She finally staggered off with Cooper. Would it be horribly inconsistent if I told you I judged her for actually listening to me and letting me stay?
I snuck toward the living room window, kept my head low, and peeked over the windowsill.
There were four of them in the room: Zillah, Ezekiel bowed down before Zillah’s gun, and two gun-toting men backing her up. Ezekiel begged in the please-oh-please way, but it was clear Zillah didn’t care. She’d already made him stand on a tarp.
Then, suddenly, Digby sauntered in and plopped down on the couch in the middle of the action. Everyone froze.
“But first, ask him where he put it,” Digby said.
Zillah’s goon motioned Digby to join Ezekiel on the plastic.
“No, thanks. I’m comfortable here,” Digby said. “Whatever you think you’re moving, he’s already taken it.”
Zillah’s head involuntarily turned to a steamer trunk in the middle of the room.
“Check it,” Digby said.
Zillah unlocked the trunk and triumphantly lifted a bound bundle of bills.
“Look again,” Digby said.
Zillah’s face darkened when she did. Only the top bill was green. The rest were blank pieces of paper.
“It’s one thing to steal product. That I can cover up. But do you have any idea what they’d do to you—to me—if this money goes missing, Ezekiel?”
“Ohhhh . . .” Digby pointed at Zillah. “The money isn’t yours . . .” Digby pointed at Ezekiel. “That’s why he couldn’t just steal it. Ask him how he’s getting it out of here.”
“You have all the answers today. Why don’t you tell me?” Zillah said.
“He’s gonna put it in the ambulance he stole and drive out of here during the excitement,” Digby said. “Straight down to Mexico.”
“To Mexico?” Zillah shrieked with laughter. “You were going to Mexico? You really are too stupid to live. Who d’you think this belongs to? I’d like to see how long you’d live if you really went to Mexico.”
“But everyone’d probably think he died in the explosion,” Digby said.
“Explosion?” Zillah said.
“Oh, yeah. The basement’s wired,” Digby said. “Whole house is gonna blow.”
“Show me.” Zillah grabbed Ezekiel and pushed him. Both tripped on the tarp on the way out.
Digby was left in the room with just the two goons.
Now’s my chance, I thought. I picked up a rake leaning against the wall. Then I thought, My chance to do what, exactly?
Which brings me back to where I started: standing outside a house that’s about to explode, trying to figure out the best way to get back in.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I contemplate my options. Throw the rake through the window and climb in? Climb through, drag the rake behind me, and then start swinging? Maybe signal Digby first? Or maybe this is a stupid idea. I look across the street to my house and I’m immediately ashamed of myself for wanting to run home.
But the decision is made for me when hands grab my shoulders and drag me in backward through the window, rake and all. I scream as the windowsill scrapes my back from shoulder to ankle. I look like a cursing, feathered baby being birthed into that room.
The attention momentarily away from him, Digby grabs a table lamp and hurls it. Unfortunately, the lamp stays plugged in and there’s a doggie-on-a-chain effect. It’s enough of a surprise, though, that Digby is able to jump the guy.
Meanwhile, I swing the rake around, wildly trying to accomplish I don’t know what, but I succeed in creating chaos.
Zillah runs back in. She’s screaming to her men about the bomb in the basement when her foot catches on the tarp midsentence, and she flies forward. Her gun fires when her hand hits the floor.
We shut up and freeze.
“Where’s Ezekiel?” Digby says.
We immediately form a temporary alliance. We are the five people in the house about to explode who have lost sight of the bomb-maker. We descend into slapstick as we all try to squeeze through the doorway simultaneously. Digby gets out first and he tackles Ezekiel, but it takes Zillah’s help to wrestle Ezekiel into the living room.
Ezekiel drops his phone while Zillah ties him to the radiator with her scarf.
Digby picks it up. “‘Call ended.’ That means . . .”
“The bomb,” Zillah says. “Go!”
Zillah and her goons run to the front door. Digby and I are hot on their heels. Behind us, Ezekiel begs, “Please! Please untie me!”
We keep running until Ezekiel says, “I’ll tell you what happened to your sister!”
Digby goes back into the room.
“Digby, what are you doing?” I say.
“Talk,” Digby says.
“Untie me,” Ezekiel says.
“Then fine.” Digby walks away.
“They screwed up. They were supposed to take you that night . . . not her,” Ezekiel says. “And I know why.”
“Princeton,” Digby said.
I go back and help untie Ezekiel. Without having to discuss it, we know our fastest exit’s through the window, so the three of us dive out and hit the ground running.
About twenty feet from the house, Digby says, “We should du—”
He doesn’t finish because the house blows. I once saw a Discovery Channel show that described being in an explosion as getting hit by a hot steel wall moving at the speed of sound. But I can tell you this is inaccurate.
Being in an explosion is like having that hot steel wall go right through you.
I black out.
When I wake up, I’m facedown, wondering why the phone’s ringing. Then I realize that’s my ears ringing and that I’m totally deaf otherwise. The mansion’s on fire. My hand’s still clutching the rake handle.
Mom runs toward me, her mouth wide open in a scream. She gets down and cradles my head in her lap.
Over and over, I tell Mom I’m okay, but by the time first responders roll up, I feel like hell. Everything I own hurts. Moving my foot an inch sends agonizing pain up my leg.
I see Digby lying near me. My ears clear a little and I’m upgraded from total deafness to hearing everything from under a foot of water. I call out Digby’s name a few times and that wakes him up. He crawls to Ezekiel, who’s on his back doing an awesome impression of being dead. Digby slaps Ezekiel to rouse him. He’s shaking him when paramedics push Digby off and start CPR on Ezekiel.
A pair of paramedics work on me too. I’m blinking in and out of consciousness, seeing only seconds out of every minute that elapses. Every time I come back around, I’m attached to more equipment.
The neighbors are on their lawns. Some take photos when I scream as they lift me onto the gurney. I’m in a plastic collar and strapped onto a board so I can’t turn my head, but out the corner of my eye, I see them trying to similarly immobilize Digby. He’s struggling, shouting something no one understands.
I look in the direction Digby’s straining toward and see medics wheeling Ezekiel away. Somehow, messed up as I am, I know something’s wrong. There shouldn’t be a big bag on the gurney’s bottom rack. Then I see the paramedics’ faces. It’s Schell and Floyd in paramedics uniforms wheeling Ezekiel and the bag of money into their stolen ambulance.
I yell, but everyone ignores me too. I don’t blame them. It’s a long story to tell and I don’t know where to start, so I yell hysterical nonsense. They’re getting away, but when Floyd unlocks the back of the ambulance, the door flies open and smashes Schell in the face.
At first, all I see is the swirl of Felix’s cape. My ears are clear enough to hear people screaming when Felix flies out of the ambulance and lands atop Ezekiel on the gurney. Felix is holding defibrillator paddles and from the way Floyd jerks, goes rigid, and then collapses, it becomes clear that Felix has defibbed him in the face.
> Felix turns to zap Schell, but Schell sees it coming and pushes Felix, and the gurney, with Felix and Ezekiel on it, rolls away. Schell grabs the money, climbs into the ambulance’s cab, and peels out.
The cops on the scene are too confused to do more than gawp. Schell doesn’t get far, though, because a limo—our limo—accelerates past us, chases down the ambulance, and hits it hard from behind. Schell loses control, plows across a yard, and smashes into one of the houses. The limo’s door opens and Henry tumbles out of the driver’s seat. The cops swarm him, bend him over the hood, and cuff him.
Still straddling Ezekiel, Felix says, “Hey, is this a corpse?” He touches Ezekiel’s neck, but is disappointed. “Nah . . . there’s a pulse.”
On his gurney, Digby’s on a call, fighting off the paramedic trying to take his phone away. As they wheel me into the ambulance, old Mrs. Preston peers into my face and shakes her head. There goes the neighborhood.
It’s a huge relief when the ambulance door closes and we finally leave for the hospital. Only then do I realize how much pain I’m in. I scream until I pass out.
TWENTY-NINE
The first thing I see when I wake and look past the machines that go ping is Digby, covered in bandages and sitting on a wheelchair, eating the tray of food left for me.
“How are you less hurt than I am?” I say.
“Oh, I hurt, Princeton. But it hurts a lot less when you pretend it doesn’t,” he says.
I guess I knock off some sensors when I sit up, because a concerned nurse run-walks into the room. She’s peeved when she sees me sitting up.
“Don’t pull out your IV. And why are you out of your bed, young man? You kids need to settle down.” She replaces my electrodes. “Explosion . . . what were you two up to?”
“You know . . . shenanigans,” Digby says.
Just as I’m thinking that the nurse’s look of disapproval reminds me of Dad’s shame-on-you stare, the door opens and the devil himself walks in.
“Dad?”
He’s more bloated than usual. Not even his new tan can hide that he’s working too much, eating too crappily, and not sleeping enough.
“An explosion? My God, what the hell’s been happening here? Explain yourself,” he says.
I try telling him, but the story’s so long and strange and I’m so battered that I end up spewing gibberish. When I finally not so much finish my story as just stop telling it, Dad turns to Digby. “And you’re her accomplice in this?”
“Me? Accomplice? No,” Digby says. “Mastermind.”
Digby rolls his wheelchair until one of his wheels is up against Dad’s shoe.
“We haven’t been introduced. I’m Digby. You must be Dick.”
Dad ignores Digby’s proffered hand. “Mr. Webster. Only my friends call me Dick.”
“Well, with friends like that, amiright?”
“I suppose I should thank you for bringing this farce to an end. It’s because of you that the judge finally realized my ex-wife can’t be trusted.”
“There was a custody hearing?” I say.
“No, but he agreed to schedule a new one.” Dad passes me a document and a pen. “Sign this. It’ll expedite the process.”
“What is this?” I try to read it, but the fine print makes my head swim. “Does Mom know?”
“Your mother is no longer a factor in your upbringing. It’s clear she’s an incompetent parent,” Dad says.
“May I?” I’m grateful when Digby takes the paper out of my hands and reads.
“Do you even understand what you’re looking at?” Dad smirks the way most adults do before they realize what they’re up against in Digby.
“I’ve had some experience with these Child Affidavits for Custody. They tried to get me to sign one too.” To me, Digby says, “This says that in light of recent events, you don’t feel safe in your mother’s custody. You sure you wanna say that?”
“I thought I couldn’t choose who to live with anyway,” I say.
“You can’t. Your dad’s probably hoping to break your mom’s spirit when he shows her you signed it. Or maybe he’s hoping to exclude you from the decision process later. I mean, if you sign this and then later say you wanna live with your mom, you’d look like a flake and the court wouldn’t take you seriously,” Digby says. “I don’t think that’s what you want to do, Zoe.”
I don’t know if it’s because Digby uses my real name for the first time or if it’s because I’m furious at my father for trying to trick me into signing a document like that while I’m in a half-sedated haze, but I start shivering.
“Of course, you could just accuse your father of sexually inappropriate behavior and the court’ll get you outta there in no time,” Digby says.
“You’re a very troubled young man,” Dad says.
“Well, you’re not wrong there,” Digby says.
The door opens and in walks Shereene. She is exactly what a man having a midlife crisis would bring home from the office. Too blond, too tan, blinging way too much, and wearing perfume so thick, I can taste it. She ignores me and spins for my father a web of complaints that spans the hospital’s lack of valet parking to the injustice of cutting short their vacation to see me.
Her whining creates a bubble of obliviousness around her and Dad, so Digby and I are able to talk about her without lowering our voices.
“Stepmom?” Digby says.
I nod.
“Seriously, Princeton, you wanna live with this?” Digby asks. I shake my head, no way. “Then may I . . . ?” Digby jumps in while Shereene’s midsentence. “What about you, Shereene? Do you think Zoe should live with you in New York?” Digby says.
Shereene has a sexy-now-but-oh-wait-until-you’re-fifty smoker’s laugh. “If it’ll save us seventeen percent of our income, then sure. Liza should pay us seventeen percent of her income. See how she likes it.”
“‘Us.’ You guys are a tight unit. Such positive family values will really be great for Zoe.” Digby points at Shereene’s enormous diamond ring. “Wow, that’s beautiful.”
“It’s Van Cleef. The setting’s called Byzance.” Shereene pronounces all its French-y rumbles to make clear how expensive it is.
“I bet the real one’s even sparklier. Is it being cleaned? Resized?” Digby says.
“What are you talking about?” Shereene sees Dad’s squirrelly look and gets suspicious.
“That’s a replica, right? Because that isn’t a diamond,” Digby says.
“The kid doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Dad says.
Digby grabs Shereene’s hand, swings it, and smashes it ring-first onto his wheelchair’s armrest. The “diamond” is pulverized.
Cursing, Shereene yanks off what’s left of her ring and throws it in Dad’s face. She’s halfway out the door when she stomps back into the room and slaps Dad. Twice. And then she leaves.
“Sorry, Dick. I thought she knew,” Digby says.
“You’d better bet I’m speaking to your parents about this,” Dad says.
“Notify my probation officer too. He hates being left out of the loop,” Digby says.
Dad points his finger in my face. “Sign these papers and have a nurse drop them in the mail right away.” He throws the pile on my nightstand.
“No.” It couldn’t have sounded weirder if I’d farted out of my mouth.
“What the hell does that mean?” Dad says.
“I don’t want to change the custody agreement. I don’t want to live with you guys,” I say.
“Young lady, I’m not going to pay for boarding. You either live with me or you don’t go to Prentiss,” Dad says.
“I’m not going to Prentiss,” I say. “Not this January, anyway.”
“The dean of Prentiss is a special friend and he’s gone through the trouble of making room for you in January. I’ve already fill
ed in the forms. All you have to do is sign. What’s the difficulty?” Dad says.
“Well, maybe I don’t have to cheat to get in,” I say.
“You don’t understand what kind of opportunity you’re wasting, Zoe,” Dad says.
In the past, the way he spits out my name would’ve been enough to make me buckle, but my hierarchy of fears have been rearranged.
“I understand perfectly.”
“And just how do you expect to get into the Ivy League?” Dad says.
“I guess I’ll just work hard,” I say.
When he laughs, I realize my father has zero respect for me as a person.
“Let’s see how far you get with that.” Then Dad comes to his senses and remembers Digby is watching. “I won’t have this discussion in front of strangers. I’ll speak to you later.” He swings open the door so hard, the doorknob dents the wall.
And just like that, the confrontation I’d spent months dreading is over.
“So . . . your dad’s nice. Should I expect a Christmas card?” Digby says. “Better tell me now so I don’t look like a jerk if I don’t send him one too.”
“Ha-ha . . . he’s going to make Mom and me pay for that in some other horrible way, you know,” I say.
“Well, if he does, tell him you know about the money he’s hiding in the Caymans. He and his chickie just got back from there,” Digby says.
“How could you possibly know that?”
“When she opened her purse, I saw a plastic bag that said KIRK FREEPORT.” Digby holds up his phone. “Google says that’s in the Caymans and the only reasons people go down there are to visit their pile of dough or sunbathe. Even with his tan, your dad doesn’t look like a beach bum to me.”
True. I can’t imagine Dad stepping out of his suit for a second longer than it takes him to shower. “He’s hiding money from Mom?”
“Not just your mom. From Shereene too,” Digby says.
“Her too? What does he spend it on? He has no hobbies. His favorite thing to do is yell at people, and that he gets paid to do at work,” I say. “I mean, he likes to eat, but he mostly binge-eats Nutella and that’s only, like, seven bucks at the bodega.”
Trouble is a Friend of Mine Page 24