Trouble Makes a Comeback

by Stephanie Tromly

  “Probably the same reason Fisher was. He noticed I’ve been looking into things. Plus, he didn’t get what he wanted nine years ago,” Digby said. “And I bet he’s hoping the game isn’t really over yet.”

  “But it is over?” I said.

  “Well, now we play my game,” he said. “In which I figure out how to nail de Groot without getting my parents thrown into federal prison.”

  I noticed that Digby had slipped his hand under my mattress and was digging around. “What are you doing?” I opened my drawer and took out my diary. “You’re looking for this?” I flipped through the pages to show him they were empty. “Nothing to see.”

  “What’s this? A decoy diary? Might the student have bested the master?” he said.

  “Nope. That’s it. I’ve been too busy to write,” I said.

  “You were too busy to document your own teenage dream coming true? Come on. After all that wishing and praying, what? No happy daily recap?” he said.

  “Like I said, I’ve been busy. I study, I work, Austin and I . . . we do stuff. Go out—”

  “How’s it been going, being a normal? I remember you were all twisted up about this when you first got to River Heights,” Digby said. “Well?”

  “It’s great,” I said.

  “What do you do? Besides put in streaks . . . talk about celebrities? Who’s a virgin?” he said.

  “Look, I’m not, like, insane just because I enjoy other people’s company,” I said.

  Digby said, “Yeah, but these are the little rubber people we used to mock—”

  “Right. We used to. When you were here. But you left.” I tried not to sound like I was sulking. I wasn’t succeeding.

  “I didn’t leave you. I had to go,” Digby said. “I’m not like your father.”

  “Seriously, don’t do that. This is not me having a Daddy hissy fit at your expense. I’m pissed off that you’re mocking me, because you have no right to,” I said. “You left. I moved on.”

  “Okay, fine. I’m not here to attack your way of life or anything,” Digby said.

  “Why did you come here? What do you need?” I said. “Don’t you have a date with Bill tonight?”

  “Relax. I just wanted to give you this . . .” Digby said.

  He handed me the locket in which he’d hidden the SD cards. He’d put our selfies back in the slots.

  “I didn’t even realize you’d stolen it back again,” I said. After I’d gotten it back from him on Sunday, I’d stashed the locket in my jewelry box in the back of my closet. “Nothing weird inside? No tracking chips or miniature explosive that’ll blow my head off?”

  Digby took the locket back from me. I was surprised by his embarrassed expression. “You don’t have to wear it. I just thought—”

  I snatched it back from him. “No. Sorry, I do want it. Thank you.” I put it around my neck. “God. So sensitive suddenly.”

  “Exam day tomorrow. Early night tonight?” he said.

  “Yeah, I’m exhausted. I just hope I’m not too wound up to fall asleep.” When Digby started to laugh, I said, “You know, I don’t have a football scholarship or a multi-million-dollar inheritance waiting for me. I’m not a prodigy like Felix and unlike you, I don’t have genius-level BS Factor to carry me through life,” I said. “This test matters to me.” It infuriated me that he was scrolling through his phone. “You know, you could at least pretend to be sorry that you’re completely ignoring me.”

  Digby held up his phone so I could read the screen. “These are my SAT study notes. I sometimes trip up on basic factoring. It’s really frustrating. I care too, Princeton. I joke about it so I don’t end up caring too much,” Digby said. “So, I should leave you, then?”

  I shrugged. Certainly, I needed to rest. But I also wondered if I just didn’t know how to ask him to stay.

  He typed on his phone and said, “I guess Bill’s down to hang.”

  Nope nope nope. Now I wanted him to go. He needed to go right that moment. “Bye-bye, then, see you.”

  “Okay, wow . . . take it easy,” Digby said. He returned the now-empty spaghetti plate and the milk glass to my tray and propped open my window. “Just like old times, right, Princeton?” He climbed onto the tree branch outside my window. “But it ain’t old times, is it?”

  The whole time he’d been back, we’d both known something was broken, but this moment was the first time we were both willing to admit it. And I wanted to lay the blame where it belonged.

  “You never called, Digby. You just left,” I said. “You never called.”

  But whatever relief I got from finally unloading on him lasted exactly as long as it took for me to speak those words, because Digby said, “The phone rings on both ends, Zoe. You never called me either.”

  And then he left.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “The phone rings on both ends,” he’d said.

  That pithy little tidbit kept me up half the night. At first, I was angry. How dare he, I thought. He’s the one who suddenly tried to change the track of our relationship and he should take the responsibility for it. But then I started to wonder if I was maybe being passive in that awful way girls are when they wait around hoping people will guess how they feel and give them what they want. And then I saw the time and started to worry I’d be tired during the SATs, which, naturally, kept me up even longer.

  • • •

  I woke up the next morning thinking about Wonder Woman.

  During a mild comic book fascination I once went through, I’d started reading Wonder Woman thinking, you know, strong woman, doesn’t need men, et cetera, et cetera. Unlike Batman, who was also billionaire playboy d-bag Bruce Wayne, or Superman, a.k.a. clumsy nincompoop Clark Kent in his off-time, Wonder Woman was Diana Prince: a competent and successful military intelligence officer. Wonder Woman kicked butt at both her day job and her side job.

  And it was in that same way that, after spending the last couple of days running around town double-crossing drug dealers and helping Digby shake down geriatric billionaires, I now had to go ace my SATs.

  I packed my flash cards, my little red notebook, and my wallet, keys, and phone into the big green gym bag of drugs. I turned down Mom’s offer of a ride and took the bus instead because even though she tried to hide it, I could feel her anxiety for me oozing out of her.

  I went into school and headed toward the main gym, where they’d be administering the test. I saw the school resource officer, Harlan Musgrave, who disliked me almost as much as he hated Digby. I tried not to take it as an ill omen that he was obviously going to be one of our exam proctors.

  “Hey, Princeton.”

  I’d been so focused, I’d blown straight past Digby and Henry in the hall.

  “Wow. Look at that determination,” Digby said.

  Henry nodded at the green gym bag. “Sorry about making you hold this, Zoe.”

  “Is it weird that you didn’t ask Sloane to take care of it?” I said.

  “Yeah,” Henry said. “Things are complicated with us right now. She’s really mad.”

  “Well, you need to talk to her,” I said. Henry took the bag from me. “Oh, wait.” I unzipped the bag and retrieved my own things.

  “Are you going to tell her?” Digby said.

  “Tell me what?” I said.

  “Coach Fogle called Henry at home this morning. He might not be starting QB this fall,” Digby said. “Austin’s got a shot now.”

  “What? Did he give you a reason?” I said.

  “He just said he might want to make some personal changes and try someone with a better ground game,” Henry said.

  “Henry . . . I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” I said.

  “Yeah, I’m surprised how okay I am, actually,” he said. But, really, he did not look okay. He was in the kind of autopilot people engage when they don’t want to a
dd to their humiliation with an honest reaction. “I’m okay.”

  “Austin didn’t tell you?” Digby said.

  “No . . . he didn’t mention it when we messaged last night,” I said. “Maybe he doesn’t know?”

  “Oh, look. Here he comes. You can ask him,” Digby said.

  I waved at Austin coming down the hall, but he just waved back at me and abruptly went around the corner.

  “Oh, he knows,” Digby said.

  Sloane came up to us just in time to see it. “That was weird,” she said. She hugged Henry and said, “Are you better?”

  “What was weird?” Bill walked up and jammed herself right against Digby. “Hello, chaps.” She was wearing a brown beret that I found unbelievably annoying. “I’m collecting people’s sexy sip faces.” For some reason, she was talking in a fakety-fake-fake British accent. “Taking selfies relaxes people.”

  “So, really, you’re doing a public service,” I said.

  “What’s a sip face?” Henry said.

  Of course Bill demonstrated. Wide eyes, sucked-in cheeks, shoulders raised, lips puckered, looking more satisfied than a Frappuccino could ever make anyone feel. Bill held out her phone to Henry and said, “What about it, Petropoulos?”

  I wanted to knock the beret off her head.

  “It’s not really a good time, Bill. Maybe later,” Henry said.

  “You guys nervous?” Bill said. “Just take it again in the fall.” As she was walking away, she said to Digby over her shoulder, “Come get me for the party tonight?”

  “The hat? The phony accent?” I said. “What?”

  “She’s just trying stuff out,” Digby said.

  “That doesn’t bother you?” I said. “One time, I said ‘coinkydink’ and you lost your mind. But she’s walking around talking like fake Madonna and you’re not going to say anything?”

  Digby cocked his eyebrow at me. “Don’t let this get in your head, Princeton.” When Felix came up, Digby said, “You brought the office keys?”

  “Yup,” Felix said.

  “So, Sloane,” Henry said, “Digby, Felix, and I can take care of it from here—”

  “I’m coming,” Sloane said. “Who else is going to keep you from checking and cleaning out every guy’s locker just to be sure your teammates don’t get caught with drugs. I dare you to say you weren’t going to.” When Henry couldn’t, Sloane said, “That’s what I thought.”

  Meanwhile, I didn’t want to point out what no one had said, which is that technically, they didn’t need me to go with them. Felix would fix the CCTV, Digby would pick open Papa John’s locker, and Sloane would watch Henry so he wouldn’t do anything heroic while he planted the bag. I was glad, then, when Digby released me by saying, “See you after the test, Princeton?”

  Yes, I felt a twinge of guilt watching the four of them hustle away with the gym bag. And yes, I felt another twinge of guilt when I tucked myself into a science prep room so I could eat my cherry Danish and do my flash cards one more time without getting sucked into polite conversation with the other students as they arrived. But it was all worth it because in the silence, I was able to sink back into my test-taking Zen state.

  I was so relaxed that it was a full two minutes of looking directly at Coach Fogle talking to someone before I realized he was, in fact, talking to Austin. Austin gestured with his hands, seemingly describing an object about three feet wide and a foot tall. I watched Coach Fogle leave Austin and cross the field toward the back entrance to our school’s athletic department’s subterranean offices. There was something very off about his grim-faced, purposeful stomp toward the building.

  And then I noticed his bandaged nose and I remembered Henry had said his sister had gotten her finger in one of the attacker’s nostrils and just pulled.

  I called Digby’s phone but got the “subscriber is not available” message three times, so I decided to go get him. I barely bothered getting my stuff together before I exploded out of the room and ran down the stairs to the offices and lockers in the basement. On the way, I tried to work out the following problem: Where would two people meet if they are three hundred yards apart heading toward each other, one at the speed of a dead run, the other at a speed of an angry walk. From this, I realized two things. First, I had actually found a rare instance in which algebra was useful in real life. And, second, I couldn’t figure out the answer, so I should probably brace myself for a not-so-great score on the math portion of the SATs. Instead, I just ran.

  I got downstairs and was dancing around in the hallway, trying to figure out which way to go, when Digby’s head popped out from one of the offices.

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

  I pushed him back into the office and shut the door behind us. “Get inside quick. Coach Fogle’s coming,” I said.

  “You ran all the way down here to tell me that?” Digby said.

  I said, “Yes, because—”

  “Awww. Princeton was worried? I would have just told him—”

  I could tell he wasn’t going to stop making fun of me anytime soon, so I pinched his nose hard and said, “Coach Fogle’s nose is all messed up.”

  “What?” Digby said.

  “I just saw him with a big bandage across his nose,” I said. “Doesn’t that mean he attacked Henry?”

  “That makes so much sense. He’s supplying steroids to his championship team,” Digby said.

  “Wait. I think he might know the stuff is here,” I said. “Maybe.”

  “What? How?” Digby said.

  “Because Austin knows you gave me the bag of stuff at my house and then I turned up with a huge bag today,” I said. “And I just saw Austin talking to Coach Fogle before the coach started walking toward the athletic offices. He made this gesture.” I copied the way Austin had moved his hands while he was talking to the coach. “Wouldn’t you say that’s about the size of the gym bag?”

  “You think Austin told him?” Digby said. “You really think he’d do that?”

  Of course I didn’t want to think he’d do that, and I silently cursed Digby for the doubt I now felt. Until Digby had shown up last Friday, I never even would have had to ask myself a question like this. But now I was asking. And I thought about how strange Austin looked when he avoided me earlier that morning. And how much he used to talk about wanting to be the QB . . . And then I started to think that maybe he’d told Coach Fogle about the bag last night to mess with Henry. But why would he have told the coach about seeing us with the bag in school?

  I heard Coach Fogle’s wheezy cough in the hallway. I grabbed Digby and squeezed the two of us into the supply closet and shut the door.

  “So you do think he told him,” Digby whispered.

  “I think he told the coach about the drugs last night to get Henry in trouble and I think he told the coach about seeing the bag here today because he’s afraid we’ll get rid of it,” I said. I tried to hold back tears of disappointment. “Why are all men scumbags?”

  Digby laughed but was sympathetic. “Oh, Princeton. Don’t cry. There are still good guys . . .”

  I don’t know what got into me at that point, but before I knew it, I’d grabbed his collar and pulled him closer.

  “Hey,” Digby whispered. “Princeton, wait.”

  “What?” I said. “Why?”

  “Because number one, you haven’t told him yet but mentally, you’ve just broken up with your first serious boyfriend. You’re whacked out on feelings and you should probably cut your hair or get a tattoo instead. Number two . . .” My stomach did that up-down thing when Digby reached for my chin, wiped off some jelly that had dripped out of my Danish, and licked it off his thumb. “I’m not in my right mind when you’re standing this close.”

  We stopped our whispering when the door to the office opened and someone, presumably Coach Fogle, walked in. He rum
maged around for a while before he retrieved what sounded like a big bunch of keys. And then he left the office. Digby and I waited a few seconds before we stumbled out of the closet.

  “We should focus, but I should just say it,” I said. “Old Digby would’ve totally kissed me.”

  “See? And that proves there are still some good guys left in the world,” he said.

  “What has happened to my life that you’re one of the good guys now?” I said.

  Then the door opened. “A good guy who’s stealing from me,” Coach Fogle said. “I need my bag back.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Heeey, Coach Fogle . . .” Digby started to vamp. “We were just looking for the bathroom and I thought it was around here somewhere . . .” Digby tucked me in behind him and started edging us toward the door.

  When the coach made a sudden leap to his desk, Digby and I bolted. Just as I got to the hallway, I turned and saw the coach get a shiny silver gun out from his drawer.

  Digby and I ran down to the enormous locker room. Sloane and Henry were in the special area at the back wall sectioned off for the football team’s lockers. We found them transferring the drugs from my green gym bag back into the black one they’d originally come in.

  “Hey, guys, he’s coming and he’s got a gun,” Digby said.

  “Who’s coming?” Henry said.

  “Coach Fogle,” Digby said. “Henry, his nose is messed up.”

  Henry cursed and he and Digby got to work jamming the door handles shut with upended benches. Sloane and I, meanwhile, finished repacking the gym bag and putting it into Papa John’s locker.

  “It was Coach Fogle?” Sloane said. “How did you not realize it was him?”

  “I got jumped. It all happened so fast. Plus, why would I even think it was him? He never tried to give me any . . .” And then Henry remembered. “Or maybe it’s just because I never went for any of those weird treatments the other guys would get from Chris.”

  Once the benches were holding the doors, Digby turned off the lights and led us with his phone toward the emergency exit. As we got closer to it, though, Henry said, “Coach keeps that exit locked. People kept coming in and stealing stuff.”