Chapter Three

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.