Trouble is a Friend of Mine

No. He was not.

The Monday after I became a criminal (Mom’s word, which isn’t accurate because we only got charged with violations, although, yeah, we sort of got arrested), girls were eyeing me in the bathroom mirror. I considered this progress, because the week before, these same girls didn’t know I was alive.

When someone cut in front of me at the lunch line, someone pulled him back and said, ‘Careful … she’ll shank you in the yard.’ The next day, Henry told me a rumor was going around that we’d formed a vigilante group and that we had a list of people we were going to ‘punish.’

In Wednesday’s PE class, I got picked second out of forty girls for volleyball, which was fishy, because the week before, I’d tripped on my shoelaces and almost broken both arms when I’d gotten them tangled in the net on my way down to the ground. The janitor had had to cut me out. While waiting for our turn to play, two girls asked me about the whole thing.

‘Is it true you got shot?’ Volleyball Girl #1 said.

‘Last Friday? Five days ago?’ My implication was that if I’d gotten shot on Friday, wasn’t it was hugely unlikely I’d be playing fricking volleyball on Wednesday? But the two girls took it to mean something else entirely.

‘You mean you got shot another time too?’ Volleyball Girl #2 said.

By the following Monday, I’d decided to embrace the dark side. I wore the outfit from the break-in. There was still my blood on the hoodie’s front, snow spray up one sleeve, and plaster across the back. I looked bad-ass dirty. By Thursday, I realized I wasn’t attracting the right kind of attention. I got ‘Hey, gangsta’–style comments, but I wasn’t getting into any meaningful conversations.

So I wore my usual dress and boots on Friday. Mom actually sighed in relief when she saw my outfit at breakfast.

For two weeks after our break-in, I didn’t see Digby in school except for once in the parking lot. I was about to call out to him, but he ducked behind some bushes as Dominic Tucker got off the football team’s bus. After a bit, Digby hopped out of the bushes and ran onto the empty bus. I didn’t want to know what new insanity he was up to, though, so I kept walking. I had all the notoriety I needed for a while.





TWELVE


I was doing the recycling one day when I saw Digby on my neighbor’s lawn, scribbling in his notebook. I knew better, but I walked over anyway.

‘Dumb question, but why haven’t you been coming to school?’ I said.

‘Looking for me, huh? I’ve been around. I’m there even when you don’t see me. And you won’t see me unless I want you to.’

‘Unless you want me to? Did you want me to see you sneak onto the football team’s bus? I’m pretty sure those guys would’ve pounded you if they’d seen.’

‘You saw that? Hmm … that’s not good.’

‘It’s really not.’

‘I had to look before they unloaded their bags. You know what those guys’re doing? They –’

‘Please don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’

‘But they –’

‘I don’t. Last time you told me something that was none of my business, I ended up nearly getting arrested,’ I said. ‘And, by the way, Mom’s driving me crazy, trying to weasel out of me what happened.’

‘So tell her already.’

‘Mom thinks your influence turned me into a criminal. She calls me Scarface now.’ I pointed at the scar on my chin.

‘How is Liza?’ he said.

‘Oh, great … just great. All she ever wants to do now is talk. How was school? Are you meeting people? She ends our gab sessions with “good talk, honey” and pats my head.’

‘What’s with the hostility? That sounds nice.’

‘That sounds nice to you?’

‘I thought you were mad before because she was oblivious. Well, now she’s interested.’

‘But she won’t stop asking questions. She’s still broken, but just the other way,’ I said. ‘But, seriously, why are you here?’

Digby pointed at the window of the house we were in front of. A tiny old lady was walking around her living room.

‘Do you know Mrs Preston?’ Digby said.

‘Um … no,’ I said. ‘Why do you know Mrs Preston?’

‘I was taking a walk and got in a conversation with Mrs Preston.’ Digby read from his notebook. ‘Apparently, while she was watching Magnum P.I., she noticed the Dumpster in the alley behind her house was on fire. Again. Apparently, it happens a lot. She called the police, but they didn’t do anything.’

‘I refuse to believe you’re interested in Dumpster arson,’ I said.

Mrs Preston paced back and forth in her living room.

‘Why is she wandering around in there?’ I said.

‘She’s looking for her notes. She wrote down a description of the arsonists,’ Digby said.

In the window, Mrs Preston waved a piece of paper at Digby.