“He’s wondering if it can smell the egg sandwich,” I say. “My lunch . . . but it’s gone . . . because I ate it.”
Then the dog starts frantically barking toward Touchdown Alley, the stupid nickname the footballers have given their lockers. Dominic looks guilty and preemptively raises his hands.
“Are those guys dumb enough to keep drugs in their lockers?” I say.
A janitor opens Dominic’s locker and the cop retrieves a familiar Ziploc bag labeled BALONEY containing a big pile of shriveled leaves. It’s the bag of weed we’d bought from Mello Yello with my twenty bucks.
“Well, that’s one way to get him off your back,” I say.
Then the cop retrieves a gun from the locker.
“But maybe that’s going too far,” I say.
The cop cuffs Dominic and leads him out. A bunch of us follow in a slow-moving procession. And then we notice what we didn’t before: Just in case it isn’t clear that the whole show is courtesy of Digby, there’s a mosaic of newly adhered RIVER HEIGHTS—WE’RE A FAMILY PLACE stickers along Touchdown Alley.
“Yes! That frees up a whole lot of my time,” Felix says. “Want to celebrate?”
“I gotta work on my paper.”
“Oh.”
Then, because he looks so disappointed, I say, “Maybe another time.” But I’m not much of a faker, and I don’t pull it off. “Sorry, Felix, it’s just . . .”
“I get it. It’s okay . . . I can wait.”
“Wait?
“You’ll see, Zoe,” Felix says. “I’m just a growth spurt and an IPO away from being the man of your dreams.”
THIRTY-ONE
Walking home, I notice a black SUV trailing me. I pretend not to see it but watch its reflection in the windows of parked cars I pass. After two blocks, I do an abrupt 180 and walk in the opposite direction. The SUV’s window rolls down and a voice I don’t recognize says, “Hey . . . Zoe Webster.”
I turn around holding a pen in the stab position.
It’s Musgrave leaning out of the window of his black gas monster. He looks like a pedophile impersonating a TV-style FBI agent.
“I, uh . . . I wanted to . . .” Musgrave hops out, leaving the car sitting in traffic. He waddles over, red-faced and out of breath. He looks like he’s having a heart attack.
“Can I help you?”
“Miss Webster, I just wanted to . . . apologize if I gave you the impression I wouldn’t grade your assignment fairly . . .”
I would allow my mouth to drop open if I didn’t think I’d swallow his flying spit by doing so.
“As for the computer I ruined . . . I could either deposit money into your account every month or buy you a computer six, maybe eight, months from now . . .”
“Keep it. I don’t need you to . . .” I say. “I’m sorry, I don’t get what’s happening here.”
“I just need you to know your assignment will be assessed objectively and without prejudice. Do you understand?”
“O . . . kay . . .”
“Now, do me a favor? Let Philip Digby know we had this conversation?” he says.
And it all becomes clear. Sort of.
“Tell him what I said about the computer and be clear you turned me down, but emphasize that I offered.”
“O . . . kay?”
“And, obviously, put him down as coauthor even though he isn’t technically a student at this school,” he says. “Just so there isn’t any confusion about getting his credits.”
“Not a student at this school? What are you talking about?”
I climb through the window and past the wads of insulation into Digby’s garage. I rifle through the stuff on his table and go through the contents of the car. Nothing. Which leaves just one place. One disgusting place.
I dump out the trash can and wearing shopping bags as gloves, I root through Digby’s trash. I find a surprising number of disassembled padlocks. I recognize two that had gone missing from my locker. Finally, stuck to a gigantic wad of chewed gum, I find a clue that both explains Digby’s wardrobe choices and tells me where he might be going.
“The student has surpassed the master,” I say. It’s a pamphlet for the Edgar Allan Poe Appreciation Society’s annual conference in Baltimore. Inside, the title of one of the lectures is highlighted. “Bon-Bon and the Man in the Black Suit: A Conversation with the Devil Himself.” I say, “Story of my life.”
Then a rustling in the corner tells me I’m not alone. With only Digby’s disgusting shovel as defense against whatever animal is building a winter den in that garage, I get the hell out.
While I’m climbing back over the fence, I see something and the penny drops. In fact, the piggy bank breaks open and dumps pennies all over my brain.
Digby’s mom’s on the lawn, swigging a magnum of champagne and cackling as she pours kerosene onto the sign that says FORECLOSURE FOR SALE BY BANK. She pitches a book of lit matches and the sign goes up in a mini explosion.
“The money,” I say. “He paid her mortgage?”
I arrive at the Greyhound station in time to see the 6:15 to Baltimore pull out.
“Dammit.”
I ask a guy to check the bathroom. Nothing. I’m about to concede defeat, when Digby walks into the station wearing a giant backpack and finger-lickin’ from a bucket of chicken in the crook of his arm.
“Hey, Princeton. Original or spicy? I got both,” he says.
“You weren’t even going to our school? What the hell?”
“I never said I was.”
“You can’t Sixth Sense me. Of course you did. You signed us up for independent study. You pretended to be in a bunch of my classes. You went to art with me and made a mobile.”
“Okay, maybe I did.”
“You definitely did.”
“So,” he says.
“So . . . you could’ve told me what you needed the money for.”
“No, I couldn’t. You would’ve . . .” he says. “Oh, puke. You would’ve done that.”
Despite myself, my tears well up.
“Are you gonna cry and kiss me all over because you pity me? Then better put some French in that kiss, or you shouldn’t bother,” he says.
“You paid your mom’s mortgage?”
“I paid off a chunk so the bank’ll stay off her back for a while. Also the limo bill. Felix’s dad was not happy when he got that invoice.”
“That was our weed you put in Dominic’s locker. But where’d the gun come from? And wasn’t that a little much? Getting him thrown in jail for making Felix write his papers?”
“There was nowhere near enough weed in that bag to get him actual time, but that gun was already in there when I broke in. I did a public service planting that weed.”
“That’s why you signed your work? The stickers are a little . . . Zorro.”
“People need to know Felix has a guardian angel. Seeing as how I have to take off for a while,” Digby says. “No one messes with my crew.”
“I don’t get it. Does that mean you’ve been AWOL from your school in Texas?” I say.
“Musgrave told you?” Digby laughs. “How was he when he told you? Still trembling?”
“He apologized. Actually, he groveled. At one point, I thought he was gonna call me ma’am. What did you do to him?”
“I found out he bailed on an intervention meeting he’d scheduled with Marina two days before she disappeared,” Digby says. “It would’ve been his third strike on the job.”
“He told me to ask you where to send the transfer credit papers.”
“Don’t need it,” Digby says. “I’m homeschooled. I’ve finished all the material for this year. And next year’s, actually.”
“What? Are you supposed to be some kind of genius? Then why . . .”
“You see how people treat Felix. No way.”
“I don’t see my dad even when I’m in the same house. All he cares about is that my chores are done,” Digby says. “I kept my Texas phone and paid some kid to do the chores. He never even realized I’d left town.”
“So you’re telling me that you left home and no one noticed.”
“I have an evaluation meeting with the Texas Association of School Boards in two weeks. If I go to that, no one’ll know I was gone. Not to be dramatic or anything.”
I show him the Edgar Allan Poe Appreciation Society pamphlet I fished out of his trash. “Dramatic like this? I mean, you want me to come say good-bye but you don’t wanna seem like you do, so you put it at the bottom of your trash, which you conveniently forgot to dump out . . .”
“Whoa . . . now you sound like me. Paranoia isn’t a good look on you. It was just trash, Princeton.”
“You didn’t take the morning bus, and that was the afternoon bus you just purposely missed. What? You’re gonna deny you were waiting for me?”
“Well, actually, I was waiting for her.” Digby points into the parking lot, where Holloway is walking toward the station. She’s wearing sunglasses after sundown and keeps her head swiveling left and right.
Holloway shoves a plastic binder at Digby. “Here. It’s a copy, so you can keep it.”
Digby checks the binder’s heft. “Feels a little light, Stella.”
“Double-sided. Now, are we square?” Holloway says.
“Square.”
“I took a look, kid. Sorry. That case is as cold as it gets.”
“I have a new angle.”
“Oh? Something you should share with the police?”
“Are you sure you wanna share so soon after you just got done paying me off for the last time we shared?” Digby wags the binder.
“You’re right. I don’t wanna know.” Holloway grabs a piece of chicken from his bucket and walks away. “Happy trails. Thanks for the chicken.”
I jump at the loud hiss of bus brakes and the slam of the doors opening right beside me. Passengers stagger up the stairs.
“This is me,” Digby says.
“This bus isn’t going to Maryland. It’s going to Atlantic City.”
“I’m going to Fort Dix. It’s near Atlantic City.”
“Fort Dix? What’s that? A Six Flags or something?”
“Minimum security federal prison, Princeton. I have to ask Ezekiel about my sister.”
“How are you gonna scam your way in there? I doubt you’ll get too far with your usual coffee and donuts scam.”
“Something will come up,” he says. “I better get on. I hate getting stuck near the bathroom. And there’s always a chatty old lady who thinks I look like her grandkid—”
“So you’re rude to grandmas too?”
“No, them I wanna sit next to. They always share their food.”
“Food . . . of course.”
I don’t know whether I should hug him or kiss him or what, so I choose to do the most awkward thing I could’ve done and offer my hand for shaking.
Digby shakes it mockingly and climbs the stairs. Through the window, I watch him take a seat by some seniors on a weekend slots-and-shrimp bender, introduce himself, and become immediately popular. Someone hands him a sack of popcorn.
The engine starts. There’s a sinking, black hole sucking feeling in my stomach. I hid in a friend’s apartment the day Dad moved out for this exact reason.
Then, just before the bus door closes, Digby runs up the aisle to the door. “Hey, I almost forgot. Sabrina Morgan, then TOOTSIEROLL, one word, all caps.”
“What’s that?”
“My real estate agent login. In case your dad messes with your mom while I’m gone. Use it to take a virtual tour of the place he secretly bought on the Upper West Side through a corporation that has only him and Shereene as the directors,” he says. “Like I said: No one messes with my crew.”
Best. Parting. Gift. Ever.
Then Digby suddenly reaches for my face and pulls me toward him. He’s staring at my teeth and I know what’s coming. I don’t need to hear it again and so I say, “I know . . . my retainer—”
But what comes isn’t a horse teeth comment. Instead, he leans down and kisses me. I’m so shocked, I don’t close my eyes, so I see that he’s closed his. Then, before I can decide if I’m enjoying myself, the bus driver blasts the horn, and Digby runs up the steps to the claps and cheers of his new senior citizen friends. He looks out the window at me standing there in a mute cascade of emotions ranging from confusion to anger and a weird embarrassed suspicion that maybe I didn’t hold up my end of the kiss. I wonder if he knows it was my first.
Then the bus pulls away and just like that, he’s gone.
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank my agent David Dunton for taking a chance on me and for being my first editor. Thank you, Kathy Dawson, for a world-class education in YA writing and for dispensing exactly the right amounts of kindness and strictness while you helped turn my manuscript into a book. I’d also like to thank the team at Kathy Dawson Books, especially Claire Evans and Regina Castillo for their meticulousness.
Thank you, Mom and Dad. You know what for. I’m sorry I was a pain, but as you can see, it was research. I owe you the same thank you/sorry combination, too, Steve and Stella. Thanks for being my accomplices on many of my adventures and I’m sorry I put your lives in danger as many times as I did. Oh, look, something else I should apologize to Mom and Dad for.
My biggest thanks go to LT and HB, though, for making me strong. All this is for you.
Hey, Stella: no ice.
About the Author
Stephanie Tromly was born in Manila, grew up in Hong Kong, graduated from the University of Pennsylvania, worked as a screenwriter in Los Angeles, and now lives in Winnipeg with her husband and young son. Trouble Is a Friend of Mine is her debut novel.
Find Stephanie online at
@StephanieTromly
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