Trouble Makes a Comeback

by Stephanie Tromly

  By this time, Coach Fogle had started bashing against the door. And then we heard the benches squeal against the floor as Coach started to move them out of place. They weren’t going to keep him out for very long.

  “End run?” Henry pointed at another door. “Can you unlock this one? The training room’s back door opens into the hallway.”

  We heard Coach Fogle’s footsteps entering the locker room and the lights came back on. The idea came to Digby and me at the same time and we both pointed to the top of the lockers on the far side of the room. Digby gave me a boost and I crawled onto a locker as Henry did the same for Sloane. I reached down to help Digby climb up but instead of hiding with the rest of us, he stayed behind and began to pick open the lock on the training room door.

  Across the room, Coach Fogle had started searching the closets and bigger lockers. From my vantage point, I could see that he’d worked himself up to the point where he’d made himself physically unwell. He was drenched in sweat and was moving erratically. He ran his palm across his eyes every few steps he took. He found the green gym bag, but when he saw his drugs weren’t in it, he got even angrier and thrashed the empty bag around.

  Henry slid off from atop the locker, found a hockey stick, and positioned himself behind Digby, ready to defend him when Coach Fogle came around the corner for them. It was agony watching Coach Fogle edge closer to us, and when he crossed a line I’d imagined on the locker room floor, I decided I had to do something. I took my calculator out of my pocket and threw it back toward the door where the coach started from. Thankfully, Fogle fell for it and ran back to investigate.

  Finally, Digby got the door open. Sloane and I slid off the lockers as quietly as we could and went through the door into the training room.

  So apparently, this is what a successful high school football team’s training room has: a long row of stationary bikes, multiple sets of free weights, massage tables, and a physiotherapy torture machine. The crowning glory of this temple to high school athleticism, though, was the faux log cabin sauna that dominated a corner of the room.

  This is the same school, by the way, that can’t afford a full-time librarian.

  Digby tried the door to the hallway, but that too was locked. He got to work on opening it. As I had been for the past few minutes, I checked for a signal so I could call the police.

  Henry whispered, “There’s never a signal down here.”

  And then we heard Fogle coming closer. There wasn’t enough time for Digby to pick yet another lock, so, with the sound of Fogle’s heavy breathing coming even closer, we all climbed into the sauna, pulled the door shut, and waited.

  Fogle turned on the lights and shuffled around the room. Then, finally, just when we were looking at each other, starting to hope he’d gone away, Fogle’s face popped up in the glass pane in the door. We heard him take out his keys, turn the lock shut, and snap off the key in the barrel. He held up the broken key to the glass pane to make sure we knew we were screwed.

  “Coach Fogle . . . Coach.” Henry pushed his way to the front. “Coach Fogle, please. What are you doing?”

  Digby stepped up to the glass pane and said, “Do you understand what you’re doing? If you hurt us, your prison sentence goes from months to years—”

  “I won’t last a month in prison . . .” Coach Fogle said. “I can’t go to prison. My whole life is this team . . .”

  Fogle wandered away from the door. He was still talking and cursing, though, and we could hear him barking away unintelligibly while he worked at whatever insane thing he was up to.

  “He isn’t going to cook us in here, is he?” I said.

  “It takes my sauna half an hour to even warm up enough to make me sweat,” Sloane said. “We’ll be out of here before that happens, right?”

  Digby was already at work on the lock, but his tool couldn’t penetrate the keyhole with the key broken into the other side. And then we heard the sound of clanging pipes.

  Digby had Henry help him move the stove from the wall and said, “He isn’t trying to cook us. He killed the pilot light and turned on the gas.” Digby took my scarf and stuffed it in the pipe. By now I could smell the gas. “He’s going to suffocate us.”

  Henry went to the door and hammered at the glass pane with the hockey stick he’d brought in with him. The small hole he created helped a little, but the smell of gas was becoming overpowering fast. By this time, Sloane and I were coughing hard. More unsettling than my struggle to breathe, though, was the spacey, faraway sensation I got. For a split second, the reason I was scared in the first place slipped my mind and then when I remembered, I didn’t much care.

  “Get down on the floor,” Digby said before pushing me down and lying next to me. He took out his phone.

  “No signal,” I said.

  “I’m not making a call,” he said.

  He took the battery out of his phone and I think I actually passed out for a little bit while he disassembled it.

  “Stay awake, Princeton.” He touched my cheek. “You’ll want to see this.”

  “See what?” I said.

  “Stuff’s about to go boom,” he said.

  “Won’t we blow up?” I said.

  “Not if the gas is under nine percent of the air in here . . .” Digby said. “Or did they say six percent?”

  “Did who say six percent?” I said.

  “Or was that a dream?” Digby said.

  “What?” I said.

  Digby worked the stripped-down battery into the space between the door and the jamb right by the lock. “People might say . . . explosion in a roomful of gas . . . bad idea . . .” He paused for a coughing fit. And then he eased off one of his shoes. “But I’d say . . .” He hammered at the battery with his shoe. “Could things get worse?”

  And, finally, whatever he’d hoped would connect in the battery did. There was a small but brilliant flash of hot white in the doorjamb that left the lock visibly damaged. The gas that had piped into the sauna ignited and a sheet of fire rose up the wall and crawled across the ceiling. I would’ve screamed if I’d had the breath to do it.

  Digby and Henry kicked at the door, not really able to give it their all as they cowered from the flames. The door was rattling, but it wouldn’t completely open. Digby and Henry started faltering but then, suddenly, the door flew open.

  Standing in the doorway was Felix, holding the dumbbell he’d used to bash open the lock.

  I got out of the burning sauna, pulling Sloane along with me. Felix disappeared around the back of the sauna and turned off the gas and then we all staggered back out through the locker room and into the hallway.

  “Oh, my God, Felix,” I said. “We would’ve died—”

  “You guys . . . I killed Coach Fogle,” Felix said.

  “What?” I said. “How?”

  “Good,” Sloane said. “He just tried to kill us.”

  “Where is he?” Digby said. “Because if he isn’t actually dead . . . he has a gun.”

  “That was a real gun?” Felix said. He led us around the corner, where right at the base of the stairs, Coach Fogle was lying on his back next to the gun and my empty green gym bag.

  “Well, Felix, you always did say you wanted to see a real dead body,” I said.

  “I just didn’t think I’d DIY one with a jumpscare,” Felix said.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “So I suspended the feed on the cameras and I was waiting for you guys to finish so I could turn them back on, but you were taking forever and they’re about to shut the doors to the test center, so I decided to come check on you, and when I turned the corner, Coach Fogle was right there. I guess I startled him and then there was a loud bang, which I guess I know now was an actual gun and not a starter pistol,” Felix said. “He grabbed his chest and walked away. And then, BAM, he just dropped dead.”

 
“But did you check, Felix?” When Felix hesitated, Digby said, “So, we’re not actually sure he is dead.”

  Felix shook his head.

  Digby kicked away the gun and then nudged Coach Fogle with his foot. “Although I don’t really feel like mouth-to-mouthing this dude.”

  “Come on, Digby.” Henry pushed past us, dropped down, and started chest compressions on Coach Fogle.

  After a while, Felix checked Coach Fogle’s neck. “Ooh, there’s a pulse.”

  “Okay, that’ll do, Captain America.” Digby patted Henry on the shoulder.

  “We better get up there and call 911,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” Digby pulled the fire alarm and as the klaxons rang out, he said, “This might be the first time I’ve pulled one of these for a legit fire.”

  They’d evacuated the whole building and everyone who’d been in school to take the test was standing outside watching the first responders working. Most of the kids were goofing around, relieved about getting out of taking the test that day. I overheard Kyle Mesmer complain that his party wouldn’t be as good that night because people wouldn’t be partying to celebrate the SATs being over.

  The crowd gasped when Coach Fogle was wheeled into the ambulance and even though he was still unconscious, I was relieved to see he was breathing on his own.

  “Digby, what do we do?” Henry asked.

  “Well, the bag’s still in Papa John’s locker,” Digby said.

  “How are we going to get the bag to the police without having to explain how we know it got there?” Henry said.

  “I think I got it.” Digby pointed at Harlan Musgrave, our school resource officer, standing across the parking lot from us. “I’m going to go get Musgrave to help us.”

  “Musgrave?” What I meant was, Do you mean Musgrave, the guy whose career you destroyed nine years ago, who you got fired from the police force for bungling the search for your sister? “Less than five months ago, he practically assaulted you in the cafeteria. He hates you. He’s going to use this to put you in jail.”

  “Oh, come on . . . bygones,” Digby said. “I’m going to talk to him.”

  “I’m coming,” Henry said.

  “Then I’m coming,” Sloane said.

  “Nobody’s coming,” Digby said. “I’m the only one here with nothing to lose. Just wait.”

  “Yeah, right. I’m coming,” I said. “He knows my mom is with a cop. He won’t screw with me.”

  “Yes,” Digby said. “Princeton can come.”

  Musgrave watched our approach and by the time we got to him, he was already halfway to enraged.

  “You two did this to get out of taking the test?” Musgrave said.

  “How bad do you want to get back to your old gig?” Digby said.

  “I should write you two up. You stink of smoke. You obviously started that fire,” Musgrave said.

  “See? It’s ace instincts like that that make me think you’re wasted around here,” Digby said.

  Musgrave told us where to go and what to do with ourselves when we got there.

  “Come on, Digby, let’s go back to my place and give this information to my mom’s boyfriend,” I said. “He’s a real police officer.”

  “What information?” Musgrave said.

  “I mean, I’m sure you know a lot of this stuff already, but I noticed you watching Coach Fogle the other day, so you probably know he’s been supplying steroids to some kids on the football team?” To Musgrave’s confused expression, Digby said, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You have the personality of week-old garbage, but your mind’s like a steel trap—nothing’s getting past you. Especially if it’s happening right under your nose.”

  “Uh . . . yeah, yeah . . . what’s your information . . . ?” Musgrave said.

  “We saw him putting something in one of the football players’ lockers,” Digby said.

  “You didn’t see which one?” Musgrave said.

  “Seriously? You want us to do the paperwork too?” Digby said. “Check them all, Musgrave.”

  • • •

  About half an hour later, we were standing around outside the school with the thinning crowd of kids still waiting for their rides when Musgrave pranced out the school’s main entrance carrying the gym bag. Full of cheer and self-importance, he joked around with the cops.

  “Do you ever wish you could get credit for some of this stuff?” Felix said. “I mean, we didn’t even get our names in the paper for what we did last year.”

  “We have a lot of lawyers to thank for that,” Sloane said. “Trust me, Felix, if people found out, it wouldn’t be credit we’d be getting. It’d be blame.”

  We watched Musgrave climb into a waiting squad car cradling his golden ticket back into the big time.

  “It’s better no one knows what we did,” Digby said.

  “Coach Fogle knows,” Henry said. “And Papa John, and Silkstrom . . .”

  “Their lawyers aren’t going to let them talk,” Digby said. “It won’t help their case to admit all the things they’ve done to us.”

  I noticed Sloane hugging Henry while Henry stared at the crowd of law enforcement at the school’s entrance.

  “Henry, are you okay?” I said.

  “Well . . .” Henry said. “I think I just got my coach arrested. Pretty sure our entire football program’s going to be under investigation . . . and that’s going to get us suspended for at least the next couple of seasons because . . .” Henry laughed in a borderline hysterical way. “. . . there was drug use. I mean, there was a lot of drug use.”

  “Henry, they used drugs. There are consequences,” Sloane said.

  “But what about all the guys who didn’t do steroids but still won’t be able to play next year? I can think of at least three juniors who’ll probably miss out on a scholarship because of this,” Henry said. “You know what? We should’ve just let the whole thing burn. If we had let that locker room burn down, we wouldn’t be having this problem—”

  “Excuse me?”

  We turned to see Principal Granger standing right behind us.

  “Did you say ‘we should’ve just let the whole thing burn’?”

  “Oh . . .” Sloane laughed. “He’s just very upset, what with Coach Fogle having a heart attack . . .”

  “And he meant ‘we’ like, ‘we the selfish people of River Heights High School football’ because we worked the coach to death and we should just burn this place down for almost taking that sweet, sweet Coach Fogle from us,” Digby said.

  Principal Granger looked unconvinced.

  “He’s upset. It’s just crazy talk,” Digby said. “You don’t say crazy stuff when you’re upset?”

  Luckily, a police officer called for Principal Granger just then, but from the look on his face as he walked away, it was clear Principal Granger still thought something was up with us.

  “Okay, I know you’re upset, but you have to cool it, Henry,” Digby said.

  Sloane’s car drove up and she said to Henry, “Come on, let’s go to my house.”

  But Henry waved her off and started walking away. “No, I need to clear my head. I’m going home. I’ll see you later.” And then he turned around and started jogging.

  Sloane gave us an almost forlorn look and raised her hands like, Now what?

  “Just give him time,” Digby said. “He’ll be all right.”

  Sloane got into her car as Felix’s mom arrived to pick him up. As he was about to walk away, Felix said, “Hey, you guys are still going to the party tonight, right? To celebrate?”

  “Celebrate what? They’re just going to reschedule the test,” I said.

  “Celebrate life, Zoe. We’re alive.” And then he climbed into his car.

  “I know he’s right, but I’m just not feeling it,” I said. “Do you think Hen
ry’s going to be okay?”

  “Coach Fogle ran Henry’s whole life for three years. Told him what to eat, how much to sleep . . . it’s like Henry killed his father today,” Digby said.

  A little way off in the parking lot, Austin and a bunch of his football bros were climbing into their cars.

  “Ugh. I guess I should go to this party tonight. I told Austin I would,” I said. “But I feel like bailing now.”

  Digby sighed. “Isn’t it nice to get back to dealing with regular old teenage drama?”

  “It’s horrible,” I said. “I need a nap.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Later that day, I was awakened from a deep sleep by some idiot leaning on the doorbell. As I resurfaced from the bliss of feeling nothing, the afternoon’s craziness started coming back to me bit by bit and with it, a whole raft of physical pain. Everything I owned was hurting and I just could not get myself off the couch.

  But the doorbell was still ringing. I staggered to my feet and answered the door.

  “Sloane? What are you doing here?” I said.

  “Is that what you’re wearing?” Sloane said. She, of course, was looking chic in a tight all-black leather outfit.

  “My sweats? What else am I supposed to wear to take a nap?” I said.

  “Oh . . . I thought that’s what you were wearing to the party,” she said.

  “You thought I’d turn up to a party dressed like a hobo?” I looked down at my clothes. “Well . . . that was a horrifying glimpse into what you really think of me.”

  “So you are going to the party?” she said.

  “I didn’t say that,” I said. “I don’t feel like going now.”

  “What? But you have to go,” she said.

  “Have to?” I said.

  “Seriously? This is your moment,” she said, pushing past me and into the hall.

  “My moment?” I said. “Moment to do what?”

  “Come on. Are you kidding? Dumping Austin at Kyle Mesmer’s party will make you a legend,” she said. “That’ll keep those wannabes Charlotte and Allie talking for a while.”