Free Home Invasion by Monique Polak

Chapter One
    Don’t ask me what she sees in him. He’s not handsome, that’s for sure. He’s got chipmunk cheeks and this weird cowlick that looks like a rhino’s horn. She thinks he’s funny, but then Mom’s always had a bizarre sense of humor.
    The two of them were at it again last night.
    My room’s right next to theirs, and the walls are paper-thin. I could hear their bed creaking. I tried pulling the pillow over myhead, but then I heard Mom’s voice, soft and low.
    She kept whispering the same disgusting thing—over and over again.
    â€œShh, Clay,” she kept saying. “We don’t want to wake Josh up.”
    As if I wasn’t already awake.
    How do they expect me to look at them in the morning?
    I was sitting in the kitchen reading the comics. Mom was just leaving for a run. The last thing she said to me was “Don’t let the home invader in!”
    Everyone in Montreal’s talking about the home invader. He’s some guy—or maybe it’s a girl (I don’t want to be sexist here)—who robs houses while the people who live in them are home. You gotta admit, it’s pretty creepy. Bad enough getting burgled when you’re out, but imagine it happening when you’re right there.
    Mom was already out the door, so she didn’t hear what I muttered under my breath: “You already let him in.”
    Of course I was talking about Clay. Her new husband. My stepfather. Montreal’s number one home invader.
    Things were going fine before Clay moved in. Him and all his stuff. His maroon bathrobe, his weird recipes, his old turn-table—who listens to vinyl anymore?—and the little scraps of paper he’s always doodling on.
    As I was thinking that, Clay rushed downstairs. The guy’s always in a hurry, late for one thing or another. He had a big white blob of shaving cream smack in the middle of his chin. If I were nicer, I’d tell him.
    But I’m not that nice.
    â€œHave you seen my keys, kiddo?” he asked.
    I shrugged. If he were normal, he’d use the key holder that’s hanging in the front hallway. It’s got little hooks, and it’s shaped like a key, so you’d think he’d figure out what it’s meant for. But Clay is not exactly normal. He rifled through a pile of papers on the desk in the corridor, adding to the mess. I wondered if he thought about checking his pockets.
    I heard him opening the front closet. From where I was sitting in the kitchen, I could only see the soles of his feet. He was on his knees, taking stuff out. I spotted a pair of skates and the box where we kept mittens. Didn’t he realize it was July? Why would his keys be in with the winter stuff?
    Suddenly he started talking to himself. “We need to do something about this closet,” he said. Then he started emptying the whole thing out. I could hear him dragging out the vacuum cleaner and some suitcases. I bet he had forgotten about the keys altogether. Which would be just like Clay. He’s not exactly focused. Mom says it’s because he has an artistic personality—and that that’s one of the things she loves about him—but if you ask me, that’s just an excuse. In my opinion, the guy’s a disaster.
    He had emptied so much crap into the corridor, I could barely see the front door. Then he stood up again, surveying his work.
    â€œThere you are, you little bugger,” I heard him say. Then his voice dropped. “Right in my front pocket.” I tried not to laugh.
    Now that he had found his keys, he would probably forget about putting the stuff back in the closet. If I did that, Mom would have a fit. But she never, ever gets mad at Clay. It’s one more thing I hate about him.
    The doorbell rang. I could hear Clay wade through the mess he had made.
    I put the comics down and headed out into the corridor. It looked like a war zone. A girl and a middle-aged woman were