Home Invasion Read online

  “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.

  Chapter Four

  “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.
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  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.

  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.

  Chapter Five

  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.”

  Chapter Six

  “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 pag
e. 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.