Trouble is a Friend of Mine

‘I made it. I had a pottery phase –’

‘Anyway. You’re not a jock.’ He threw my shoes and hit a deflated basketball sitting on the pile, a relic of the brief moment when I was the tallest girl in seventh grade. ‘You’re not an artist …’ He carelessly threw the ewer so it broke on top of the pile of my stuff. ‘You’re not an emo philosophy nerd.’ He opened a Kierkegaard reader and loudly cracked the spine for the first time. He picked up a whip and leopard fur handcuffs. ‘And you’re definitely not –’

‘Those were a gift … a joke,’ I said. ‘And they were locked away.’

‘Behind a four-pin padlock. Those look tough but only take, like, ten seconds to pick,’ Digby said. ‘The one on your locker at school too.’

‘I knew it,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here? I know you have boundary issues, but this is stalker creepy.’

‘What are you talking about? I told you I was coming. You said, and I quote, “Yeah, okay, see you later.”’

Oh. I guess that’s what he’d said on the lawn this afternoon.

‘I’m pretty sure I didn’t say you could go through my stuff. Which is so freaking rude, by the way.’

‘I’m getting to know you.’

‘Most people do that with conversation.’

‘This is so much quicker.’

‘Instead of snooping around, why don’t you just ask?’

‘Ask.’

‘Yeah, ask.’

He picked up a pair of silicone bra inserts. ‘Do you use these every day or just on special occasions?’

‘O … kay …’

He held up my athlete’s foot cream. ‘This is why you should be glad you aren’t a jock.’

‘Digby, this is not a conversation.’

‘What we should really talk about is this.’ He held up a clipping from the local paper profiling Henry and his college prospects. ‘Because this is not going to happen. Sloane would kill you dead first of all.’

‘Wait. That was in my diary. You read my diary?’

‘I didn’t read it …’ His weasel tone didn’t sell his denial. ‘… much. I skimmed it. You know, you’re way ahead of the game. Most people don’t have their identity crisis until their forties. You’re wrong, by the way,’ he said, and he quoted: ‘“Medium-length brown hair, brown eyes, medium height. All I see in the mirror is a medium brown blur.”’

I lunged at him.

‘You don’t really think that, do you, Princeton? Because that makes me want to cry. And also … Henry gets “hero handsome” and all I get is “Jehovah’s Witness”?’

I jumped at him and this time, after elbowing him in the gut, I got my diary back.

There was rustling in the tree outside my window and Henry’s head popped into my room. I checked my breath. Still minty.

‘Hey, Zoe.’ Henry climbed in and knocked over a pile of my books. The three of us shushing each other was louder than the books hitting the floor.

‘Twilight? Princess Diaries? The It Girl?’ Digby looked through the books on my desk. ‘That explains “hero handsome.”’

‘Shut up,’ I said.

‘Sorry I’m late, guys. The baby wouldn’t go down, so I couldn’t leave … then my bike got a flat …’ Henry said.

‘Seriously, you sound like a middle-aged accountant with your problems,’ Digby said.

‘What are you doing here?’ I said.

‘Digby told me to come,’ Henry said. ‘Hey, people in school are calling us the Enforcers.’

‘And my room’s the clubhouse?’ I said.

Digby rifled through my drawers.

‘Hello? Can I help you find something?’ I said.

‘I’m starving. Whoa, what’s this?’ Digby pulled something out of my drawer and traded nasty-boy looks with Henry.

‘Morons. It’s a flashlight. It’s Swedish, so it’s all design-y.’ I flicked it on and off to put an end to that idea. ‘Check the bottom drawer.’

‘By the way, Digby, nice move eating my baby sister’s Mum-mums. She was teething last night and Mom melted down when she realized you ate the entire box,’ Henry said.

‘I was starving. You know, for a family that runs a restaurant, your kitchen at home’s pathetic,’ Digby said.

‘But what was really excellent, though, dude, was how you put the empty box back on the shelf so the people who went to the store didn’t know they needed to buy more. I learned a whole new level of Greek cursing,’ Henry said. ‘So, what? Val’s cooking still crappy?’

‘Yeah, still crappy …’ Digby pulled more stuff from my drawers. ‘Wasabi peas. Digestive cookies. Plain. Candied ginger. Bottle of soda water. Princeton, you eat like my great-aunt Ruth. Only thing missing is denture cream and … oh, wait! This is close enough to dentures. A retainer … with a dust bunny and paper clip stuck to it.’

‘I never wear that thing,’ I said.

‘You got to keep that up or your teeth will move back,’ Digby said.

‘Now you sound like my great-aunt Ruth,’ I said.

Digby opened the packages and dumped the peas, biscuits, and candied ginger on my duvet. I instantly felt crumbs stabbing my legs.