Home Invasion (2 page)

A steel door led into the house. I turned the handle, sure it would be locked. But it wasn't. I was in the basement. There wasn't much light and the air smelled like old socks.

I heard a voice from upstairs. It was Patsy, saying something about a phone jack.

“Annette, do you really think it's a good idea to let Pats have a phone in her room?” a man's voice asked.

“I promised her she could,” Patsy's mother said.

“Next thing she'll be wanting her own number.”

“Now that you mention it, Dad…” Patsy's laugh sounded like bells.

Careful not to make any noise, I sat down on the wooden steps that led from the basement up to the next floor. Now they were all laughing. Patsy, her mom and dad, and someone else. Did Patsy have a brother—or was the guy from the phone company in on the joke?

My heart was still thumping. What would I say if they found me? That I was on my
way to the park when I decided to drop by? I knew I should leave, but it was like some gravitational force was keeping me there. Besides, it felt good to hear them laughing.

“Okay, that's a long-enough coffee-break!” Mrs. Levesque was saying, and I heard a box being lugged across the floor. “Let's get a few more boxes unpacked, shall we?”

Someone tore open a box.

“What did you think of Josh?” Mrs. Levesque asked. Even though the basement was cool, I felt my face turn hot. It isn't too often you get a chance to hear what people have to say about you when you're not there. Or when they don't know you are.

“He's okay,” Patsy said. I couldn't help feeling disappointed. Then Patsy said something else. It was either “He's not my type” or “He is my type.” The sound was muffled, so I couldn't tell for sure.

“Clay seems pleasant,” Mrs. Levesque observed. “I gather he's the stepfather.”

“Too bad about the corny sense of humor,” Patsy said. She might not have the best taste in guys, but the girl wasn't stupid.

I couldn't make out what Mrs. Levesque said next because the phone guy interrupted. “The jacks are installed,” he said.

He must have been wearing work boots because I could hear heavy footsteps on the floor above me. The sound came closer.

I couldn't keep sitting on the stairs. I headed for the nearest hiding place—the crawl space underneath the stairway. The air smelled even mustier here, and there were hard black pellets on the ground that felt rough against my knees. Mouse droppings, maybe. It was so dark that I didn't notice an old steamer trunk until I bumped into it.

“Did you hear something?” Mrs. Levesque asked. When she opened the basement door, a ray of light shone in like a spotlight. I took a deep breath.

“It's these old houses,” the phone guy said. “Everything creaks.”

I almost sighed with relief, but, of course, I couldn't. I didn't even breathe as he walked down the stairs. He was so close I could see that the soles of his boots were worn.

My heart thumped even faster. Sure, I was
doing something wrong, but it was definitely giving me an adrenaline rush. This must be what it feels like to be a home invader.

Most people can tell when you want to be left alone. But not Clay.

The next morning I was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, trying to read the comics. I didn't mind that he was in the kitchen too, reading the front page of the paper. What I did mind was how he kept interrupting me.

“Rash of home invasions continues,” he read aloud.

“Uh-huh,” I said without lifting my eyes
from the comics. I was almost at my favorite, the
Wizard of Id
.

“This guy sounds like a real nut,” Clay said.

“Uh-huh.”

Instead of taking the hint that he was getting on my nerves, Clay started reading the whole article out loud. To make matters worse, he dropped his voice to make it sound like he was a TV announcer.

“The home invader who first struck Montreal last month is at it again.” He was reading slowly. I tried sighing loudly, but he just kept reading. “Yesterday afternoon, a bungalow on the Lachine Canal was invaded. Preliminary reports suggest the culprit is the same person responsible for the six other home invasions reported in the Montreal area.”

Clay paused to come up for air. Then he gave me a look, like he was expecting me to say something.

“Wow,” I said in a flat voice.

Clay shook his head and continued reading. I was starting to feel like I'd never get to the
Wizard of Id
.

“Police have not released the names of the home invader's latest victims. ‘Indications are that the suspect is becoming bolder,' said Marie Leduc, a police spokesperson. ‘The victims of the first six home invasions were elderly, all of whom had difficulty getting around. But the latest victims are a young family. A father, mother and two children.'”

I put down the comics and looked at Clay. It sounded like the home invader was becoming more daring. This time Clay didn't notice me. At least now he was reading more quickly.

“Leduc said there are no new leads in the case. ‘What makes this case particularly difficult is that the home invader is masked and has left nothing behind to aid in identifying him or her. Another factor that has been complicating our investigation is that the home invader's victims have undergone a terrible trauma. They have witnessed the invasion of their homes; they have been tied up and gagged, their possessions stolen. Despite their willingness to cooperate with us, none of the victims can recall specific details about the perpetrator of these crimes.'

“Leduc encouraged anyone with information about the home invader to contact the authorities.”

“I sure hope they catch him,” Clay said, folding the newspaper in half and taking a bite out of the French toast he'd made for breakfast.

“Me too,” I said. I thought I had better at least pretend to eat. I cut into the French toast on my plate. I couldn't help wincing when I took a bite.

“What's in this?” I asked, reaching for a glass of water. With any luck it would help drown out the taste.

“Lemon. How'd you like it?” I could tell from the way Clay was smiling that he was really proud of his latest invention.

“I don't,” I said, pushing my plate away. Even the smell was making me gag. Who would eat French toast that smelled like furniture polish?

I could tell I'd hurt his feelings. “I guess it's your artistic personality,” I muttered.

That cheered him up. If there is one thing Clay likes talking about, it's art. And himself.

“You're probably right, kiddo. I like experimenting. Not just on canvas, but in the kitchen too.”

“Listen,” I said, clearing my throat, “could you stop calling me kiddo?”

Clay looked at me like he'd never really seen me before. “Sure, kid –” He stopped himself. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “I didn't know it bugged you.”

That wasn't all that bugged me. From my seat in the kitchen, I could see right into the dining room. Or what used to be the dining room. Now it was Clay's studio. Two huge canvases were propped up against the wall. One of them was blank. The other had two bright orange blobs on it. Blobs were Clay's specialty. The amazing thing was that there were people who actually bought them. There's no accounting for taste.

“Look, Josh,” Clay said more seriously. “There's something I need to talk to you about.”

I hoped it didn't have to do with dinner. I'd had enough of his experiments for one day, thank you very much.

“I signed you up for basketball camp at the community center. It starts tomorrow morning at 8:15,” he said.

“You what?”

“I signed you up for basketball camp,” Clay repeated. Did he really think I hadn't heard him the first time?

“Didn't you think you should ask me about it first?”

Clay ran his fingers through his cowlick. He does that whenever he's nervous.

“Well, I … uh … I figured you'd be glad about it. Seeing as how you like basketball. Besides, Josh, I need quiet when I'm painting.”

So that's what this was all about. His blobs.

“I'm not going to basketball camp,” I told him. “You're making a unilateral decision.” I knew the word “unilateral” because there's another thing Mom and Clay do in the bedroom: they discuss these stepparenting manuals Mom is always reading. According to all the manuals, stepparents should never make unilateral decisions, and they shouldn't
discipline their stepchildren — at least not for the first few years.

“You're going,” Clay said. “And that's that.”

Truth was, I might not have minded so much — if only it wasn't Clay's idea.

“Your turn, Cooper!”

The coach didn't need to call my name. The second I got my fingers on the ball, I was off, dribbling down to the other end of the gym. I might not be as tall as some of the other guys, but I'm fast — and scrappy.

We had to dribble past these orange plastic cones the coach and his assistants had set the length of the court. The idea was to get past the cones on our first try, to get past them
quickly on the second, then to get past them without looking on the third, and finally, to get past them quickly, without looking. Now that was tough.

I love the sound a basketball makes when it hits the floor—or the pavement. It's a steady rhythm, kind of like a heartbeat.

“Not bad!” the coach said, slapping my arm when the drills were over.

We were practicing our jump shots when I realized I recognized the tall redheaded guy standing next to me. His jersey was soaked with sweat. “You go to Royal Crest, right?” I asked him.

“Yup,” he answered. He didn't have the ball, but he was practicing just the same. He jumped in the air, then tossed an invisible ball into the net.

He turned to face me. “I'm Bobby Lambert. You're Cooper, right?”

“Josh Cooper.”

“How are you liking basketball camp?” he asked me.

I couldn't help looking to see if anyone was listening. Clay was at home painting,
but I definitely wouldn't have wanted him to hear what I was about to say. “It's way cool,” I told Bobby.

“What're you two ladies yakking about?” the coach called out. “We're working on jump shots here!”

Bobby and I walked out of the community center together at the end of the day. It turned out he lived a couple of blocks over from our place.

It was late afternoon, but the sun was still shining brightly and the air was hot and humid.

“Ever think of trying out for the school team?” he asked me. We'd stopped to take a break on the stairs outside Ben & Jerry's on Monkland Avenue.

I told him I didn't think I was good enough to make the school team.

“You might feel different after a month at basketball camp,” Bobby said.

I hoped he was right.

Bobby checked his watch. Then he reached for the sports bag he'd left on the stairs and
slung it over his shoulders. “Hey, Josh,” he said as he got up from the stairs, “we'd better get a move on. My folks are going out of town tomorrow. I told them I'd be around tonight. You know—family time.”

I nodded. But what I was really thinking was how I didn't know the first thing about family time.

I trudged along the sidewalk, my basketball cradled in the crook of my arm. I thought about how my parents had split up so long ago I couldn't even remember when we'd been a family. Then there were all those years of just me and Mom, and spending weekends with my dad when he wasn't traveling for work. He was in China now, helping to build a new bridge. At least he'd be back in Canada for the last two weeks of July.

I swatted at a fly buzzing near my head. I thought about how I'd always missed having a real family. A mom and a dad who got along, who lived in the same house, and maybe even a big brother to show me basketball moves — or a younger one to teach them to.

“We're going to be a real family now,” Mom told me just before Clay moved in with us. But Mom had been wrong.

I was turning the corner to my street when I spotted the key. Because of the way the sun was shining, it glistened. Someone had left it right in the lock of their front door.

The house was a small red-brick cottage that looked a lot like ours. I walked up the front stairs and raised my finger to the doorbell. My plan was to let whoever lived there know they'd forgotten the key.

White lacy curtains hung in the front window. There was no one in the living room, but I thought I heard laughter coming from the back of the house. I didn't ring the doorbell. I turned the doorknob and let myself in.

The air smelled of tomato sauce. The sharp, tangy smell reminded me that all I'd had for lunch was a ham-and-cheese sandwich and an apple. There was a white pillar just past the front hallway. If I had to, I could duck behind it. And from beside it, I'd get a good view of whatever was going on.

A fluttering sound interrupted my thoughts. Where was it coming from?

“Boid!” a girl's voice cried out. “Come here this instant!”

The girl — she looked as if she was about seventeen — was sitting at a computer in a sunny room off the kitchen. The family room. Just thinking the words made my shoulders tense up. I watched as a small green and yellow parakeet landed on the girl's shoulder.

A younger boy — the girl's brother, probably — was sitting next to her on a colorful rug, building something out of Lego. When I craned my neck, I could see that a man was helping him.

“Hey, Dad, give me that piece!” the boy said.

The dad laughed and rumpled his son's curly hair. “Come on. We promised Mom we'd set the table,” he said, using one elbow to push himself up from the rug.

I knew I should leave — I could go back outside right then and ring the bell, let them know about the key in the door — but for some reason I couldn't move from my spot.
My legs and feet felt heavy, as if I was in a dream I couldn't wake up from.