It was shocking to hear it laid bare like that. I checked to see if he was smiling again, but he wasn’t this time.
“She disappeared exactly nine years ago tonight,” he said.
His anxiety attack from the day before made a new kind of sense to me. He put the Suzie Bear head back on. “Come on, Princeton. Let’s go traumatize some kids.”
When the Friday of the dance rolled around, I woke up early, worried I’d caught some kind of small-town fever because I was totally excited to go to a school dance. I didn’t know why I was. It wasn’t because of the photo Felix sent me of the crazy stretch limo he’d rented. It definitely wasn’t because we were going to Red Lobster, even though he was allergic to shellfish and had to demo his EpiPen for me “just in case.”
Everyone at school was amped. The halls were decorated with WELCOME CHESTER B. ARTHUR STUDENTS posters (there was a mini-scolding over the PA because someone defaced a poster to read FArthur) and there was glitter on the floor. People peeked through gaps in the locked gym doors. Some popular tenth-grade girls were crying in the cafeteria, complaining it was unfair they couldn’t go even though eleventh-grade boys had asked them.
The bathrooms were crazier than usual and teachers had to come in after the bell to yell at girls to go to class. Sloane and two of her blondes walked around with pins and curling papers in their bangs and I overheard Sloane insist a “real pin curl is soooo different” from one you make with gel and a curling iron.
In short, the dance was already a success. Everyone was obsessed.
By last period, our teachers had given up on getting us to concentrate. In English class, my teacher Miss Viv (who wore charms on her anklets and sexified literature to keep us interested) tried to squeeze value out of our excitement by talking about flapper sexual liberation. At one point, she jiggled and jangled, demonstrating the Charleston to the boys’ gaping appreciation. We had more of that to look forward to, because she was going to be a faculty chaperone that night.
When the final bell rang, it was chaos. Clumps of kids choked up traffic in the halls with garment bags and slumber party luggage. Teachers patrolling added to the insanity by shouting useless instructions like, “Let’s keep it moving, people” and making dramatic “these kids are crazy” gestures at each other. Within minutes, a swarm of school buses and SUVs vacuumed up the screaming kids and then the halls were quiet again.
I was unlocking my bike from the rack outside the faculty lounge windows when I heard Musgrave’s signature scream-and-swear combo when he spilled coffee on himself. Then he started talking to Principal Granger.
Now, instead of walking away like old me would’ve done, new me pressed up against the wall and listened. Just knowing Musgrave thought I was a criminal was enough to trigger criminal behavior in me. Whoa. Maybe I did understand what our nonexistent project, “Convicted in Absence,” was about.
“Principal Granger, did you get my request for Philip Digby’s attendance records?” Musgrave said.
“Look. It’s like my secretary’s been saying to you. You can’t ask for attendance sheets without cause. It’d look like we were helping you single out and harass students. If a student’s cutting school, the homeroom teacher lets my office know and we make the request to you for help,” Principal Granger said.
“I know that kid’s screwing around,” Musgrave said.
“Well, obviously, he’s attending classes. None of his teachers have raised a red flag,” Principal Granger said.
“He’s getting around them. I don’t know how, but he is,” Musgrave said.
“Keep it together, Harlan. I don’t need a repeat of the Springfield scenario on my promotion year,” Principal Granger said.
“That was a long time ago. I meditate now,” Musgrave said. “Is his address on file?”
“If I won’t give you his attendance sheet, what do you think the chances are I’d give you that?” Principal Granger said.
“Never mind . . . I’ll call my buddy down at the PD. That punk’s gotta be in the system,” Musgrave said. “I’m gonna pay his parents a visit.”
“You do that. Just don’t make any claims about representing me, any of the faculty, or this school when you do,” Principal Granger said.
“Yeah . . . wouldn’t wanna infringe on the little sociopath’s human rights,” Musgrave said. “God bless America.”
As soon as they left, I dialed Digby. No answer. All the way home, I called his number over and over. When I called the Make-Ur-Bear, they told me he’d taken the night off to go to the dance. After I processed the shock from finding out Digby was actually going to the dance he’d been mocking for weeks, I decided to head over to his place. Then I realized I didn’t know where he lived.
Mom was waiting at home, excited to dress me. “I got industrial-strength gel and a tiny little curling iron. And look! Fake eyelashes,” she said.
I tried to look excited, but my brain was vibrating, thinking about how I could warn Digby. He wasn’t answering my texts, either.
“Are you nervous? Oh, you’re cute . . . it’s normal to be nervous on your first date, honey.”
“Not a date, Mom. Felix is technically my date, but it’s not a date date.”
“Is there a difference?”
“A crucial one. Seriously.”
When Mom went to shine the tap shoes again, I called Henry and told him what I’d overheard.
“I can’t get him on the phone and I don’t know where he lives. His address isn’t listed,” I said.
“Yeah . . . during the thing with his sister, a million weirdos showed up at their house. I know where he lives, but Mom’s driving me to Sloane’s and I don’t think she’d be into making extra stops,” Henry said.
“Wait. I have an idea. Will you be ready in an hour?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I’ll pick you up. What’s your address?”
Then I called Felix with half a plan. “Felix? Can we make a stop before we go to dinner?”
“I don’t know, Zoe, I sort of have this coordinated perfectly and messing with the itinerary might—” Felix said.
“Listen. Do you remember when Digby got you to buy those drugs but Floyd wouldn’t sell them to you and you had to just make it up? Do you remember how fun improvising was?” I said.
“Yes, but . . .”
“Well, now Digby’s in trouble and we need to—”
“Digby’s in trouble? This is for Digby?” Felix said. “Why didn’t you say so? Of course we’ll help him.”
“Really?” That was weirdly easy.
“Yeah, I owe our whole date to Digby. Besides, this’ll make the story we tell our kids even funnier,” Felix said.
“Our kids?”
“Ha-ha. Just kidding. We shouldn’t even think of having kids until after I’ve won my first Nobel Prize,” he said. “Okay, see you soon.”
Click.
While I worried about what would happen if we didn’t get to Digby’s place before Musgrave did, Mom gave me Cleopatra eyeliner and blow-dried my skirt’s feathers so they puffed up like a tutu.
“You look perfect!” she said.
“Uh-oh . . . I’m shedding.” A feather fluttered to the floor. “Should I be worried?”
“Redundancy, Zoe. I mean, you have eight pounds of feathers glued on there. You can afford to lose a few.” Mom randomly stuffed the feather back into the nest of my skirt. “But . . . maybe don’t slide your butt across the seat when you get in and out of the car.”
Even through my Digby-induced worry haze, I could see Mom had done a great job. I figured I owed her a few minutes of normal mother-daughter post-makeover afterglow. We hugged, I agreed with her that yes, I did look very “fetch,” and she put on big band music and danced me around the living room. But then I got sweaty under my headband and more feathers detached from my skirt, so we q
uit. We started posting photos online instead.
Finally, Felix’s limo pulled up. I wish I’d had my camera when little Felix hopped out and Mom saw him for the first time. Her jaw actually dropped. It wasn’t just that she realized Felix was a tiny twelve-year-old boy. It was also that he was wearing high-water pants and for some reason, his too-tight tux had a black cape attached under the collar. It was sewn on. First thing I checked.
“Felix. You promised . . . no teddy bear outfits,” I said.
“No, I wear this to perform magic tricks,” he said.
“Aren’t real magicians supposed to call them ‘illusions’?” Mom said.
“I will after I move up from novice to apprentice,” Felix said. “Then I get a cape with a gold lining.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Felix. Would you like to come in for refreshments?” Mom said.
“No, thanks. We have to make some stops and if we’re late, we’ll lose our reservation,” Felix said.
I almost burst out laughing when Felix’s dad stepped out of the limo’s backseat. He was Felix’s maxi-me.
“Hello, I’m Timothy Fong, Felix’s father,” Mr. Fong said.
“Liza. Nice to meet you,” Mom said. “Are you . . . going to the dance with the kids?”
“Yes, but I’m staying in the car. I’ve brought work to keep me occupied,” Mr. Fong said. “Don’t worry, we’ll get Zoe back safe and sound after the dance.”
I pulled Felix aside while Mom and Mr. Fong exchanged numbers.
“How do we pick up Henry and Digby without your father figuring out something’s up?” I said.
“It’s okay. I told him we were picking up my wingmen,” Felix said.
The kid really was full of surprises.
TWENTY-FOUR
We had one of those limos with facing seats that I’ve always wondered about because why is it classy to smash knees every time the driver hits a pothole, I wanted to know. Mr. Fong muttered, “Carsick,” and he and Felix took the forward-facing seats. After a few minutes of watching houses whizz past backward, I understood what they meant. I was queasy.
Mr. Fong commented on my “plumage” and the “mating rituals of American adolescents,” cracked himself up, then dived into his stack of files. The titles of the things he was reading were at least twenty words long, involving things with names like XKV357. The binders were marked PERSES ANALYTICS and had a stylized sword logo. He noticed me looking.
“These materials are classified, young lady. I’d better not catch you reading them or I’ll have to kill you.” He looked totally serious. “No, I’m just kidding.” He laughed. “Security guys at work take care of that stuff.” That time he didn’t laugh.
Henry was on his porch holding a bouquet of roses when we pulled up.
“Fresh flowers! Dad, we forgot to get fresh flowers for Zoe,” Felix said.
“Felix, it’s okay,” I said.
“Maybe we can stop at the mall,” Mr. Fong said.
“No, seriously, I don’t need flowers,” I said.
“Wait. Was that even on the checklist?” Felix said.
“No. We’d better add it to the checklist for next time,” Mr. Fong said. “I can’t believe we missed that. We spent so much time crafting that list.”
“Zoe, what’s your favorite flower?” Felix said.
I muttered “zinnias” although Felix and his dad weren’t paying attention to anything but their discussion of Felix’s pre-date checklist. Their nattering didn’t stop even when Henry jumped in and sat beside me.
The partition rolled down. “Excuse me? Where to now?” the limo driver said.
Neither Fong broke from their conversation, so Henry answered. “Hey, man . . . I’m Henry.” They shook hands.
“Dusty. What’s the deal? Do we head to the Red Lobster now?”
“Just a couple more stops. Is that cool?” Henry gave him Digby’s address.
“No sweat by me, but that cat’s credit card’s on file.” Dusty pointed at Felix’s dad. “And we charge by the mile on top of time.”
“Um . . . yeah, he’ll be okay with it.” I tried to sound casual, but my voice went up in that liar way. I pointed at Felix. “I’m his date.”
“Riiiiight . . .” Dusty looked dubious, but he drove off anyway. I guess as limo-based shenanigans go, kids mooching free rides wasn’t such a big deal.
On the way to Digby’s, I gave Henry a summary of what I’d overheard. Henry was worried at first, but his irritation took over.
“Man! You’d think because he knew Musgrave’s after him, Digby would at least try to show up to school. See? Remember what I said? How Digby sucks you in? This is it. It’s happening,” Henry said. “We should be going to the dance to have a good time, but we’re in Digby’s world now. I mean, I haven’t even told you hello or how nice you look. I’m obsessed with Digby’s problems. See this tie? It took seven tries to tie it. I was too worried about Digby to concentrate on the instructions. Hello, by the way. You look very nice. Great feathers.”
I worried Mr. Fong would notice our little drama. “Okay, calm down,” I said. “We’ll just tell him Musgrave’s coming and we’ll get out of there. It’ll take a second. Not a big deal.”
Henry’s phone chimed. He typed a response. “It’s Sloane. We’re late. She’s not happy.”
I wished for all four limo tires to go flat.
Digby’s was the lone dump on a nice block. It had a shattered upstairs window, a roof with missing shingles, and skinny saplings sprouted in the rain gutters. There was a FORECLOSURE FOR SALE BY BANK sign on the scrubby lawn.
Musgrave was already on the porch when we pulled up.
“We’re too late,” I said.
“Dusty, can you go around the corner?” Henry said.
Felix barely noticed us getting out. His dad was telling him that on future dates, he should bring chocolates. Allergen-free, just in case.
Henry and I went down the back alley and peeked over the fence from Digby’s neighbor’s yard.
Digby’s front door opened for Musgrave. A woman, very thin, heavily made-up, and wearing a silk turban, answered the door. She held a glass, and had on a full-length muumuu and teeter-totter heels.
“Val,” Henry whispered. “That’s Digby’s mom.”
“She’s going out,” I said.
Henry shook his head. “She’s always been kinda eccentric . . . and after Sally disappeared . . .”
At the door, Val said, “Yes, may I help you?”
“Mrs. Digby? Harlan Musgrave. I’m the school resources officer at your son Philip’s school. I’m here to talk about his recent behavior,” Musgrave said.
“How wonderful! The personal touch,” Val said. “Oh, do, do come in. How wonderful of you to come all the way here to keep me informed.”
Val’s entire speech came out in one long shriek. Musgrave took a giant step backward.
“Uh-oh. Val’s having a manic episode,” Henry said.
“Is she foreign?” I said.
Meanwhile, Musgrave said, “Oh . . . I didn’t realize Philip’s mother was British.”
“Oh, hahahaha! You funny, funny little man! It’s a shame Americans so often mistake proper enunciation for a British accent,” Val said.
Musgrave backed down the stairs, freaked. “Maybe we should arrange an in-school conference instead.”
Val lunged for Musgrave’s arm and pulled him toward the front door. Musgrave’s other hand patted his hip, probably looking for the gun he remembered from his cop days.
“Don’t be silly! I couldn’t let you go without at least a drink. I was settling in for a quiet evening with the telly, but we could have a party instead!” Val was pulling so hard, her heels crunched into the floorboards.
“Come to think of it, it’d best if we handled this on school property.” Musgrav
e finally twisted out of her grip and ran back to his car. “We’ll be in touch, Mrs. Digby.”
Before I could digest the weirdness of what I’d just seen, I heard Digby PSSST-ing for us to come over to the garage behind his house. I was sad to note I lost two more feathers as I brushed past the bushes.
“Is he gone?” Digby said.
“Musgrave? Yeah,” Henry said.
“Come in before someone sees you,” Digby said.
We followed him into the garage, where the weirdness got weirder. The windows had insulation taped up against them. The white Chevy we drove to the break-in was parked with its doors open and a sleeping bag spread out in the backseat. Next to a table saw, a lit camping stove heated up a can of beans. There were clothes everywhere—shirts hanging to dry and boxer shorts soaking in the sink.
“Is this what you’ve been wearing?” Henry pulled out a black suit jacket from a box labeled GRANDPA JOE.
“You live in your garage?” I said. “Does your mom know you’re in here?”
“Does she even know you’re back in town?” Henry said.
“You saw her. I’m not sure she’s in town,” Digby said.
“Housekeeping problems? This is what you meant?” I said. “You’re homeless?”
“I’m not homeless. You said it yourself. I live in my garage,” Digby said.
I pointed at a shelf with single-serve condiments neatly grouped and stacked. Packs of sugar separated into white and brown, piles of ketchups and soup crackers, a huge mound of fortune cookies. “This is your only food? Is that why you’re eating every time I see you?” I said.
“Don’t look at me like that, Princeton. Besides, I overcompensated. I think I gained weight.”
I had actually noticed that his suits were fitting better these days. And, come to think of it, I’d surprised myself the other day when I’d found myself thinking how much better Digby looked against the typical idiot man-child in droopy pants that trawled our hallways in school.
“What about when it gets cold? When it snows?” Henry said.
Trouble is a Friend of Mine Page 18