said.

  “What if they think the police sent us?” I said.

  “We’ll tell them we aren’t with the cops. They know it’d be entrapment if we were and lied about it,” Digby said.

  “Even I know that’s a myth. It’s right up there with not getting pregnant if you do it standing up,” I said.

  “That’s a myth?!” Henry said.

  “Somebody needs to have The Talk with you. Like, immediately. Yeah, it’s a myth,” I said. “To clarify, she can get pregnant even if you’re standing up.”

  “On the bright side,” Digby said, “now you can take a load off.”

  “Not to change the subject or anything, but, Digby,” I said, “is this the first time you’ve done this?”

  “Listen to you. Don’t tell me you’ve scored drugs before,” Digby said.

  “Of course not, but we lived by the park and I’ve at least seen deals before. In person. Not just on TV,” I said. “From what I remember, there wasn’t much talking and, now I’m thinking about it, the whole thing was over fast. When exactly would you ask your questions?”

  Digby was stumped.

  We’d been standing by the door, arguing, this entire time. The door opened, sucking air into the shed in a whoosh. The outward gust of smoky air from inside that followed was a punch to the lungs. Only Henry was uncool enough to cough and fan his hand in front of his face. It’s the kind of gesture that’s only acceptable when you’re a handsome QB.

  “You kids in or out?” A super-tiny Asian woman was at the door. She was wearing a pink T-shirt with KITTEN written in glitter across the front. It was as likely to have come from the kids’ section as a stripper’s closet.

  Kitten pointed to a huge gorilla-looking guy with a tiny head and giant Hellboy arms except he had two, not just one, Hands of Doom. “You’re making Alistair nervous.”

  “You’re making me nervous,” Alistair said.

  “Well? In or out?” Kitten said.

  “Definitely in.” Digby stepped into the shed.

  We walked to the back while Alistair took up his post by the door.

  “So?” Kitten stared at us, smoking a joint.

  “So, uh, we’d like to buy some . . .” Digby said.

  “Some . . . ?” she said.

  “Uh . . . what would you recommend?” Digby said.

  Kitten blew out a stream of smoke in a laugh. “You’re either the saddest noobs I’ve ever seen or the River Heights Police Department’s sunk to an all-time low. This ain’t no Jump Street, is it?”

  “Jump Street? No,” Digby said.

  “Because if you were . . .” Kitten gestured at Alistair. “I don’t keep him around for his pretty face, you know.”

  “We’re not,” Digby said.

  Kitten looked at us hard and decided to take a chance. She offered us a bong.

  Now that we didn’t expect. We stood there like dummies.

  “Now?” Digby said.

  “After that Atlanta bar raid thing, my lawyer advised me to always use with new clients. Just to make sure,” Kitten said.

  A couple of uncomfortable moments went by. Kitten hardened with suspicion again. Finally, Digby took the bong. As I watched him about to take a hit, every crazy story I’d ever heard flashed through my head.

  What Andy Recton’s brother thought was BC bud was actually Mexican schwag laced with so much PCP, he scratched the skin off his neck because he hallucinated bedbugs running around underneath.

  Sharon Thomas ate magic mushrooms at a party she went to while visiting her cousin in college in Madison, and ground her teeth until three snapped and broke off.

  Nate Remedios smoked purple-y leaves from Thailand some girl gave his friend, and ended up in the hospital because his blood stopped absorbing oxygen.

  The moral of these stories was the same. Never do drugs if you don’t know exactly where they came from and if you don’t totally trust the person giving them to you. Point being, I didn’t know where this bong weed came from and I didn’t trust the lady giving it to us.

  Digby’s lips were already on the bong when I yelled, “Stop!”

  Everything froze. Alistair leaned forward. For a second, while suspicion built in his mind, he actually looked intelligent.

  “We have a desk appearance. In two weeks. My lawyer said there’d be a urine test,” I said.

  At the men
tion of “my lawyer,” Kitten relaxed. She had a lawyer, I had a lawyer: We were in the same club. Alistair backed down.

  “Desk appearance, huh? So what’re you doing here, then?” she said.

  I realized I hadn’t thought it through.

  “Party after,” Digby said. “To celebrate.”

  “You don’t mind if I . . .” Kitten made a pat-down motion. While she searched Henry, she said, “Okay, big boy . . . you call me in a few years.” She found a bottle of pills on Digby. “What are these?”

  “Adderall, Lexapro, Paxil, Effexor . . . there’s Valium in there somewhere too,” Digby said.

  “Look, I’ll sound like I’m full of crap considering I do what I do and we’re about to do what we’re about to do, but . . . be careful with this stuff. These are the real deal. Personally, I don’t sell this to kids, but you scamps always find a way,” she said. “Wait a minute . . . are you the kids they caught breaking into that pervert’s office?”

  “Uh . . . yeah,” Digby said.

  Kitten laughed and shook the pill bottle. “Is this from his stash?”

  “Um, no, I got those . . . somewhere else,” he said.

  Scary thing was, he probably got them from a pharmacy with legit prescriptions.

  “Hey, Alistair, these are the kids who got Schell busted. You should thank them for your new ride,” she said. “When you put Schell out of business, some of his customers decided to switch to all-natural. Alistair bought himself a new Vespa with his bonus.”

  Alistair’s high-pitched giggle ran up and down like a little girl’s. “It’s red.”

  I imagined he looked like a circus bear riding a unicycle.

  “Just curious . . . was this Schell’s?” Digby showed her the sticker of the banana on the skateboard he’d pasted to a page of his notebook.

  “Bananaman? No . . . Bananaman’s . . . bigger,” Kitten said.

  “Like how much bigger?” Digby said.

  “Schell was a pill mill. Fake scrips, selling samples. Bananaman’s higher up in the food chain. He’s a producer. Millions of bucks of synthetics made right here, in sunny River Heights,” she said.

  “Synthetics? Meth?” Digby said.