Trouble is a Friend of Mine

‘And telling Digby now that you didn’t tell wouldn’t help?’


‘Digby’s just spent five years in Texas with his angry alcoholic dad. What do you think?’

His jaw muscle clenching and unclenching was hypnotic.

‘What’s happening tonight?’ he said.

‘He wants to break in to a gynecologist’s office. He’s convinced the guy had something to do with the girl who disappeared this summer.’

‘You mean Marina Miller? Digby knows something about Marina?’

Henry’s phone rang. It was adorable he was embarrassed that ‘Can You Tell Me How to Get to Sesame Street?’ was his ringtone. ‘My little sister picked it.’

He read the message, gasped at the screen, and laughed. He turned to look at Sloane, who was giggling as she took her phone out from under her shirt. Henry got another message.

‘I’m sorry, these girls are crazy.’ He actually blushed. ‘I’ll delete these because you know, I don’t need to be on some sex offender registry because I got sexted at.’

‘Heeeeeenry. It’s your turn,’ Sloane said.

Henry shook his head, but he definitely looked interested. Sloane and her friend started throwing fries at him.

‘I’ve got to deal with this.’ He walked toward Sloane, picking up the trail of fries she’d thrown as he went.

‘Wait! What do I do about tonight? He’s picking me up at eight,’ I said.

‘Where?’

‘My house. One fifty-two Ashton.’

‘Henry! We’re out of fries, so we might have to start throwing our burgers,’ Sloane said.

‘I’ll think of something,’ Henry said to me. Then to Sloane and her friend, he said, ‘Guys, stop throwing food around. I’m the one who’s going to have to clean up.’

‘Oh, boo, you’re no fun.’ Sloane waited until Henry wasn’t looking and flipped me the bird.

‘That’s classy,’ I said. It was a taste of things to come.





EIGHT


I tried not to act suspicious at dinner, but I was squirrely. I was becoming obsessed with the idea of Schell and his camera. I waited until my mom poured herself a glass of wine.

‘So, um … I wanted to talk about Dr Schell.’ There. I’d said it.

‘Dr Schell? My gynecologist?’ she said. ‘Wait. Is this about that boy who picked you up before school today? Is he why you’re so nervous?’

‘Digby. Yeah, actually, it is kind of about Digby.’

‘Is he … pressuring you?’

‘What?’

‘You know, Zo, you shouldn’t let people pressure you. Especially someone you’ve just met. Sometimes I worry you’re too trusting. They say it’s something I should look out for because children of divorce … and you know, you’re the new girl … and you’ve never really been that confident …’

What the hell was she talking about? I’d lost control of the conversation. ‘Mom. Shut up and listen to me.’

Mom took a big drink of wine. ‘Sweetie, if you need to see Dr Schell, I’m okay with it, but we should talk more before we go see him. Together. All three of us. Because it’s important that, as your partner, Digby understands he has responsibilities too.’

The idea of me and Digby. The idea of Mom imagining me and Digby. The idea of going to Dr Schell with Mom. God. Classic Mom. She was trying so hard to confront reality that she was confronting the wrong reality. I shut the conversation down. We ate the rest of dinner in silence.

Later that night, I sat on the steps outside my house. I’d gotten off the porch, gone back inside, and come back out twice already. The second time I came out wearing all black and a hoodie. By 8:15, it felt like I was daring myself to stay out on that porch for some reason I couldn’t really name.

But I did really like my outfit.

At 8:30, a crappy white Chevy Something stopped outside my house. I watched the driver grind the gears and do a sucky parallel parking job for a few minutes before I realized that, in fact, it was Digby driving. When he finally gave up, one front wheel was on the sidewalk and the butt of the car was sticking way out into the street. Digby got out and walked to my porch.

‘No way. There’s no way I’m getting in that car with you behind the wheel,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘What d’you mean, “what?” Your driving is ridiculous. Even the car looks embarrassed.’

‘Do you suggest we take the bus home after breaking in?’

‘I’m suggesting we don’t break in at all.’

‘Let me show you something.’ He took a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘This was on Schell’s computer. A list of his patients – some with numbers by their names. Including Marina Miller.’

‘Credit card numbers? Or something to do with their prescriptions …’

‘Your mother’s name has numbers next to it.’

I grabbed the paper from him.

‘It’s not her Social Security number … and there aren’t enough numbers for them to be credit cards,’ I said.

‘We really need to get back in there.’