Trouble is a Friend of Mine

‘Well, you’re not wrong there,’ Digby says.

The door opens and in walks Shereene. I’ve never gotten over the fact that all the way until they eloped and married in Barbados, Dad had referred to Shereene as his ‘colleague’ and insisted that I participate in their little charade. Shereene is exactly what a man having a midlife crisis would bring home from the office. Too blond, too tan, blinging way too much, and wearing perfume so thick, I can taste it. She ignores me and spins for my father a web of complaints that spans the hospital’s lack of valet parking to the injustice of cutting short their vacation to see me.

Her whining creates a bubble of obliviousness around her and Dad, so Digby and I are able to talk about her without lowering our voices.

‘Stepmom?’ Digby says.

I nod.

‘Seriously, Princeton, you want to live with this?’ Digby asks. I shake my head, no way. ‘Then may I …?’ Digby jumps in while Shereene’s mid sentence. ‘What about you, Shereene? Do you think Zoe should live with you in New York?’ Digby says.

Shereene has a sexy-now-but-oh-wait-until-you’re-fifty smoker’s laugh. ‘If it’ll save us seventeen percent of our income, then sure. Liza should pay us seventeen percent of her income. See how she likes it.’

‘“Us.” You guys are a tight unit. Such positive family values will really be great for Zoe.’ Digby points at Shereene’s enormous diamond ring. ‘Wow, that’s beautiful.’

‘It’s Van Cleef. The setting’s called Byzance.’ Shereene pronounces all its French-y rumbles to make clear how expensive it is.

‘I bet the real one’s even sparklier. Is it being cleaned? Resized?’ Digby says.

‘What are you talking about?’ Shereene sees Dad’s squirrely look and gets suspicious.

‘That’s a replica, right? Because that isn’t a diamond,’ Digby says.

‘The kid doesn’t know what he’s talking about,’ Dad says.

Digby grabs Shereene’s hand, swings it, and smashes it ring-first onto his wheelchair’s armrest. The ‘diamond’ is pulverized.

Cursing, Shereene yanks off what’s left of her ring and throws it in Dad’s face. She’s halfway out the door when she stomps back into the room and slaps Dad. Twice. And then she leaves.

‘Sorry, Dick. I thought she knew,’ Digby says.

‘You’d better bet I’m speaking to your parents about this,’ Dad says.

‘Notify my probation officer too. He hates being left out of the loop,’ Digby says.

Dad points his finger in my face. ‘Sign these papers and have a nurse drop them in the mail right away.’ He throws the pile on my nightstand.

‘No.’ It couldn’t have sounded weirder if I’d farted out of my mouth.

‘What the hell does that mean?’ Dad says.

‘I don’t want to change the custody agreement. I don’t want to live with you guys,’ I say.

‘Young lady, I’m not going to pay for boarding. You either live with me or you don’t go to Prentiss,’ Dad says.

‘I’m not going to Prentiss,’ I say. ‘Not this January, anyway.’

‘The dean of Prentiss is a special friend and he’s gone through the trouble of making room for you in January. I’ve already filled in the forms. All you have to do is sign. What’s the difficulty?’ Dad says.

‘Well, maybe I don’t have to cheat to get in,’ I say.

‘You don’t understand what kind of opportunity you’re wasting, Zoe,’ Dad says.

In the past, the way he spits out my name would’ve been enough to make me buckle, but my hierarchy of fears have been rearranged.

‘I understand perfectly.’

‘And just how do you expect to get into the Ivy League?’ Dad says.

‘I guess I’ll just work hard,’ I say.

When he laughs, I realize my father has zero respect for me as a person.

‘Let’s see how far you get with that.’ Then Dad comes to his senses and remembers Digby is watching. ‘I won’t have this discussion in front of strangers. I’ll speak to you later.’ He swings open the door so hard, the doorknob dents the wall.

And just like that, the confrontation I’d spent months dreading is over.

‘So … your dad’s nice. Should I expect a Christmas card?’ Digby says. ‘Better tell me now so I don’t look like a jerk if I don’t send him one too.’

‘Haha … he’s going to make Mom and me pay for that in some other horrible way, you know,’ I say.

‘Well, if he does, tell him you know about the money he’s hiding in the Caymans. He and his chickie just got back from there,’ Digby says.

‘How could you possibly know that?’

‘When she opened her purse, I saw a plastic bag that said KIRK FREEPORT.’ Digby holds up his phone. ‘Google says that’s in the Caymans and the only reasons people go down there are to visit their pile of dough or sunbathe. Even with his tan, your dad doesn’t look like a beach bum to me.’

True. I can’t imagine Dad stepping out of his suit for a second longer than it takes him to shower. ‘He’s hiding money from Mom?’