Trouble is a Friend of Mine Page 3

  The older boys ate the little guy’s pancakes to clear his plate faster, but all that did was make him cry. The eldest in red plaid, clearly their leader, slid out of the booth and dragged the little guy out behind him.

  “Oh . . . I get it,” Digby said.

  Digby took my soda and grabbed a mop from a bucket by a wait station, leaving a sudsy streak behind him as he dragged it outside the diner.

  On the other side of the door, Digby slid the mop across the handles so when the boys in plaid tried to leave, the door wouldn’t open. They piled up against the glass and pushed and pulled to rock the mop loose. No joy. It was stuck and so were they. Digby sipped my soda and watched the trapped boys get more and more frustrated. He had that bored expression again and it drove those boys crazy.

  The diner’s manager came out to see what the racket was all about. He grabbed two boys by the collar and steered them back to their table. Red Plaid pointed at Digby, mouthed the word you, and punched the glass door before following the manager.

  Digby slid out the mop and walked back in behind them.

  “That was nice,” I said. “That poor waitress would’ve had to pay if they’d skipped out on their bill.”

  But Digby wasn’t even looking at the angry waitress hawk-eyeing the boys.

  “But I get the feeling you don’t really care about her,” I said. “So why did you do that?”

  “Who knows? Fun?” Digby saluted Red Plaid.

  The manager said something about calling the police and went into the back.

  Red Plaid walked to our table. I slipped my butter knife onto my lap.

  “Think you’re smart, huh?” Red Plaid said.

  “Smarter than you, at least,” Digby said.

  Red Plaid kicked over a chair behind him. “Someone oughta teach you to mind your own business.”

  He lifted Digby by the shirtfront and would’ve smashed Digby in the mouth, but another, even bigger hand clapped itself around Red Plaid’s fist.

  Digby’s savior was a tall, muscle-bound, Disney Prince Eric type I’d usually consider lame, but this guy had it working. He was hero handsome.

  “Hey, Henry. Great timing as usual,” Digby said.

  “Digby. I heard you were back from Texas.” Henry pushed Red Plaid away. “Pay your bill, never come back. Got me, dude?”

  “Next time . . . it’ll just be you and me,” Red Plaid said to Digby. As he left, he slapped a glass of water off our table. It smashed into smithereens.

  “He has a point. Aren’t you worried he’ll jump you on your way home?” I said.

  “Not today—I’ll wait until the cops come before I take off,” Digby said.

  “And after today?” Henry said.

  “I’ll worry about it after today,” Digby said.

  Clearly, Digby wasn’t going to introduce us.

  “I’m Henry Petropoulos.” Petropoulos. Like an actual Greek god. “My parents own this diner.” This explained his apron and soapy elbows.

  “I’m Zoe Webster. Digby and I are partners on a school project.”

  “She wouldn’t want you to think we were on a date or anything,” Digby said.

  “I wouldn’t want anybody to think we were on a date.” I was surprised I had that answer lined up. Bonus: Henry laughed.

  Henry saw the file folders on the table. “Damn. You’re doing this again, Digby?”

  “It’s not ‘again’ if I never stopped,” Digby said.

  “And now you’re dragging her into it?” Henry said.

  “No one’s dragging me into anything—”But I might as well have been a piece of furniture.

  “I never dragged you into anything, Henry,” Digby said.

  “No, you just made it impossible to be around you if I didn’t do what you wanted me to,” Henry said.

  “Tell your mom the cheeseburgers are even better than before. I don’t know about shoestring fries, though, I liked the crinkle cuts,” Digby said. “But then, I’m a classic kind of guy.”

  Henry knew he was being dismissed. “Whatever, dude.” To me, he said, “Digby’s a good guy and he doesn’t mean to do it. He never means to do it. But if you’re gonna hang with him, look out for yourself, because he won’t remember to look out for you. Nice meeting you, Zoe.”

  Digby didn’t look up at Henry waving and walking away.

  “So—medical professional, parked outside her house on the night she disappeared . . . my money’s on Schell,” Digby said. “Speaking of money . . . you got any?”

  “Not enough to cover both of us.”

  “Know what? That’s okay—in fact, keep it. Catching a dine-and-ditch has gotta be good for a free meal.”

  “Wait. You sat down to eat knowing you couldn’t pay? That’s crazy.”

  “I knew something would turn up. Lookit, you came along.”

  “But I can’t pay for both of us.”

  “And you don’t have to because this came along.”

  Later, when I knew him better, I realized there was no point having this kind of conversation with Digby. We lived in different universes. What-if scenarios that bothered normal people never rattled him because for Digby, there were too many close calls to worry about.

  “What’s the deal with Henry?” I said.

  “You’re not his type. He’s a typical varsity QB . . . he likes them blond and top-shelf generic,” Digby said. “And he probably has a girlfriend—he always does. Even in kindergarten he had one. Henry brings the girls to the yard. Know what I mean?”

  “What? I didn’t mean that. I meant, what’s the deal with you and Henry.”

  “Oh, that.” Digby looked sad. “We used to be friends. A long time ago.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I don’t bother with friends. Better to travel light.”

  I wasn’t sure if I minded that he didn’t think I was friend enough to be considered baggage.

  FOUR

  A few days later, he messaged. “Meet 4pm parking lot ur moms gyn.” Rude. I didn’t answer even though I knew he could see I’d read his message. I didn’t intend on meeting him. I’d just microwaved popcorn and I had a stack of magazines.

  Then I realized that although he took up so much mindspace, I didn’t know anything about Digby. I hadn’t even googled him, which was weird because I google everything.

  I’d typed in Digby before I discovered I didn’t know his first name. Digby and River Heights was the best I could do. I thought I’d get a million random hits, but instead, I got these: “Sally Digby: Abducted!” “River Heights Girl Vanishes in the Night,” and “Day 54, No Ransom, No Clues: Sally Digby Feared Dead.”

  Whoa. Not what I’d expected. I read the articles in order. This is how it went down.

  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 wanna 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 gonna 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 wanna 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.

  Digby whispered, “One-two-one-three-one-zero. One-two-one-three-one-zero.”

  Before I could process that, the receptionist said Schell was ready for us.

  Despite all the sex talk in my house in the last year while the divorce proceedings were in full swing, my own experience with sex was nonexistent. I hadn’t even been to a gynecologist’s office before.

  On the long walk to the exam room, we passed posters like HOW TO TELL A NEW PARTNER YOU HAVE A SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASE and DON’T PANIC!: WHAT TO DO WHEN YOUR CONDOM BREAKS. When I saw the exam table with stirrups you put your feet into so your knees stuck straight up, I thought, God, I promise to stay a virgin, just please don’t let anyone probe me.

  “What can I do for you?” Schell said.

  There was something creepy behind the suburban dadness of Schell’s first impression. If he were ever found with corpses in his freezer, people would say I knew it. He was so pink and moist. Of course, it’s possible that Digby’s paranoiac distrust of everyone was contagious.

  “The school nurse isn’t allowed to give us the talk anymore, so . . .” Digby said.

  “Surely your parents—” Schell said.

  “No, I mean the talk about different things we can use, not the classic sex talk,” Digby said.

  Schell’s eyes goggled at me out of his sweaty bald head. There were beads of sweat on his upper lip too, which was weird because the room was chilly.

  “You mean contraceptives?” Schell said.

  “Yeah—what we could use in addition to condoms. A pill just to make sure?” Digby said.

  “She could go on a low-dose—”

  “She’s got a seizure disorder, so maybe you could check if it’d interact with her anticonvulsant.”

  “These are widely prescribed—”

  “We’d be more comfortable if you checked.”

  “Anyway, you’ll have to come back. I can’t write the scrip without insurance information, parental consent, an internal exam . . . and I don’t have time today.”

  Internal exam. I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Please, Doc. If you’d just look it up real quick,” Digby said. “But, you know . . . now.”

  Schell looked annoyed but went to his computer anyway. Digby stood behind him, spitting out questions. Thrombosis? Weight gain? Hair loss?

  Digby seemed even more wired than usual and kept checking the time. A minute into this weird charade, we heard a loud wail. Most of it was garbled, but what was audible was disturbing.

  “Mafawashee . . . you killed my baby . . . !”

  Schell ran out of the room, cursing. Digby immediately jammed a USB key into the computer, about to type, when I pointed out a key logger plugged into it.

  “Why does a gynecologist need a key logger?” I said.

  “Or a cell signal jammer, but he has one of those in reception too.” Digby removed the key logger.

  “Get off that.”

  “Close the door,” he said, already typing. “I can get into his patient records, but not these encrypted files. I’ll clone them and decrypt later.”

  I was in a bind. Close the door and help him rip off Schell’s files or leave the door open and get caught sooner. I would later recognize this as a textbook Digby lose-lose scenario.

  I closed the door.

  “Finish what you’re doing or stop—I don’t care which. Just get off that computer.”

  “Take it easy.” Digby ejecte
d the USB and clicked back to the webpage Schell had been on. I put back the key logger. “Hey, check this out.” He climbed onto the exam table, leaned on the stirrups, and reached for a ceiling-mounted camera.

  “It’s for training med students.” I pointed at a sign that said so with a highlighted note that CAMERA IN OPERATION WHEN GREEN LIGHT IS ON.

  “The angle’s weird. It’d film the patient but not the med student.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I said. Digby waited a second for the penny to drop. “He’s filming patients . . . ?” Patients like Mom.

  “What’s this?” Digby reached out again but lost his balance and somersaulted off the exam table. He pulled the camera off its mount on his way down, leaving it dangling by its wires, and causing a huge racket.

  God, we’re dead. Any second Schell would rush back in. I panicked. I bolted out the door into the waiting room, where I barely registered that Schell was arguing with Aldo, the homeless guy Digby was talking to outside. “Hey, girlie, where your cookies at?” Aldo said as I ran past him.

  I ran out the door and kept running for blocks. When Digby finally caught up to me, I was sitting on a bench, panting.

  “So . . . that wasn’t suspicious or anything,” Digby said.

  Reader, I hit him. Hard. In the gut.

  “Okay . . . I deserved that. Although, thanks for not hitting me in the nads.”

  “You realize Schell’s gonna call the cops on us,” I said.

  “That’s a good punch . . . definitely useful,” Digby said. “Schell’s not calling the cops. He doesn’t even know who we are. Besides . . .” Digby held up a little black square.

  “What’s that?”

  “Electrical tape I peeled off the camera,” Digby said. “It was covering the little green LED that lights up when the camera’s on. He’s filming patients without telling them, so I doubt he’ll call the cops.”

  “That guy . . . Aldo? You paid him to do that?”

  “You didn’t really think the timing of that was a coincidence, did you, Princeton?” Digby spat out brown-red stuff.

  “Is that blood?”

  “Meatball marinara. You kinda rearranged my lunch when you hit me . . .” he said. “Nah . . . he won’t call the cops. Question is, should we?”