Chapter Ten

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.

I felt my face get hot. Why did he have to be such a jerk?

Patsy took her hands out of her pockets. “Well, I’d better get some bagels,” she said. Then she tilted her chin toward me. “It’d be great to do something sometime…” she said.

“I — I’ll come by your house.”

Clay waited for Patsy to walk to the counter at the back. Then he leaned over and nudged my elbow. “You’re some smooth operator,” he said.

I gritted my teeth. Then I closed my eyes and tried to remember what my life was like before he came along and ruined it.