“It’s cold now. I use the portable heater at night,” Digby said. “Seriously, Daaaaad. I’m fine.”
I thought about him cold and hungry in the garage, sucking down packets of ketchup. I felt like crying. “But you’ll freeze . . .”
“You should’ve said something, dude,” Henry said.
“And what? Sleep on your couch again? Every nine months, there’s a newborn baby in your house. Nah, this is good. I come and go when I like,” Digby said. “I would’ve asked to stay with you, Princeton, but all the sighing and weeping . . .”
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“You’re about to cry right now,” Digby said.
“Shut up.” Something on the desk caught my eye. I waded through the clutter to check it out. “What’s this?”
It was the free map of River Heights the mall’s information center gave out. A clump of red-topped map pins were jammed into the tiny downtown part of the map. In fact, the entire middle of the map was just a mass of red pinheads.
“I put a pin into every place my guys said they’d seen Marina.” Digby picked up the map and the middle part that was weighed down with pins ripped out and fell onto the floor. “Shoulda probably gotten a bigger map with the streets more blown up.”
“Your ‘guys’? Like Aldo, whom you paid in cookies? That’s the quality of informer you have working for you?” I said. “I mean, whoa, that’s a lot of pins. Almost looks like Marina’s parading around town, keeping appointments. Do you think that’s likely or . . . maybe, maybe your ‘guys’ are unreliable and insane?”
Under a stack of stickers of the RIVER HEIGHTS—WE’RE A FAMILY PLACE motto, I found more maps of downtown (this time ripped out of the Yellow Pages) with details penciled in. They were mounted on a corkboard under a tangle of red yarn strung between thumbtacks pushed into the maps.
“What’s this mess?” I said.
“One of my guys followed someone he was pretty sure was Marina and I tried re-creating the path he described to me over the phone,” Digby said.
“So, she went from the soup kitchen to the library?” Henry said.
“Back and forth over and over . . . and then the 7-Eleven, of course,” I said. “What’s this? ‘Methodist Church’?”
“Actually that’s ‘methadone clinic’ and the next stop was the Dumpster,” Digby said. “Yeah . . . about that time I thought maybe it wasn’t Marina they were following. Which is also about the time I came to the same conclusion you did that my guys might be a little unreliable . . .”
“I just thought of something,” Henry said. “This garage doesn’t have a bathroom.”
Digby pointed at the utility sink.
“Dude. That’s gross,” Henry said.
“Urine is sterile,” Digby said.
“Okay, but you know what isn’t sterile?” Henry said.
“Okay, but you know what topsoil’s made of?” Digby said.
I noticed the shovel next to the sink.
“Oh, no,” I said.
“Yeah. And in related news, the neighbor’s pumpkins are running big this year,” Digby said.
“Thanksgiving dinner will never be the same again,” Henry said.
“God. Dinner. Felix has this whole Red Lobster deal planned out,” I said.
“Oh, man, Sloane and I have a reservation at La Terrasse. Mom was gonna drive us because Sloane’s driver just quit for no reason. I don’t know how we’re getting there now . . .” Henry noticed Digby’s tie. “Dude, you’re coming?”
“I even combed my hair.”
“So, what, meet up at the dance after our dinners?” Henry said.
“I have a better idea,” Digby said.
Sloane was posing for photos when our limo rolled up the long tree-lined gravel driveway leading to her huge castle-style house. The woman behind the camera was in a uniform with an apron and was obviously a member of the household staff. Weirdly, though, Sloane ended the photo shoot by hugging her. The smile on Sloane’s face when she did was joyful and totally different from the mocking sneer she usually wore.
“Who’s that?” Digby said.
“That’s Marta,” Henry said. When Sloane kissed Marta, he said, “She’s been taking care of Sloane since she was a baby.”
“Sloane has a nanny,” Digby said. “How fascinating.”
When the front door opened and Mrs. Bloom stepped out, the smile dropped right off Sloane’s face and she stomped toward us. Sloane jumped in the limo, rolled her eyes when she saw us, and slapped the partition. “Drive.”
It took Mr. Fong a moment to summon up the gumption to say, “I can’t help but notice that this limousine’s turned into a public bus.”
“One more, Mr. Fong, and we can go on to dinner,” Digby said.
“Are you kids also eating at Red Lobster? Because I only made reservations for three,” Mr. Fong said.
“Red Lobster? No! I thought we were going to La Terrasse. What happened to La Terrasse, Henry? I’m not dressed for Red Lobster,” Sloane said.
She wasn’t. The fringes of beads on Sloane’s beautiful silver flapper dress shimmered like water. Her opera gloves had a million silk buttons up the sides that she probably had a maid or a lady-in-waiting to undo. Her yards of pearls clacked in a heavy way that made the plastic-ness of my pearls shamefully obvious. And while I technically had ethical problems with Sloane’s silver fur cape, I had to admit it was gorgeous. Next to her, I was a hot glue gun mess. She wasn’t dressed for Red Lobster. I was, though.
Henry apologized but refused to give in to her whining with any bargaining or explanations. I was just thinking, Good for him, when I realized that because Sloane wasn’t getting anywhere with Henry, she’d have to let off steam elsewhere.
“So, did Walmart carry the feathers for your dress or did you have to shoot your own turkeys?” Sloane said.
“Love is louder, Sloane,” Digby said.
“We’re going to look stupid all pouring out of this limo,” Sloane said.
“Well, we could let you out and you could walk to school.” Everyone—myself included—was surprised when that came out of my mouth.
“Ugh, not in these shoes. These cost a thousand-something dollars,” Sloane said.
“A thousand dollars? For shoes?” Mr. Fong said.
“A thousand something,” Sloane said. “Plus tax.”
“For shoes you can’t walk in?” Mr. Fong said.
Sloane twiddled her feet to admire her seven-inch heels. The confusion on the guys’ faces was comical. Boys don’t care about shoes. She wore them for the girls at the dance. I mean, the entire front of the shoe was glass.
“Where are we, anyway? I’ve never even heard of these streets,” Sloane said.
“My date lives on McCaul,” Digby said.
“Date? Since when?” I said.
“Huh? Since you set it up,” Digby said.
“I didn’t set you up,” I said. “McCaul? That’s where . . .”
“Bill said you did,” Digby said.
“She what?” I said.
Sloane smirked. “Oh, wait, maybe this will be interesting.”
Though I was totally shocked, part of me was, like, I knew it! And suddenly, something that happened a few weeks ago made a new kind of sense. I’d been in Bill’s room when my phone went missing. Bill and I spent forever searching and then she came out of her bathroom with it.
“You must’ve left it when you peed,” she’d said.
I’d agreed with her even though I knew I hadn’t used the bathroom that visit. Taking it to steal Digby’s number was low, but to then pretend to help me look for it was downright shady.
To her credit, though, Bill wasn’t so shady that she wasn’t embarrassed when she opened the limo door and saw me sitting there.
“Uh . . . hi, Zoe. I c
an explain,” Bill said.
“It’s cool.” Although I made it clear it wasn’t.
“I mean, I wouldn’t have asked Digby if you’d wanted to go with him,” Bill said.
Sloane slow-clapped Digby. “You actually found two girls who wanted to go to the dance with you.”
Bill’s dress, I was happy to see, was meh. Just a regular black dress she twenties-ed up with a jazzy hat and T-strap shoes. I guess her fake fur stole made it a little more All That Jazz.
Bill squeezed in and with the limo jam-packed with feathers, fur, and beads, we drove to Red Lobster.
“Look at us. We look so great. It’s almost a waste to just be going to a school dance,” Felix said.
If I’d known how the night would turn out, I would’ve knocked on wood.
TWENTY-FIVE
Mr. Fong had been nervous about the seven of us turning up to a reservation for three, but since it was six in the afternoon and there were only four other tables of early birds, we got seated right away. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to face slightly left and watch Sloane sulk into her Shirley Temple or face slightly right, where Bill was interviewing Digby like the big groupie that she was. I couldn’t really handle looking straight ahead at Felix, my supposed date who was ordering from the children’s menu.
In the end, I chose to face Sloane because at least with her, the evil was all up front.
“What are you staring at? Freak,” Sloane said.
“So, Zoe, Felix tells me you might be leaving next year. Prentiss is a good school, but it’s very far away from your mother,” Mr. Fong said. “Why did you decide to leave?”
“I think we’ve established that her answer is ‘Because Daddy wants me to,’” Digby said.
“You’re going to Prentiss? Who’s your father? Is he somebody? He’s not . . . rich or . . . connected, is he?” It was more than Sloane wanted to contemplate.
“No . . .” Given some time, I might’ve come up with a decent enough lie to freak her out, but my shoes pinched and I was sweating under my headband.
Sloane started angrily texting. “That’s it. This is ridiculous. Literally everyone but me is going to private school now.”
“So, Mr. Fong, Felix mentioned you’re a chemist?” I said.
“I have doctorates in analytical chemistry and neurochemistry, but I find myself working on nanotechnology these days. Life is a box of chocolates!” Mr. Fong threw up his hands and knocked over his soda, but Henry caught it before it hit the table. “You never know what you’re gonna get.”
Sloane gaped at a glob of Coke that came incredibly close to splashing her glove.
“So, if I gave you, say, a pill, could you analyze it and figure out if it was produced at the same place as another pill?” Digby said.
“Ah . . . that’s the work of a forensic chemist,” Mr. Fong said.
“But anyone with a gas spectrometer could do it,” Felix said.
“Well, I could do it, but why would I? It wouldn’t optimize my skill set,” Mr. Fong said.
“Wait! Digby, do you have another sample to compare with the drugs I bought?” Felix said.
“You bought drugs?” Mr. Fong said.
“Um . . . no, it’s nothing. We’re kidding,” Felix said. “Hey, my soda looks funny.”
“Their fountain probably dispenses too much syrup . . . Come on, people, it’s not as though we’re asking you to synthesize Acetabularia Rhodopsin II. Let’s see.” Mr. Fong sipped from Felix’s glass. “Yech! That’s awful. It tastes . . . fishy?”
“Oh, gross. Something’s floating around in it,” Sloane said.
“Is that a loogie?” Bill said.
Mr. Fong looked and slammed down the drink, horrified.
“It’s a clam! It’s a clam!” Mr. Fong said.
“It’s okay, Mr. Fong, I’m sure they’ll get you another soda,” I said.
“I’m allergic to shellfish! I need to get to the ER! I need to get to the ER!” Mr. Fong said.
I remembered the orientation session Felix gave me for using his EpiPen. “Mr. Fong! I have Felix’s EpiPen.” I got the EpiPen out of my clutch bag.
Instead of being happy to see it, Mr. Fong jumped out of his chair and screamed, “No! No! No needles!”
“He’s phobic.” Felix took out his phone and dialed 911.
Meanwhile, Digby and Henry tried to catch Mr. Fong, who was running around the restaurant screeching.
“Sir, you’re scaring our customers,” the waitress said.
“No good, no good! I need a professional! I need a doctor!” Mr. Fong faked left past Henry and ran out the door.
“It’s okay, everyone, I’ll get him,” Felix said.
Felix ran out, leaving the rest of us in shock.
“This is nice,” Digby said. “We should get together more often.”
Felix came back a few minutes later, surprisingly calm.
“Is he okay?” I said.
“Oh, yeah. His lips hadn’t even started swelling yet. We crossed paths with the ambulance a block from here,” Felix said.
“Felix, if both you and your dad are allergic to shellfish, why did you choose Red Lobster?” I said.
“Oh, we’re also allergic to peanuts, gluten, citrus, dairy, and soy, so pretty much every restaurant’s a death trap. Not to mention the non-food stuff that could kill us . . . bees, latex, penicillin,” Felix said. “By the way, you guys, you’re welcome.”
“For what?” Digby said.
Felix pointed at my plate. A clam in the clams casino I hadn’t started eating yet was just an empty shell.
“Felix. No,” I said. “How? I didn’t even see you touch my plate.”
“Just like you didn’t see the flowers I didn’t forget?” Felix reached behind my ears and a bouquet of silk flowers appeared in his hand. “Shazzam.”
When I took it from Felix, the bouquet’s handle caught in the trick holder hidden up his sleeve.
“Is that why you’re wearing a cape? Because of magic?” Sloane said.
“I’m wearing my cape because it looks good,” Felix said.
“You think that looks good? You look like Count Chocula,” Sloane said.
That crossed the line. Felix looked hurt and that pissed me off.
“And you look like one of your mother’s rat dogs crawled up on your neck and died when your perfume hit it. Doesn’t matter how much it costs, Sloane,” I said. “When you wear too much, it just smells like roach spray.”
“Oh, shut up. You can’t talk to me about dead animals when you’re sitting on an entire flock of turkeys,” Sloane said.
“Ooooh . . . meow,” Bill said.
I hated that Bill was enjoying this.
“And you.” Sloane turned to Bill. “Just sticking on a cloche hat doesn’t make it twenties, okay? Put on a sombrero and you’d be a Mexican widow in that outfit.” Sloane turned to Henry. “What’s she doing here, anyway? I thought you said Digby and Zoe were a thing.”
Henry looked mortified.
Felix, still recovering from the Count Chocula burn, said, “You’re a thing?”
“No!” Digby and I said together.
Felix and I went off on our own when we got to the dance. We got formal photos taken and I let him introduce me to both the backgammon and astronomy clubs as his date. I even put my arm through his.
I had to say it. “This place looks great.”
Sloane’s mother had impeccable taste. Instead of cheap crafty decorations, we got mini-chandeliers, silver and black balloons, and twinkling Christmas lights. There were seating areas with potted trees and old-timey metal benches. Attendants wearing striped shirts and boaters handed out paper cones of fresh-popped corn. They even laid down a black-and-white tile dance floor.
The two schools’ students were huddled on opposite sides of t
he room, sizing each other up. Sloane had already found her Chester B. Arthur double: the flirty cheerleader hitting on Henry at practice. They were trying to outdo each other with showy sexy-dancing around their poor dates. Teachers stepped in when Sloane and her competition ran out of ideas and busted into straight-up stripper moves.
It was nice seeing everyone in their outfits. Of course, a group of girls turned up as Barbies because, you know, the theme said “dolls.” On the bright side, though, the Film Appreciation Club came dressed in suits and fedoras, carrying plastic Tommy guns, and “smoking” unlit cigarettes (that were confiscated almost immediately).
Henry sidled up. “So, you didn’t set Digby up with Bill?”
“No,” I said. “It was a surprise to me.”
“But you and Digby aren’t . . .”
“No.”
“I assumed—”
“Don’t.”
“Because you spend a lot of time together.”
“Yeah, but not like that. Our time together’s mostly just him mocking me and me getting him food every couple of minutes,” I said.
“Okay . . .” Henry said. “Hey, you wanna dance?”
“But . . . ?” I pointed at Sloane.
“She’s with her girls. I did my bit already. She won’t need me until coronation,” he said.
Walking to the dance floor, I tried to stop my knees bending and unbending jerkily. I couldn’t look him in the eye while we danced.
“You look nice! Did I tell you that?” He had to shout to be heard over the music.
I bobbed my head side to side to make sure he understood I was remaining humble about the whole thing.
Henry said, “You usually dress more . . .”
“Casual?”
“Butch.”
Ouch. “I mostly dress for comfort . . . the weather . . .”
Henry couldn’t hear my fumbling response, but before I could clean up my answer, Digby butted in. “Sloane’s looking for you.”
Henry gave me an embarrassed smile and ran off. Sloane was dancing with her crew. She wasn’t looking for Henry or, in fact, looking for anything other than more attention.
“You’re welcome,” Digby said.
Trouble is a Friend of Mine Page 19