Trouble Makes a Comeback (Trouble is a Friend of Mine)

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9781471404993: Trouble Makes a Comeback (Trouble is a Friend of Mine)

'A funny, realistic teen crime caper. This book sings.' Jesse Andrews, author of ME AND EARL AND THE DYING GIRL (praise for TROUBLE IS A FRIEND OF MINE) A brilliantly funny romantic comedy - with infectious characters, wry humour, and breakneck dialogue, this sequel to Trouble is a Friend of Mine is perfect for fans of John Green, Jesse Andrews and Ally Carter. After a fall semester of fiascos: getting arrested, then kidnapped, then blown up in an explosion (all thanks to the weird, but brilliant Philip Digby), Zoe Webster is looking forward to a quiet spring. Now that Digby has left town, she's finally built a regular high school life for herself. She's dating Miles; she knows girls she considers friends; she's learning to enjoy being normal and semi-popular. Which of course is when Digby comes back: He's got a new lead on his missing sister and he needs Zoe's help. Suddenly Zoe is tussling with a billionaire archvillain, locking horns with armed goons, and digging into what makes the Digby family tick, even as she tries to navigate the confusing and emotionally fraught world of high school politics and locker-room drama. After all, it's hard to explain Digby to a boy like Miles, especially when Zoe isn't sure how she feels about Digby herself - or how he feels about her. Now that Digby's back, get ready for another hilarious whodunit filled with razorsharp dialogue, ridiculously funny action, and the most charismatic, dynamic duo you've ever met. And just try to stay out of trouble. We dare you.

"Sinopsis" puede pertenecer a otra edición de este libro.

About the Author:

Stephanie Tromly was born in Manila, grew up in Hong Kong and now lives with her husband and son in Winnipeg. She is working on her PhD in English Literature.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

I don’t believe in Happily Ever After. Nobody over the age of thirteen with an Internet connection has any business believing in that noise. But the kind of junior year I’m having is seriously challenging the life-saving cynicism I’ve cultivated for years.

Actually, to be precise, I’m having an epic second semester. My first semester was a series of fiascos, all courtesy of my friendship with Philip Digby. Though, honestly, I’m not even sure Digby ever considered me his friend. Accomplice, sure. But then he kissed me, which made us what? More than friends? Something other than friends? I hate semantics.

Normally, I wouldn’t have fallen for Digby’s stray-puppy-in-the-rain act in the first place. But I was new in town, I had no friends, and I was still reeling from my parents’ brutal divorce. And then I found out that Digby’s four-year-old sister, Sally, was abducted from her bed in the middle of the night when he was only seven years old and, to add to the tragedy of losing Sally, the authorities thought either his parents or Digby himself was guilty. Even worse, all of River Heights was convinced they’d done it and had turned against Digby and his parents. The pressure tore that family apart. The stray puppy, it turned out, was also the underdog. I was powerless to resist.

By Thanksgiving, he’d gotten me arrested, then kidnapped, and then blown up in an explosion. On the upside, we’d also dismantled a meth operation and found a missing girl. We didn’t find Digby’s sister, though, so he left town to keep looking for her.

But not before he scrambled my brains with that kiss. And then—nothing. Not a peep from the jerk for the last five months.

Meanwhile, everyone had heard I’d been hanging out with him and that we’d somehow busted up a major drug operation. People in school were curious and I had to act fast if I wanted to convert my infamy into friendships beyond whatever weird crisis-based camaraderie I’d experienced while I was capering around with Digby. I knew I was the flavor of a very short month, so I forced myself past the Digby-sized hole in my soul and Made an Effort.

My first attempts at getting to know new people were disasters. But then I realized that I was boring people with details, and once I basically stopped talking so much and mostly asked leading questions instead, things improved. And then, finally, after a locker room conversation—about the injustice of school going all the way until December 23—with Allie and Charlotte, two of the nicer girls from my PE class, I was in. An invitation to lunch turned into eyeliner tutorials in the good bathrooms and weekends trawling the mall with them. Eventually, I realized that I was enjoying more than just the fact that I was finally feeling included. I was actually having a good time with Charlotte and Allie. They’d been friends since grade school, but I could tell they were trying their best not to make me feel left out. And it worked. Things were looking up.

My luck kept right on improving, in fact, until after winter break, when I got my first official boyfriend: Austin Shaeffer. It happened at the mall. I was with Allie and Charlotte when I saw some guy hauling ass out of the Foot Locker. I didn’t have the time—or maybe I didn’t take the time—to think. Before I knew it, I’d kicked a wheeled holiday sale sign into the guy’s path.

The guy hit the sign with a (surprisingly) satisfying splat. Digby would’ve loved watching the Foot Locker employees swarm the thief and pull all the fitness trackers still in boxes from his pockets. For the first time in a while, I let myself feel how much I missed life with Digby. I was so distracted, I didn’t notice that a Foot Locker employee had started talking to me.

“Sorry, what?” I said. That’s when I realized it was Austin Shaeffer. I didn’t have classes with him, but I’d noticed him around school. It was hard not to notice Austin. He was handsome and athletic and one of the few guys who could be funny without being mean. He reminded me a little of Digby’s friend Henry, although that might be because Austin was Henry’s QB backup on our football team.

“You pushed the sign, right?” Austin said.

By this time, people were clapping. Charlotte pointed at me, yelling, “She’s our friend. Our friend did that.” Allie stooped for a selfie with the injured thief.

“How’d you know he shoplifted?” Austin said.

I almost said something about the weird bulge in the guy’s coat and how his run’s head-down urgency seemed more than a late-for-my-movie hustle, but I looked into Austin’s big blue eyes and checked myself. Be normal, Zoe. Austin Shaeffer doesn’t care what you know about body language.

“Actually . . .” I said. “The truth?”

Austin leaned in, forcing me to notice his aftershave. “Yeah?”

“I tripped. The sign kinda . . . rolled?” I tried not to judge myself for the giggle I burped out to sell my lie.

“Zoe Webster, right?” Austin said.

“Yeah . . . and you’re Austin—” Then suddenly Austin Shaeffer was holding my right hand. I’d forgotten about my latte and in the course of affecting coolness, I’d let my hand relax so much that coffee was pouring out the spout.

“Careful,” Austin said. “So, Zoe Webster, you saved my ass. They would’ve fired me if my section got jacked again.” He pointed at my cup. “You’ve probably had enough coffee today, but how about this weekend?”

Allie and Charlotte cackled while Austin entered my number in his phone.

“So cute . . . Austin Schaeffer’s blushing,” Allie said.

“Watch out, Zoe, Austin is trouble,” Charlotte said.

“I’m not trouble . . . don’t listen to them,” Austin said.

After Austin left, Allie, Charlotte, and I talked about him for hours. They liked him, I liked them, I wanted them to like me, Austin Shaeffer apparently liked me, and by the end of the afternoon, I liked him a lot. After Austin and I had our first coffee date, Allie, Charlotte, and I parsed every moment I’d spent with him. Being inside that giddy echo chamber was at least as much fun as the date itself.

So now I have a boyfriend and I have friends. I got flowers on Valentine’s Day, I’m invited to sleepovers, and I’m doing decently on social media. Sure, there are moments when I feel alien in my own life but mostly, it feels good to fit in. Finally, finally, I’m a normal.

But that’s all falling apart. Digby sauntered back into River Heights nine days ago, and now my happy ending is toast. Right this second, I’m about to make my entrance at the biggest party of the year. My boyfriend’s waiting inside. He’ll likely be the starting quarterback this fall, which means I’m dating the official Prince Charming of River Heights High. I’m wearing clothes way above my pay grade and riding in a fancy car with Sloane Bloom, my former nemesis who’s somehow turned into my perverse version of a fairy godmother. But here, at the brink of my Cinderella moment, all that matters to me is whether Digby will be at the party. See what I mean? Happy Ending ruined.

But as usual, I’m getting ahead of the story. I need to tell you about the last nine days.

 

 

 

ONE

“April is the cruelest month,” Mom said. “Just say it, Zoe. You told me so.”

Because my mother worked from home on Friday afternoons, I’d thought I’d save time and get her to drive me to my job at the mall. Mistake.

Mom stood on the gas pedal, but our car was officially beached. The left-side wheels were on the asphalt, but our right-side wheels were up in the air because of the huge snow boulder Mom had driven over and gotten stuck under the car. I felt queasy from sitting tilted as the engine ground away uselessly beneath me. Plus, the car stank of the cigarettes Mom didn’t think anyone knew she smoked during her solo commute to the community college where she taught English lit.

“Zoe told me not to park on this snowbank,” Mom said to Austin, who was sitting in the backseat. “But it didn’t seem so big last night.”

“I’ll go get your shovel,” Austin said.

“Zoe, put those ridiculous things away,” Mom said. She took a handful of my vocabulary cards and snorted. “What does this have to do with being a competent reader or writer?”

“Yeah, yeah, Mom. I know. Nothing. But it has everything to do with my doing well on the SATs next weekend,” I said. “I am extremely stressed about it . . .”

Austin came back with our shovel and said, “I’m going to start digging, okay, Miss Finn?”

Austin was still in the “Miss Finn” stage with Mom. In turn, Mom still got shy and combed her hair before Austin came over. Actually, even I still did. Sitting in Mom’s car, watching Austin, all muscles and sheer will, digging us out of the snow, I reflected on how it was probably a good thing that I still got nervous before Austin came over.

Austin flung a shovelful of snow over his shoulder, yelled WHOA, fell, and disappeared under the hood of the car. Mom and I jumped out.

It was a total movie shot: Austin on his back, his pretty face inches from the spinning tire. We pulled him out, so horrified we didn’t even remember we’d shut the car doors until we heard the auto locks engage. There was our car, hiked up on a snowbank, doors locked, keys in the ignition, stuck in drive with the wheels spinning.

“No!” Mom belatedly threw herself on the car’s hood. The car rocked under her weight.

“Careful, Miss Finn,” Austin said.

“Get away from the front of the car, Mom.” To Austin, I said, “Quick, put the snow back. But not under the tire!”

“I think there are spare keys in the house,” Mom said.

Go. But if you don’t find them fast, call 911,” I said. “Or a tow truck.”

“Oh, God, my life’s a farce!” Mom ran into the house.

Austin resumed shoveling in the opposite direction while I kicked snow back under the car. Then a tall figure in black flitted across the field of my peripheral vision and disappeared behind an SUV. Something about his syncopated gait reminded me of something that made me super-happy, and then angry, and then confused.

Suddenly, there he was. Digby. Standing beside me. He seemed taller and broader than when he’d left, but that could’ve been because of his thick parka. He looked road-weary and his jaw was stubbled. He dropped his backpack in the snow. Clearly, it was the end of a long journey.

“Hey, Princeton,” Digby said. “Need help?”

Digby held a screwdriver and a long antenna he’d removed from the SUV he’d passed. He pried a gap along the rubber seam between our passenger’s-side door and the roof, fed the antenna through, and pushed the driver’s-side doors open button. He climbed in and killed the engine.

I got in too, realizing only when we were alone in the car that in the five months since he’d disappeared, I’d collected a ton of confrontational things to say without actually deciding on which to say first.

“Are you back?” I said.

Digby made a ta-da gesture. “Guess where I’ve been. Wait, don’t bother. You’ll never guess. Federal prison.” He laughed when my eyebrows shot up. “I went to Fort Dix to talk to Ezekiel.”

Ezekiel. Just hearing that drug dealer’s name made me relive the horror of his stuffing Digby and me in the trunk of his car and our almost getting blown up in his failed attempt to double-cross his boss.

Digby leaned in. “We’ve been looking at this all wrong, Princeton. Sally wasn’t taken by some pervert . . . it’s a whole other thing. When I finally got Ezekiel to put me on his visitors list, he told me about his friend—let’s call him Joe—who ran a crack squat downtown. Apparently, some guys rented Joe’s whole place for a week—exactly when Sally disappeared. Joe saw them carry in a little girl in the middle of the night. But when they left . . . there was a whole lot of stuff like boys’ clothes and video games in the place.” Digby paused dramatically. “Remember Ezekiel said they were supposed to take me?”

“Who’s ‘they’?” I said.

“Exactly,” he said.

“Exactly what?” I said. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“Well, that I haven’t figured out yet,” Digby said.

“Did Ezekiel tell you anything real? Like, what these guys looked like? Or where the crack house is?” I said.

“His friend Joe said the guys were in nice suits and drove brand-new black SUVs. Ezekiel never got the address. Nice suits and black cars sounds like government types, and you know what that probably means . . . my dad,” Digby said. “I bet it had something to do with his old job at Perses Analytics.”

“Where Felix’s dad works?” I said. “I thought you said your dad’s an alcoholic.”

“Being an alcoholic was more Joel Digby’s hobby. Alcoholics have to cover their nut too, Princeton.”

“He was a scientist?”

“Propulsion engineer,” Digby said. “I wonder what he was working on.”

“But maybe you’re just being paranoid. Or maybe your father gambled, and his bookie took Sally to collect on a gambling debt? Or maybe Ezekiel’s evil and he’s screwing with your head because you put him in prison?” I said.

“But those are such boring explanations,” Digby said. “And, you know, Ezekiel and I got to talking and he’s not such a bad guy—”

“He sold meth to kids and pretended to be in a weird cult to do it,” I said.

Digby slapped the wheel. “Ah . . . the ol’ Princeton reality check. I forgot how much fun it is.”

“You forgot? Is that why I haven’t heard jack from you in five months?” I said.

Digby looked genuinely surprised. “I was busy . . .” He pointed out the windshield at Austin, who was still shoveling. “You’ve been busy too. I assume he’s . . . ?”

“Yeah. We’re dating . . . we’re together . . . he’s my boyfriend—”

“Got it,” Digby said. “Austin Shaeffer, huh? You teach him the difference between left and right yet?”

Months ago, he’d caught Austin writing an R on his right hand and an L on his left hand before scrimmage.

“That’s a good luck thing he started doing in peewee football,” I said.

“Well, I hate to call him stupid, but he’s still shoveling and the car’s been off . . . what? Two minutes?” Digby tooted the horn, threw up his hands, and yelled, “What’s up, buddy? Yeah. Engine’s off.”

Austin got in the backseat. “Hey . . . you’re Digby, right?”

“Hey, Austin.” Digby pointed at Austin’s gym bag and football helmet on the backseat. “Got a game later or something?”

“That’s my workout stuff,” Austin said. “Uh . . . we don’t play football in the spring, dude.”

I cringed at Austin’s patronizing tone.

“Way I hear it, you don’t play football in the fall either, dude. Still riding the bench praying Henry gets injured?” Digby said.

“Okay, Digby,” I said, “that’s—”

“I’m the backup QB. I play plenty. You’d know that if you knew anything about football,” Austin said.

“Got me there, sporto,” Digby said. “I’m up nights worrying about everything I don’t know about football.”

“Should I get the hose?” I said. “Digby, can we talk late...

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Descripción Hot Key Books, United Kingdom, 2016. Paperback. Estado de conservación: New. Language: English . Brand New Book. A funny, realistic teen crime caper. This book sings. Jesse Andrews, author of ME AND EARL AND THE DYING GIRL (praise for TROUBLE IS A FRIEND OF MINE) A brilliantly funny romantic comedy - with infectious characters, wry humour, and breakneck dialogue, this sequel to Trouble is a Friend of Mine is perfect for fans of John Green, Jesse Andrews and Ally Carter. After a fall semester of fiascos: getting arrested, then kidnapped, then blown up in an explosion (all thanks to the weird, but brilliant Philip Digby), Zoe Webster is looking forward to a quiet spring. Now that Digby has left town, she s finally built a regular high school life for herself. She s dating Miles; she knows girls she considers friends; she s learning to enjoy being normal and semi-popular. Which of course is when Digby comes back: He s got a new lead on his missing sister and he needs Zoe s help. Suddenly Zoe is tussling with a billionaire archvillain, locking horns with armed goons, and digging into what makes the Digby family tick, even as she tries to navigate the confusing and emotionally fraught world of high school politics and locker-room drama. After all, it s hard to explain Digby to a boy like Miles, especially when Zoe isn t sure how she feels about Digby herself - or how he feels about her. Now that Digby s back, get ready for another hilarious whodunit filled with razorsharp dialogue, ridiculously funny action, and the most charismatic, dynamic duo you ve ever met. And just try to stay out of trouble. We dare you. Nº de ref. de la librería AAZ9781471404993

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