Trouble is a Friend of Mine

In the middle of the night eight years ago, four-year-old Sally disappeared from the bedroom she shared with her older brother, Philip Digby. The police had problems gathering evidence because she’d had her fourth birthday party earlier and there were prints and footprints all over the house and yard. A change of clothes had been taken from her dresser. No one in the house, including Digby in the bunk above her, had awakened. No signs of forced entry. Neighbors and party guests were questioned but eventually, the police focused their investigation on the family.

It was revealed that the father had gambling debts and a mistress. Then the police shifted focus to the mother, who had lapsed in taking medication for her bipolar disorder. One expert suggested seven-year-old Digby might have killed his own sister, accidentally or maybe because he was jealous after the party, and his parents were covering it up. That theory had been good for a few headlines, but the newspapers eventually dropped Sally’s story entirely.

The photos in the papers were a slide show of Digby’s family falling into hell. It started with the party in the sunny backyard and ended with Digby’s mother on a gurney after she’d collapsed. After seeing that, ignoring his message felt mean.

It took three tries to write Mom a note that wasn’t as much pants-on-fire lying as it was just devoid of any real information about where I was going.

When I arrived, Digby was on a bench outside the doctor’s building, eating a sloppy meatball sub. Even though I hadn’t answered his message, he seemed unsurprised to see me.

‘I got you cookies,’ he said.

‘I’m not a cookie fan.’

‘You ate, what, seven of Steve’s.’

‘But I’m not hungry now.’

‘You’re in luck, Aldo. She’s not hungry.’ Digby threw the bag of cookies at a homeless guy standing near us. ‘You remember what to do?’

Aldo nodded and dug into the cookies.

Digby pointed at a billboard looming over us that said: RIVER HEIGHTS – WE’RE A FAMILY PLACE. It showed a poster-perfect nuclear family with a boy and a daddy playing catch and a girl and her mommy setting the picnic table.

‘“Family place” is 1930s lingo for no Jews, no gays, and no black people. Tells you everything you need to know about the people running this town that they kept it even though it’s eighty years old and River Heights is, like, thirty percent not white now,’ Digby said. ‘Makes me want to burn this whole place down.’

‘Uh … speaking of arson and other crimes, just to be clear, I’m not doing anything dangerous … or illegal.’

‘Define do.’

‘I’m not stealing anything, or using any kind of weapon or making threats –’

‘Relax, you won’t have to do any of that. You’ll still get into your prissy-priss academy.’

‘Prentiss. The Prentiss Academy,’ I said. ‘You promise?’

‘I promise you won’t have to do anything more than just come with me.’

‘But I don’t understand what you want from me.’

‘I need a look at this Schell guy, and since I clearly have the wrong plumbing …’ he said. ‘How good are your improv skills?’

Digby marched up to the receptionist. ‘Hello. My girlfriend and I are going to have sex and we need to ask Dr Schell about birth control.’

I almost died. The look the receptionist gave us reminded me of when Grandma called her neighbor a dirty bird for peeing in the hydrangeas. Actually, the entire waiting room of women was giving us that look.

‘Well, there’s been a cancelation and I can squeeze you in for a fifteen-minute consultation. But only a consultation – no procedures,’ the receptionist said.

‘We won’t take long,’ Digby said. ‘We got the basics in Health. Just want to confirm some details with an expert … can’t believe everything on the interwebs, amiright?’

The receptionist frowned at me. Why me?

‘Tips … techniques … whatnot,’ Digby said.

Why was everyone staring at me? The words were coming out of Digby’s mouth.

‘Yes, yes, all right,’ the receptionist said. ‘Sit down, fill in these forms, and I’ll call you when it’s your turn.’

I took the forms and we sat down. For some reason, Digby was humming loudly.

‘Should I use our real names?’ I said.

‘Doesn’t matter, nerd. Leave it.’ Digby’s feet stomped a beat and his hands slapped his armrests. Pretty soon, he was half singing and full-body-bopping an elaborate rhythm.

The receptionist sighed loudly to make it clear she was annoyed.

‘Song in my head,’ Digby said. ‘Don’t you hate that? It’s stuck. Dad-dad-dad-da-dee-dee-dee-dee … it’s SO obnoxious!’

He was shouting and the receptionist had to work hard not to listen to what she was hearing. The other women in the waiting room did likewise to avoid encouraging Digby’s crazy. Digby got up and danced across the back of the room. Because everyone was refusing to make eye contact, no one saw him hit the panic button on the security alarm keypad.

The alarm was like a million harpies screeching out of sync. The place exploded. Everyone jumped to their feet. I knew where the sound was coming from and even I thought my heart was going to blow out of my chest.

Schell ran in yelling. He and the receptionist fought as she punched in the alarm code. They were so angry with each other that neither wondered what triggered it in the first place.

‘What the hell, Digby?’ I said.