Home Invasion (3 page)

All I could see of the mom was her back. Her hair was as curly as the boy's was. “The spaghetti will be ready in five minutes!” she called, wiping her hands on her apron. “Didn't you guys promise to set the table?”

I followed her gaze as she looked toward the dining room, which opened out from the side of the kitchen. Inside was a large round table made of dark wood and surrounded by matching chairs. There were no canvases propped up against the walls like at our house, no paint-splattered sheets on the floor.

Just then, Boid, who'd been perched on the girl's shoulder, took off and flew across the room. As I ducked behind the pillar, I saw the bird make a poop that landed smack on the middle of the dining room table. I covered my mouth so I wouldn't laugh.

“Would you put that damned bird back in his cage?” the mother shouted. Her voice had turned shrill and it sounded like she was stomping her feet.

Careful not to make any noise, I tiptoed back to the front door and let myself out of the house. But before I left, I took the key from the lock and left it on the floor in the front hallway.

After all, I didn't want the home invader to get in.

When I got home from camp on Wednesday, Clay was sprawled on the couch, reading some mystery.

“Aren't you supposed to be painting?” I asked as I unlaced my high-tops.

Clay looked at me over the edge of his book. He was wearing his maroon housecoat, and his reading glasses were slipping off his nose. “You can't force your muse. Sometimes taking a break can be an essential part of the artistic process.”

Did he really think I cared about him and his muse? “You sent me to camp so you could paint — not lie around and read,” I muttered.

Clay put his book down on the couch. “Are you saying you're not enjoying basketball camp?”

Rather than answering straightaway, I looked around. There was a huge pile of mail and flyers spilling off the little table in the front hallway. I could barely see the kitchen counter because of all the pots and pans on it. “That's right. I'm not,” I said as I headed up to my bedroom.

There was junk on the stairs, too — books, the laundry basket, tubes of paint. “When's Mom coming home?” I called out.

Clay had gone back to his book. “Looks like another week,” he said. “At least.”

I sighed.

There was a letter from my dad on my bedroom floor. I could tell it was from him because of the handwriting and the colorful stamps. Clay must've slid it under my door. I closed the door, flopped down on my bed and tore open the envelope.

He wasn't coming in July. He was really sorry, but they were at a critical stage in the bridge project, and he couldn't get away. Maybe, he wrote, he'd be able to come in January. Or maybe I could come to China over the Christmas holidays. Didn't that sound like a great idea? He knew I'd understand, and he promised to write again soon. Love, Dad.

What a bummer, I thought. I watched my reflection in the mirror across from my bed. I had my dad's curly hair and brown eyes, but I was starting to forget what he looked like. I hadn't seen him in eleven months. That was almost a year. It wasn't right.

Wait until Mom heard. They didn't exactly get along, which might explain why they got divorced. She was always going on about how Dad didn't keep his promises or meet his obligations. Now she'd have more ammunition to use against him.

There was a knock at my door. “Everything okay in there?” Clay asked.

“Don't come in,” I told him.

I waited for him to leave, but he didn't
budge. I could hear him breathing. Why didn't he just leave me alone?

“Everything okay with your dad?”

I ignored the question.

“How about a cup of tea?”

“No thanks.” I tried to keep my voice calm.

I felt a little better when I heard him head downstairs. But then I heard him stop on the landing. “You sure about the tea? We've got some Chinese oolong,” he called.

“I'm sure!” I didn't mean to yell. It's just how it came out.

“What time did you say your friend is coming for supper?” Clay called from the kitchen when I came downstairs about half an hour later.

“Six thirty.” I'd almost forgotten Bobby was coming. He'd invited himself, really. He'd been complaining about having to eat frozen pizza pockets all week while his parents were away. “What kind of grub do you get over at your house?” he'd wanted to know. So I invited him for dinner — though I made sure to warn him about Clay's cooking.

“Do you need some help in there?” I asked Clay. I didn't really feel like helping, but I figured I should at least offer.

I could hear him chopping away. “Nah,” he said, “go relax. Your friend will be here soon.”

Bobby showed up early. “I was starving,” he explained when I opened the door to let him in. “Hey, what's going on in here?” Bobby waved his hands in the air.

That's when I noticed the smoke. A weird thing about smoke is that sometimes, when you're in a place, you don't notice it building up. But when I turned around to lead Bobby into the kitchen, the whole first floor of the house was gray with smoke.

“Pleased to meet you, Bobby,” Clay called out. All we could see of him was his maroon housecoat. The burners on the stove were glowing bright red. There were pots and pans everywhere. Not just on the stove and the counter; there was even a pot by Clay's feet.

“For potato peels,” he explained when he caught me looking at it. “I hope you like
Indian food,” he told Bobby. “I'm making chicken curry.”

“Sounds great,” Bobby said.

Suck up, I thought.

“Why don't you guys open the windows?” Clay said.

By the time the smoke cleared, dinner was ready. We sat at the kitchen table.

“Not too hot for you?” Clay asked when Bobby bit into the chicken curry.

Bobby's face was red. “It's a little spicy,” he said. But that didn't stop him from asking for seconds.

I passed on the seconds.

“This yogurt sauce has a cooling effect,” Clay said, passing it to Bobby.

“I don't need yogurt. I need a fire truck,” I said.

Bobby laughed.

“If you guys will excuse me, I think I'll go catch the news,” Clay said after we'd helped him clear the plates.

Bobby turned to me after Clay left the room. “He doesn't seem like such a bad guy.”

“He's worse than you think,” I said.

Bobby thought about that for a minute. “Hey man, I'm really sorry,” he said, lowering his voice. “What does he do — drink or beat you up or give your mom a hard time?”

“Nah, it's nothing like that.”

“Well then, what's wrong with him? Why do you hate him so much?”

I could tell Bobby was waiting for an answer. But at first, I didn't know what to say. Why did I hate Clay?

Then, just like that, the answer occurred to me. “I hate him,” I told Bobby, “because he's not my father.”

“I'm going to the library to load up on some new mysteries,” Clay announced the next night. “I'll be back in about fifteen minutes.”

I'd been to the library with Clay before, so I knew he'd be gone at least an hour. It takes him forever — and then some — to choose a book. First he studies the cover as if he's lost and it's a map; then he reads the author biography on the back of the book jacket; and when that's done, he reads the first
page. Sometimes out loud, which is really embarrassing if you're with him. Even after he chooses a book, he goes back to the shelf at least two more times — just to make sure he didn't miss something or drop his library card.

I wasn't in the mood to watch TV or play on the computer. Our house, which usually cooled off when the sun went down, still felt like a hothouse. Which is fine if you're a tropical plant, but not so good if you're a kid. I needed air.

So I decided to go for a walk. A little stroll.

The street was deserted, and except for the light from the street lamps, it was completely dark. My only company was the crickets, who were chirping like mad. I wondered if they were trying to tell each other something. Maybe they had a feeling it was going to be a big night.

I wandered down the block toward the Levesques' house. The upstairs lights were on. I hadn't seen Patsy since the day she'd borrowed our X-Acto knife, and I wondered
how she was doing. If I were less shy, I could call her up and ask. If it were Bobby, he'd have called her. Just like he invited himself for dinner. Anyway, I told myself, I'm sure I'll see Patsy around. There was something about her — and it wasn't just her looks — that made me want to get to know her better.

I was thinking about walking over to the park to see whether anyone was playing basketball when I noticed one of the side windows on the Levesques' house was wide open. All that was covering it was a mesh screen.

I walked over to get a better look. The whole time I was thinking about Patsy and the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled. Just as I'd thought, the window was open. Wide open. Someone could crawl right in — as long as he wasn't too big. Someone like me.

I started to play with the screen. The windows looked old and the screen was rusted at the bottom, so I figured it might be jammed, but it wasn't. It slid open noiselessly. Once it
was open, it only took me a couple of seconds to slip inside.

I had to jump down to reach the floor. It was a good thing I was wearing my high-tops; it was also a good thing there was wall-to-wall carpeting or the Levesques might have heard me.

It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dark. I figured I was in the living room. Except for a couch and a glass coffee table, there wasn't much furniture.

Upstairs, someone was watching TV. I

could hear the laugh track from a sitcom. I eyed the stairway at the far end of the hall. I wasn't into checking out rooms or furniture. I was interested in people — in families — and they were upstairs. But could I get to the second floor without anyone noticing?

Just then I heard a key in the front door. I'd assumed everyone was home, but I was wrong. My eyes darted around the room as I looked for a hiding place. The couch was tight against the wall, and the glass coffee table wasn't exactly an option. My best bet
was a closet between the living room and dining room. I heard the doorknob turning. I dashed over to the closet, sneaked inside and shut the door behind me.

It's a good thing I'm not claustrophobic. It was the smallest closet I'd ever seen. They used it to store cleaning stuff, like brooms and a bucket. The smell of ammonia tickled my nose. I hoped I wouldn't sneeze.

The stairs to the second floor were just overhead, and I heard them creak as someone came down from upstairs.

“Is that you, Sylvain?” It was Patsy's mother. “You said you'd be home by eight.” She didn't sound happy. I checked my watch — it was 8:37. It wasn't like Mr. Levesque was all that late. Why was she giving him a hard time?

She said something else, but she lowered her voice, and I couldn't make out what it was. I pressed my ear to the door so I'd be able to hear better.

“You were there again, weren't you?” she was saying.

Mr. Levesque didn't say anything. I heard them head down the hall. The layout was
similar to our house, so I figured they were probably going to the kitchen. A refrigerator door opened, and I heard ice cubes tinkling into a glass.

I was surprised when out of nowhere I heard a whimpering sound — the kind of noise a dog makes when it's hurt. But I didn't think the Levesques had a dog. If they did, wouldn't I have seen them outside walking it by now? I strained to hear better. Now I heard a soft groaning sound. That was when I realized it had to be coming from a person.

It was Mrs. Levesque crying. What could she be so upset about?

“Don't make a scene, Annette,” Mr. Levesque finally said. He paused for a couple of seconds before adding, “Patsy.” He said it like it was a warning. Whatever they were discussing was something they didn't want Patsy to know about.

I heard Mrs. Levesque make a sniffling sound like she was blowing her nose.

“You have to stop. You're ruining us,” she whispered.

Stop what? I wondered. What could Mr. Levesque be doing that would ruin his family?

“I won tonight,” he told her. “I thought you'd be happy.”

“I'd be happy if you worked a regular job. I'd be happy if you stopped gambling. I'd be happy if we could stop running away from all the people you owe money to.”

So that was it. Mr. Levesque was a gambler. No wonder his wife was so upset.

“Okay,” he said. “I'll stop. I promise.”

Mrs. Levesque sighed. “How much did you win?”

“A thousand dollars.”

Wow, I thought, a thousand dollars was like two years' worth of allowance. He won all that in just one night?

“That's nothing compared to what we owe,” Mrs. Levesque said.

I heard the sound of more steps overhead. Patsy was coming downstairs. “Hey, Dad!” she called out, and I could hear her run over to him. “Come see the drawing I've been working on.”

After the three of them went upstairs, I let five minutes go by before I left the closet. Partly, I wanted to be sure they wouldn't come back down. Partly, I needed to think. What I thought about was how there are some secrets you'd rather not know.

“Why did he do that?”

I was trying to watch a rerun of a NBA playoff game, but Clay kept interrupting with dumb questions.

“Why are they letting him take an extra turn?”

“He's got a free throw, you big idiot.”

I didn't really say that. But I wanted to. The guy's totally clueless when it comes to B-ball.

It was the Pistons versus the Lakers and the game was really heating up. I dug my fingertips into the couch. Not because I was anxious about the game. More because I was sure Clay was about to ask me another dumb question.