Home Invasion (5 page)

John looked into my eyes. “Did you take anything?”

“No way,” I told him, opening my hands to show him they were empty. “Besides,” I added, “there's nothing to take. Everything's packed.”

“He has a point there, Clarisse,” John said, turning around to face her.

“We should call the police just the same. He invaded our home,” Clarisse insisted. Her voice was high-pitched and whiny.

How could John stand her? Then he said something that surprised me. “I know you're stressed out,” he told Clarisse. “But everything will be okay. We've got each other, right?”

When Clarisse smiled back at him, she didn't seem so upset anymore.

If John hadn't been blocking my way, I could've made a run for it. Careful to keep my
eyes on the floor so they wouldn't know what I was thinking, I tried to study the room. We were too high up for me to jump out a window, but if I could find some way to distract them, I might be able to run out the door and downstairs to the street.

“Can't you just let me go?” I asked John. I knew there was no sense in talking to Clarisse; she'd made up her mind about me. In fact she was rummaging through her purse, probably looking for her cell phone so she could turn me in. I knew I was running out of time.

“He didn't take anything.” This time, when John turned back to Clarisse, I made a run for it. Getting out of the apartment and past all those boxes was a bit like dribbling around those orange cones in the gym.

I could hear John stumbling behind me. And I could hear Clarisse shrieking on the telephone: “I'm calling to report a home invasion!”

I flew down the stairs and out the front door, which no one had bothered to close.

I was trying to decide whether to keep
running or find someplace to hide when I felt someone grab my shoulder.

“Not so fast, young man!” a voice said. I didn't need to see the uniform to know he was a cop.

“I got here as soon as I could, officer.”

I could hear Clay's voice from behind the door. He sounded nervous — like he was the one who'd got caught doing something wrong.

They'd hauled me down to the local police station. The worst part was sitting in the back of the police cruiser. When we stopped at a light, I made the mistake of looking into the car next to us. Patsy was in the passenger seat; her mom was at the wheel. I turned away the second I realized it was Patsy, but it was too late. She'd spotted me. She looked like she was about to wave, but then, all of a sudden, she turned away. I figured she didn't want to embarrass me.

At least they didn't throw me into a cell. Instead they made me sit in this little room that felt like the waiting room at the
doctor's—only there were no magazines or coughing kids. It wasn't anything like on
TV
. Nobody read me my rights or asked if I wanted a lawyer.

One cop brought me a Coke and asked me to tell her what I'd been doing in the apartment. “It just sort of happened,” I told her and explained about the moving truck.

“Have you done this kind of thing before?” she asked, without taking her eyes off mine.

I took a quick breath. “Never,” I lied.

Now I could hear her talking to Clay, saying that couple had decided not to press charges, that the police were going to allow me to go home, but that I had to be under Clay's constant supervision. Just my luck, I thought.

“Have you considered taking him to a family counselor?” I heard the cop ask Clay. I tapped the arms of my chair while I waited for Clay to say something.

“We thought he was doing okay,” he said at last. “We just figured he was having some adjustment difficulties. Getting-used-to-thenew-stepfather kind of stuff.” As if anyone could ever get used to Clay.

“I know what it's like,” the cop said with a sigh. “My boyfriend has a son. He's only six, but the kid's impossible. God knows what he'll be like at fifteen.”

“Put on your seatbelt,” Clay told her. “You're in for a rough ride.”

Gimme a break, I thought. The woman's in for a rough ride? What about the kid? Let's just hope his dad's girlfriend is a little more normal than Clay.

“So what the hell were you thinking?” Clay asked me when we were in his car.

“I wasn't thinking anything.” Somehow I'd expected him to be nicer. He was obviously pissed with me.

“You must've been thinking something,” he insisted.

That's when I blew. “Okay,” I told him. “If you really want to know what I was thinking — here it is. I was thinking how I screwed up at basketball today. I was thinking how I didn't want to go home and find you lounging on the couch or destroying our house. I was thinking how I wished I lived
someplace else — anywhere else — as long as you weren't there.”

I stopped to catch my breath. It was the most I'd ever said to Clay in all the time I'd known him.

I was a little surprised when he pulled the car over to the side of the road. When he turned to face me, I had this overwhelming urge to jump out right then and there. Then he leaned over and put his hand over mine. I flinched. Clay must've noticed because he backed right off.

“Listen to me, Josh,” he said. “This isn't what anyone would call an ideal situation. You're stuck with me — and I'm stuck with you, and there's very little either of us can do about it. The one thing we have in common is that we both love your mom.”

I flinched again. My mom would have a bird when she found out what I'd done. “You're not going to tell her, are you?” I asked quietly. I slid my fingers along the door handle while I waited for Clay to say something.

But all he said was, “Get your hand off the door handle.”

When the phone rang, I rushed to answer it. Clay got to it before me. I knew it would be Mom. She'd phoned every night at exactly seven o'clock.

The conversation started with Clay asking about Gramps. They were going to release him from hospital in a couple more days. From what I could tell, Mom was having more trouble dealing with Gramma. She wouldn't leave Gramps' bedside even when it was time for visitors to go home.

My heart started pounding when the conversation switched to how things were going at home. Mom would freak out when she heard about my run-in with the police — and she's not a lot of fun when she freaks out. She's also the type who believes in punishments. I wondered what she'd make me do when she found out. I had a feeling docking my allowance wouldn't satisfy her. She'd come up with something crueler. Something that would involve Clay.

I kept waiting for him to bring up what had happened. Only he didn't. “I'll put him on,” Clay said, passing me the phone after
he'd been on for nearly ten minutes. “Then you can ask him yourself.”

I took the receiver from his hands. “How are you doing, Mom? How's Gramps?” I was hoping she wouldn't be able to tell from my voice that something was wrong. She's like a blood- hound when it comes to sniffing out trouble.

“Things are under control here, honey,” she said. Mom sounded tired, but not suspicious. I relaxed a little. “I just wanted to know how you and Clay are getting on,” she said. “Are you two finally bonding?”

I looked at Clay. He'd put on the maroon housecoat when we got home from the police station. His fingers were stained with red and blue paint. “Yeah, I guess you could say we're … bonding.” The words stuck in my throat. But it was only when Clay started smiling — this huge, goofy smile — that I really regretted saying them.

There was one more thing I didn't really feel like saying, only I knew I had to.

“Thanks,” I told Clay after dinner. We were standing at the sink; he was washing, I
was drying. “For not mentioning anything to Mom about … you know.”

He passed me a pot, then lifted his chin toward the living room window. “See what I see?”

A police cruiser was driving by. It slowed down as it passed our house. I thought about Patsy and the puzzled look she'd given me when she'd spotted me earlier that day.

“It's not the first cop car that's driven by tonight,” Clay said. “I think they're trailing you. Look,” he added, “I decided not to tell your mom about what happened. She's got enough on her mind already. But there's one condition.”

“What's that?” I asked him.

“I figure a guy like you knows a thing or two about invading homes. I want you to help me catch the real home invader. God knows the police aren't having much luck. And if we can figure out who it is, the cops might just leave you alone.”

When Clay suggested we go to the bagel shop for breakfast on Saturday morning, I figured I didn't have much choice. It's not that I don't like the bagel shop. They do their scrambled eggs just right — not too drippy — and they make their bagels in a wood-burning oven at the back of the store. What I wasn't in the mood for was Clay.

There is one thing I do have against the bagel shop, though. We were having breakfast
there when Mom and Clay announced they were getting married. It's a wonder I can still eat scrambled eggs.

Clay was sitting across from me now, tapping his foot on the floor. I wanted to tell him to cut it out, but then I figured I owed him one for not ratting me out to Mom.

Just after we gave the waitress our order, Clay pulled this little sketchpad and a pencil from his jacket pocket. “Okay,” he said, opening the sketchpad to a blank page. “Tell me everything you know about breaking into houses — everything you've observed.”

“I only did it that one time.”

Clay looked up from the sketchpad. “Level with me,” he said. “Tell me what you know. One thing I've learned from reading mysteries is that solving one is a lot like painting. It's all about the details.”

I was thinking about that when the waitress reappeared with our food. Clay moved his sketchpad to the edge of the table.

I took a bite of my bagel. “Well,” I told him, “basically, you need to watch for ways to get inside. You know, open doors, window
screens, garages …” That made me think of Patsy. I wondered what was up with her — and how her family was doing.

Clay nodded. “It is just like painting,” he said, waving his fork in the air like he was a conductor and the fork was a baton. I hoped he wouldn't jab someone with it. “A painter needs to see what other people miss. The dew on the grass first thing in the morning. The way some old people shuffle when they walk. A spider's web in the corner of a ―”

I couldn't take it anymore. “Look,” I said, cutting Clay off, “how exactly are you planning to find the home invader?”

Clay put his fork back down on his plate. “First,” he said, “I need to understand how the home invader thinks. Once I know that, I imagine the rest will fall into place.”

He made it sound so easy that, for a second, I believed him. But a second after that I went back to thinking he was a nut. Still, I had to tell him something — even if it was just to get him to stop jabbering about all the stuff artists have to notice. “You know,” I told him, “a home invader might leave clues.”

Clay reached for his sketchpad. “Like what?” he asked.

“After a rainfall, footprints in the mud. Ladders where they shouldn't be. Scaffolding on the side of a building. Flowers that look like they've been trampled on.”

Clay nodded. I watched as he used his pencil to draw a tiny footprint at the top of the page. He made scratching sounds as he worked. He added some dark lines and, presto — it looked like mud.

I was about to tell him I didn't know he could draw real stuff — and not just blobs — when Patsy walked into the bagel shop. She was heading for the counter at the back where they sell fresh bagels.

Clay must've seen her too. “Hey, isn't that Patricia from down the street?”

“Patsy,” I corrected him.

She must've heard me say her name, because she turned in our direction.

“Patsy!” Clay called out before I could stop him. “How are you doing, neighbor?”

She paused for a second, then came over to our table.

Clay stood up. I thought he was trying to be polite, but it turned out he had to go to the bathroom. He tapped Patsy's elbow when he passed her. “Nice to see you,” he said.

That left just me and her. For a second, neither of us said anything. Patsy was the one who broke the silence. “I saw you the other day,” she said. She'd put her hands in the pockets of her shorts, and she was shifting from one foot to the other.

“I know.”

“What were you doing in a cop car anyway?”

I stared down at my plate. What would Patsy think if she knew the truth — that I got a weird thrill from spying on other people, including her? “It was a case of mistaken identity,” I said when I looked back up at her. “I'm thinking of suing the police, you know — for tarnishing my reputation. For treating me like a common criminal. I mean, what are people supposed to think? Especially people who saw me on my way down to the station.”

“People who know you would never think you were a common criminal.”

“Thanks,” I said, smiling up at her.

“An uncommon one, maybe,” Patsy said, smiling back.

I laughed. The thing was, Patsy had no idea how right she was. “So what have you been up to?” I asked her. I figured now was a good time to change the subject.

“Oh, you know, unpacking, getting my room arranged. I met this girl, Tasha, who goes to Royal Crest. She said she knows you. We've been hanging out.”

“Tasha's okay,” I told her. “So how are your mom and dad? Getting settled in okay too?”

Patsy shrugged her shoulders. “I don't know about you, but my parents just keep getting weirder and weirder.”

I wanted to know more, but Clay interrupted us. “You two should do something together sometime. Why don't you make some plans with her, Josh?” he said, pulling his chair out from the table. Then he clapped me on the shoulder.