Trouble is a Friend of Mine

When Dad and Shereene went up to the bedroom, Mom went upstairs and threw Dad out of the house. He moved out for real soon after. Mom had no choice. She couldn’t pretend anymore because now she knew I knew she knew, if you get my drift.

You’d think after all that, Mom would’ve dropped the obliviousness act, but old habits die hard. Madam, your daughter seems to be getting into fistfights. Oh, really? Then I should tweet about gelato. Which is what Mom did that lunchtime.

And speaking of embarrassing me on social media, I realized I should create new accounts before friending people at River Heights. If anyone did friend me, that is. So far, all I had going was Digby.

Speaking of whom, here he was coming to sit with me. Digby’s tray was piled high with two of everything the cafeteria served. ‘So, are you aware that fries count as a vegetable?’

‘What? In wonderful River Heights with the wonderful school system and wonderful clean sidewalks and community center?’ Listening to him kiss up to Mom had really annoyed me.

‘I was just being nice to Liza, Princeton. Try it sometime.’

‘Don’t assume I’m not nice to my mom. You don’t know my life.’

‘No, but I do know your mom’s scared you’re lonely. This morning she was so happy to see you with a friend, she ignored the fact that we were mixing it up with the neighbors in the yard.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. She didn’t notice jack.’

‘Didn’t you see how fast she snatched that tire iron out of your hands? In the car on the way here, she almost hit that guy on the bike because she was staring into the rearview mirror at the bruise on my face,’ he said. ‘And I saw her phone. She’d dialed 911 but just hadn’t hit call yet. She noticed a lot more than you think.’

Last thing I needed was this guy telling me about my own mother. I was silent. I noticed that the red welt on his face had darkened into a rosy bruise. It was brutish, which, strangely, made him look kind of … good?

‘So, it’s a boarding school?’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Prissy-priss academy? Sounds like a boarding school. Little Harry Potter gowns, hats, all that jazz …’

‘Yeah, but I’ll be a day girl and live at my dad’s. He and his wife live close by.’

‘Bet your mom loves that.’

‘She wants me to get into a good college.’

‘What’s the step situation? Stepmom or stepmother? They have kids? Is it a Cinderella situation?’

‘No.’

‘Will they be having any?’

‘Dunno. She’s young and pretty. She won’t want to get fat.’

‘Ah … the fairest of them all … potential Snow White situation,’ he said. ‘Sounds like a happy scene.’

After sitting alone in the cafeteria for weeks, a fresh start anywhere but here sounded like freaking bliss.

‘Anyway, yes, I knew they count fries as a vegetable,’ I said. ‘But did you know some school boards count ketchup as a vegetable too?’

‘Wow, then I’m in luck.’ He opened a pack of ketchup and squeezed the entire thing straight onto his tongue. ‘I can get my five-a-day this way.’

‘That’s vile. You don’t even need someone to dare you to do that?’

‘This kind of stunt’s supposed to win friends. Try it sometime for, you know, better lunchtime conversation,’ he said. ‘Find the girl-world version, though. The popular girls here are stuck-up.’

Digby pointed with his arm fully outstretched so the girls would see he was talking about them. One girl said, disgusted, ‘Oh, my God.’

‘I don’t see it working for you,’ I said.

‘But you’re new – they don’t know what you are yet. There’s hope for you,’ he said. ‘Me? I’m a known quantity. Kind of an untouchable. Doesn’t matter what cool tricks I pull.’

‘Won’t I turn into an untouchable too, if I hang around you?’

‘This town’s beef with me is pretty specific. I don’t think it’s contagious.’

‘Maybe it’s the suit. You look like an undertaker.’

‘I’m sure it doesn’t help.’

‘Seriously, what’s with the suit? I mean, you wear it all the time. Is it the same suit every day?’

‘It’s a housekeeping thing.’

‘It doesn’t fit.’

‘I like it roomy.’

In the five minutes since sitting down, Digby had plowed through his meatloaf, which he stuck between Texas toast with handfuls of fries and, you guessed it, more ketchup. Then he ate two sad little fruit cups of brown-green grapes on half a canned peach.

‘And what’s the story with all the food? You’re always eating, but you’re so freaking skinny still,’ I said. ‘Do you run marathons on the weekends? Is there some kind of worm issue?’

Digby sucked down his juice box until it went supernova into a tiny cardboard ball. ‘It’s a housekeeping thing.’

‘What does that even mean?’

‘Heads up,’ Digby said.