Free Beyond Repair by Lois Peterson Page B

and freezing, Dad was actually there. He set his stacks of papers aside and turned off the computer. He even made me tomato soup and a bologna sandwich. And he sat at the kitchen table with me while I ate it. It was some kind of a first. I knew better than to make a big deal of it. I just ate slowly to make it last. We talked—although I can’t remember what about.
    â€œWhat do you think I should do?” I ask DJ.
    â€œWhat’s to do?” he asks. “The guy wants to shovel your driveway. Your mom sends him away. End of story.”
    â€œWhat if he comes back?”
    â€œWant me to deal with him?” DJ asks.
    â€œLike how?”
    â€œI dunno. Put sugar in his gas tank. Graffiti his house. You do know who he is, right?”
    â€œYeah,” I say. That is not something I’d forget. The man’s name was all over the paper for a couple of days after the inquest.
    DJ pushes off from the locker and heads down the hall. “That’s settled then. Next time he bothers you or your mom, you tell me. I’ll sort him out.” He flexes a puny arm.
    DJ talks like a tough guy. He’s the biggest chicken I know. And he knows it. So we’re both laughing when we head into homeroom.
    Sad Sack Stacie in her weird clothes looks up at DJ. “What’s so funny?” she asks.
    DJ thinks Stacie has a crush on me. I hope she has a crush on him.
    â€œDid you know the Inuit have a thousand words for snow?” he asks her. She yanks up her tights by dragging on her plaid skirt. Very classy. Her tights are yellow. Her skirt is short. Very short. Like I’d notice.
    She nods. “Actually, that’s an urban myth. It’s not that they have so many words. It’s just that they have so many dialects.”
    That stuns DJ for a second. But he recovers quickly, shakes his head and walks away. “I asked for that,” he mutters as we head for our seats. “Didn’t I ask for that?”
    â€œMom says that the guy showing up on our driveway amounts to stalking,” I tell DJ. “It’s even spookier when I think of it like that.”
    â€œWhat would you do if you ran into him?” he asks.
    â€œPunch him.” It’s a stupid thing to say. I’ve never hit anyone in my life—at least not since I was Leah’s age.
    I’m the man of the house now. My grandparents, aunts, Mom’s friends are always saying that. I’m supposed to fix things and take care of everyone. I thought they meant grocery shopping and helping Leah with her homework. I can do that. It’s not like it’s any different than when Dad was alive.
    But now am I supposed to chase off this guy too?
    â€œSo you tell me,” I say. “What would you do if the guy who killed your father showed up and wanted to help around the house?”
    â€œI’d invite him in. Trade my old man in for the new model.” DJ’s father is always on his case. About his schoolwork—Bs aren’t good enough. His girlfriends—he hasn’t got any. His hair—it’s never combed.
    At least his dad notices this stuff.
    What would I do if the guy showed up again? I wonder.
    Bryan Klausen, 43. A millwright. What’s a millwright? Klausen is a family man with two kids and a wife who teaches social studies. Not at my school, that would be too spooky.
    I already know too much about this guy from the article about the inquest. No one knows I keep all the newspaper clippings under my bed.

Chapter Three
    â€œHey, Cameron,” says Stacie a few days later when I get to work. It is ten after five. I’m late thanks to Leah. She made a big fuss when I dumped her at the sitter’s. Thankfully, Marcus the Midget Manager is not around.
    â€œYou’re on returns,” Stacie says. “I covered for you.”
    I mutter, “Thanks.”
    When I head for the drop box, she’s right behind me. “I bet working helps out at home,”