Trouble is a Friend of Mine

by Stephanie Tromly

  So, I was actually glad when I got Digby’s message summoning me as I was packing up after school.

  “G4 1550 Bring food.”

  I checked my handbook. Computer lab across the quad from the storage room. I thought about refusing, but what was the point? I hit the vending machine and headed to the lab. Digby and Henry were already there.

  “Oh, man, you’re saving my life right now.” Digby grabbed the food. I was barely able to snatch back some chips for myself.

  “You know, it only takes, like, an extra second to type ‘hi’ when you send a message. I mean, ‘G4 1550 Bring food’? That’s rude. You can’t just order me around.”

  “Probably doesn’t help that you keep showing up anyway,” Henry said.

  “She knows she’d miss out if she didn’t. C’mon, this is fun, right, Princeton?” Digby said.

  “Big fun,” I said.

  “She loves it,” Digby said. “She writes all about it in her diary.”

  “You let him read your diary?” Henry said.

  “No, I didn’t. He helped himself.”

  “Oh, no, dude. I did that to my sister once. Not good. She beat the tar out of me,” Henry said.

  “His sister Athena . . .” Digby did a closed-fisted double biceps downward flex and grunted.

  “A big girl,” Henry said.

  “A truck,” Digby said.

  “She plays lacrosse,” Henry said.

  “She’s big, but she’s fast,” Digby said. “And silent.”

  “For a truck,” Henry said.

  “Don’t be such pigs. And you.” I pointed at Henry. “She’s your sister.”

  “Nah, she’ll do well. Greek guys love big women. My grandfather told me I should marry a big woman so she can keep me warm in the winter and give me shade in the summer,” Henry said.

  “It’s so inspiring to hear what really goes on in the mind of the average teenage boy,” I said. “Anyway, what are we doing here? Are we waiting to see who the dealer is?”

  “No, he turned up a while ago.” Digby produced a Lenny the Binoculars from Toy Story.

  “Interesting spy equipment,” I said.

  “It works. Look,” Digby said.

  We crossed the lab, ducked below the windowsill, and looked out across the courtyard at the windowless gray storage trailer. A uniformed janitor stood in the doorway.

  “Our janitor’s dealing?” I said.

  “Look. In his hand,” Digby said.

  He was flicking his Zippo lighter, lighting and slapping it shut over and over.

  “Bicycle Guy from the Dumpster fire’s our janitor?” I said.

  “That’s Floyd. He’s also my team’s equipment manager. He drives the bus for away games,” Henry said.

  “You didn’t recognize him before?” I said.

  “From the back, in the dark? He was just another skinny dude wearing a hoodie,” Henry said. “He’s dealing?”

  “We’re about to find out.” Digby’s phone rang and he turned on the speaker. “We have audio. Here’s our inside man now.”

  Through the binoculars, I watched Felix Fong walking toward Floyd. He looked so small but super-determined. His hands were balled into fists and his knees were stiff and hardly bent as he walked. He was wearing a ridiculous shirt that said:

  “‘Your girlfriend’s in good hands’?” I read. “It’s surprising a shirt that offensive comes in a size that small.”

  We heard Felix’s thin voice say to Floyd, “Hey, um . . . you holding?”

  “You sent him?” I said. “That guy had a gun, if you remember, and that kid’s completely clueless.”

  “Don’t worry. We did research. He knows what to say,” Digby said.

  “Whatcha want, kid?” Floyd didn’t sound like he believed Felix was actually there to buy.

  “Oh, you know . . . Adderall, Dexies, Bennies, uppers, speed, wake-ups . . .” Poor Felix was so nervous, he was uncontrollably reeling off every nickname he’d learned.

  “Yup . . . and he’s puking out research all over Floyd, dude,” Henry said.

  “He’s gonna die and it’ll be your fault,” I said. “And mine too, because I’m right here . . . letting it happen.”

  “Okay, cool it, Felix,” Digby muttered.

  “You know what you’re asking for?” Floyd said.

  “Um . . . yeah,” Felix said.

  “What? You gonna party?” Floyd openly laughed at Felix.

  “Um . . . sort of. I’m building a simulation? About black holes and entropy? I need to do two weeks’ work in one?” Felix said.

  “Good job, Felix,” Digby said.

  “Buy some Red Bull, kid. Get lost,” Floyd said.

  From Felix’s body language, it was clear he was about to give up. He turned in our direction. For a second, I thought he’d wave at us to come rescue him.

  “He’s losing it. He’s losing it.” Digby took out a small mirror and caught the sun with it. The bright flash that momentarily shone across Felix’s face was the reassurance he needed.

  “I have thirty dollars and you’re selling me something to help me concentrate,” Felix said.

  “Or what, kid?” Floyd said.

  “Yeah . . . or what, Felix?” Digby said.

  “Or . . . or . . . I have lots of friends who have lots of science projects,” Felix said. “Maybe we’ll find someone else.”

  “Nice,” Digby said.

  “You’ve turned the school genius into a narc. I hope you’re proud of yourself,” I said.

  “All right. But don’t do something crazy like OD or have a heart attack and die and get me busted, okay?” Floyd said.

  “Okay,” Felix said.

  “I’m giving you one—just one—you take it, show me you don’t lose your mind, and maybe I’ll sell you more,” Floyd said.

  Three boys in football team jackets walked across the quad toward Floyd. One of them was Dominic Tucker, the boy who’d been tormenting Felix in the cafeteria.

  “Oh, man, no.” Henry turned around and closed his eyes.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I said.

  “The team honor code,” Henry said.

  “He’s gotta turn them in if he sees them doing substances . . . so he doesn’t wanna see them.” When I still didn’t understand, Digby said, “If he doesn’t physically see them, he doesn’t have to report them.”

  “What? That’s insane. Here they are buying drugs. You know they’re doing it,” I said.

  “All I saw was a couple of guys walking,” Henry said.

  “I’m looking at them and I’m telling you, they’re buying drugs,” I said.

  “Didn’t see it for myself. Doesn’t count,” Henry said.

  “That’s not much of an honor code,” I said.

  “Welcome to team sports,” Digby said.

  “Hey, Floyd, you got some?” we heard Henry’s teammate say through Digby’s phone.

  “Just finishing up. Be with you in a few,” Floyd said.

  Henry plugged his ears and walked away singing “Rubber Duckie.”

  “That’s it? This little blue pill’s five dollars?” Felix said.

  “That’s off-season pricing. It’s eight bucks come finals,” Floyd said.

  Felix froze, the pill in his open palm.

  “Um . . .” Felix said.

  “What, kid?” Floyd said.

  “Um . . . so if I need more, you can get it?” Felix said.

  “I just said I could,” Floyd said.

  “Because, um . . . my friend . . . she told me you could get more . . . my friend Marina? You know, Marina Miller?” Felix said.

  “You know Marina?” Floyd sounded more interested.

  Felix looked our way again. Digby and I actually ducked.

  “S
he’s, um . . . she’s a friend of a friend,” Felix said.

  “Get outta here, kid. I got business,” Floyd said.

  “Okay, Felix, it’s obvious he knew her . . . that’s all I needed. Now get out,” Digby muttered.

  The football players started pushing Felix, bouncing him around like a pinball.

  “Hey, squirt, where’s my paper at?” Dominic said.

  “Uh, yeah . . . it’s coming,” Felix said.

  “Better make it good, squirt. I need a C to pass,” Dominic said.

  Felix finally got away and jogged out of the quad. He couldn’t resist flashing a thumbs-up in our direction on his way out.

  Digby hung up his phone and threw a Dorito at the back of Henry’s head. “Hey! You can stop singing now.

  “So Ezekiel is getting drugs from Bananaman, Floyd is dealing them for Ezekiel, and he definitely knows Marina Miller,” Digby said.

  “Think she was a customer?” I said.

  “Did she ever take anything in front of you, Henry? Act like she was on stuff?” Digby said.

  “No, but she kinda kept a lot of secrets,” Henry said.

  “Did she keep a diary or . . .” Digby said. “You know what we should do?”

  “I see where this is going. Pass. I’m out,” I said.

  “What?” Henry said.

  “Come on, this again?” Digby said. “Is this our dance now?”

  “What dance?” Henry said.

  “She says no, I ask and ask her, and then she agrees like she was always going to in the first place,” Digby said.

  “No. I’m done breaking into places,” I said.

  “Where are we breaking into?” Henry said.

  “Marina’s house,” I said.

  “Look at you, Juvie,” Digby said. “We don’t have to break in. We’re going in with the permission of Marina’s mom. Legal and legit. All we have to do is pretend we’re her classmates.”

  “Is it just me or are we in some weird place where lying to get into someone’s house seems kinda all right? I mean, I actually feel relieved,” I said. “It’s just lying.”

  “Wanna go tonight?” Digby said.

  “Can’t. Working,” Henry said.

  “I’m hitting the mall with Mom to check out dresses for the dance,” I said.

  “Um . . . yeah, the dance. You got a date yet?” Digby said.

  “No . . .” I said.

  “You want one?” Digby said.

  “Dude. Wow. Are you asking her to the dance?” Henry said.

  My stomach did a weird up-down thing at the thought of going to the dance with Digby. I couldn’t tell if that meant I wanted to or if I really, really didn’t.

  “No. Better than that. I suck at dancing.” Digby tried a little too hard to look nonchalant. “Why don’t you go with Felix?”

  “Um, because he’s ten and he comes up to my armpits,” I said.

  “Actually, he’ll be thirteen soon, and if you shave your armpits, then it won’t be an issue,” Digby said.

  “I’m not asking Felix to the dance. That would be even worse than going alone,” I said.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t have to ask him. He’d ask you,” Digby said.

  “It’s not who does the asking that’s the problem. It’s the whole turning up together at the dance that’s the issue,” I said.

  “So you’d say no if he asked you?” Digby said.

  “Yeah. I’d have to say no,” I said.

  “You can look in that sweet little kid’s face and crush him if he asked you to the dance?” Digby said.

  “That’s cold,” Henry said.

  “I’d do it nicely, but yeah, I can look him in the face and tell him nicely that no, I can’t go to the dance with someone who still can’t get on the good rides in Six Flags,” I said.

  “Okay, you can’t do that,” Digby said.

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “You kinda should say yes,” Digby said.

  “What? Why do I have to say yes?” I said. “Oh, God, he’s not dying of cancer or something, is he?”

  “Cancer . . . I should’ve said he had cancer. But no, he doesn’t have cancer,” Digby said. “You have to say yes because I sorta said you would so he’d agree to do this.”

  “You what?” I said.

  “I offered all kinds of other stuff, but the heart wants what the heart wants,” Digby said.

  “But I’m not yours to give away,” I said.

  “Oh, hey . . . it’s not like that. I didn’t promise you’d go with him. I said you probably would and that I’d put in a good word,” Digby said.

  “I don’t understand why you didn’t just offer to get the bullies off his back, for example,” I said.

  “Yeah, I’m already working on that. He’s doing something else for me for that,” Digby said. “Anyway. I guess you don’t have to say yes. He’s gonna ask you and of course you could say no. And if you said no, you’d go alone, Felix would stay home, and it’d pretty much be a lose-lose, but hey, you can totally say no.”

  “What if someone else asks me?” I said.

  “If it ain’t happened yet . . .” Digby said.

  “Dude, that’s cold,” Henry said.

  “Fine. I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “That’s all Felix and I are asking,” Digby said.

  “So when do you want to go to Marina’s house?” Henry said. “I’m working after school all week.”

  “Saturday?” Digby said. “And, Princeton, wear something prissy.”

  “Prissy?”

  “Yeah . . . you know, uptight.”

  “Uptight?”

  “Like the sweater thing you wore on Tuesday,” Digby said.

  That outfit took me an hour to put together. And, no, uptight was not the look I was going for.

  NINETEEN

  So, when you’re a minor and you get busted, the cops send notifications to both your parents, not just the one with custody. I was not aware of that.

  I found this out from the all-caps hate-mail I got from Dad calling Mom a “LOUSY MOTHER INCAPABLE OF SETTING RULES.” He signed off with “DON’T BE ONE OF THE PATHETIC SHEEPLE,” and then, inexplicably, “MOO.”

  I’d gotten the e-mail on the way home and when I walked in the house, I heard Mom in the backyard, yelling into her phone. In many ways, it was like old times, with Mom sputtering and struggling to finish her sentences.

  “Of course I’ve met—” she said. Pause. “You can’t ground a six—” And then, “I know you would, but she’s practically—”

  He thought I should be grounded? It didn’t bode well for our living arrangements if I were to get into Prentiss.

  “Mom. Give it to me!” I didn’t mean to yell, but I was feeling mean and I didn’t want to lose any of the energy I’d built up by taking the time out to be polite to her. I took her phone. “Dad.” I hated the quaver in my voice. I mashed the phone tighter against my ear and soldiered on. “It’s me. Zoe.”

  “Zoe?” My father’s enraged voice made my ear ring. “Is this true about you vandalizing a—”

  “Dad.”

  “—an anti-social bottom feeder’s crime—”

  “Dad. Stop.”

  “Don’t you interrupt me—”

  “You asked me a question. Do you want me to answer it or not?”

  What I then found out over the next five seconds was that Dad’s silence was just as scary as his shouting.

  “Well?” he said.

  “It’s true. I did it. Now I need a lawyer.”

  The ranting response that followed was ugly. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want him to know that I’d started to cry sometime after he’d called me a “rude, spoiled little pig” and accused me of humiliating him. When he ended his sermon by scr
eaming that he’d be coming down the following week to “straighten out the mess I’d made with my life,” I didn’t have the strength to say anything more than “Fine.”

  Mom and I just stood there, staring at each other in shock after I hung up. Then, finally, she climbed atop the back patio bench, reached around the top of the trellis, and retrieved a pack of cigarettes in a Ziploc bag from amongst the trumpet vines.

  “I thought you quit those,” I said.

  “For emergency only. That was an emergency,” Mom said. “In fact, you want one? Just kidding. But really, that looked bad. Are you okay?”

  “He’s coming up next week . . . over Thanksgiving.”

  “Should I make a turkey?”

  “Well, that’d show him. But if you really wanna punish him, make your hummus.”

  “This also came in the mail from him today.” Mom took an envelope out of her sweater pocket. Inside was a stack of mall chain-store gift cards. They were worth hundreds and hundreds of dollars. “We should return them . . . it’s probably not appropriate . . .”

  “Or . . . we could spend them,” I said. “Before he figures out how to cancel them.”

  “Revenge shopping? I know that game.” Mom lit a cigarette. “I used to be an All-Star.”

  “I can’t.” We were at the mall. I’d given up on finding a dress for the dance, and Mom was turning down a bite of my chili fries. “I watched this documentary about slaughterhouses and . . . I can’t.”

  “Why would you watch a documentary about slaughterhouses?”

  “For a date. Not that he made me or anything. It was showing and he wanted to see it, so I went with him. I’d feel like a hypocrite eating that.”

  “Well, he’s not here right now.” Then I realized I had no idea if that was true since I didn’t know who the guy was. “Or is he?”

  “Are you saying you’re ready to meet him?”

  “Are you saying you’re ready to marry him?”

  “Why are you being so sassy?”

  “I don’t know. Why are you being so defensive?”

  “Geez, should I blame hormonal teen-angst or that boy Digby for your new verbal stylings?” Mom said. “What’s going on with the two of you, anyway?”

  “Nothing. Stop asking me that. Besides, we don’t hang out as much anymore . . . I mean, since you told me not to.”