Beyond Repair (2 page)

“What do you think I should do?” I ask DJ.

“What's
to
do?” he asks. “The guy wants to shovel your driveway. Your mom sends him away. End of story.”

“What if he comes back?”

“Want me to deal with him?” DJ asks.

“Like how?”

“I dunno. Put sugar in his gas tank. Graffiti his house. You do know who he is, right?”

“Yeah,” 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.

“Did 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?”

“Mom 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.”

“What would you do if you ran into him?” he asks.

“Punch 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?

“So 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?”

“I'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

“Hey, 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.

“You'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,” she says. “Like, now that your mom's the breadwinner.”

“My dad was insured.” As soon as it's out of my mouth, I know it's a dumb thing to say. But my mouth often moves before my brain's in gear. “And my mom's a nurse. You know how much they make these days. Hey, maybe you could be a nurse when you grow up. Oh, wait—you need good grades for that.”

I can tell by her face I've gone too far. She turns away and slinks off.

Jeez. A couple of months ago, I'd never have been so mean.

I drag the returned movies out of the box, cracking my head as I back out to pile them on the cart.

“Is that what you call a uniform?” The Midget Manager is in my face, breathing licorice fumes at me. He lives on red Twizzlers that I bet he doesn't pay for.

I look down at my pants and Oilers sweatshirt. I've forgotten to put on my work shirt. Smocks, they call them here. It's a stupid name for stupid clothing. “Oops.” I fake a laugh. “I'll head right back to the staff room and put it on.”

“You do that. After you've taken care of these.” He gives the cart a shove.

I'm about to do just that when he says, “And one more thing.”

“Yes, Marcus.”

“I know it's been tough. Your dad and all. And I've made allowances.”

I try to edge past him, but he takes a step sideways so he's blocking my way. “You've had breaks no one else gets,” he goes on. “I give you shifts that work with your mom's schedule. Overlook lateness. But it can't go on forever. You're part of a team. We all pull together.”

This sounds like something he heard at one of the managers' team meetings he's always going to.

Then he adds, “Don't think I don't know how tough things are for you.”

I stare at the dvds jumbled on the top shelf of the cart. I've learned that it's best to avoid eye contact with people who feel sorry for you. Even mini-twits like Marcus.

“But I expect you to be on time for your shifts from now on,” he says, all business again. “Wear your uniform. And don't upset the other staff.”

Either Sad Sack Stacie's been telling tales. Or our great leader
has
been keeping tabs on me, despite his phony compassionate pitch.

“
Capiche
?” He taps his pen against his teeth.

“
Oui, monsieur
. Is that all?”
Capiche
? Someone should tell him that Canada's second language is French. Not Spanish. Or Italian. Whatever that was.

When he stands aside to let me pass, I push through the swinging door that separates the customers from the checkout counter.

I decide to make nice with Stacie. Even the unpopular girls at school don't include her in their airhead talk about nail polish and
The Bachelor
. And there's not a guy in his right mind who would make a pass at her. Could be something to do with the short, short skirts. And the tights. Today they are green.

I hold up a copy of
Lip Sync
. “Seen this?” I ask her. “It must be new.”

“It came in weeks ago.” She rings up chips and pop for a mom with about eight kids scrabbling around her. “Would you like a bag?” she asks the customer. Even though the woman says no, Stacie shoves her videos and snacks into a bag and passes it across the counter.

How's that for customer service?

She starts handing me movies off the cart so I can check them in. “You're supposed to know the stock,” she says in a prim voice. Then, in case I've forgotten, she adds, “I recommended you for this job, remember. I'm going to look stupid if it doesn't work out.”

You'd have thought she saved me from an icy death in the Fraser River. Not just gave me the lead on a lousy job at Video Mart, which she won't let me forget for a minute.

I'm saved from any more lectures by a customer leaning across the counter. “Excuse me. I'm looking for a copy of
Hamlet
.”

“I can look that up for you.” Employee of the Year Stacie puts down the stack of movies she's holding. She turns to the computer. “There's a number of versions. I'll see what's in.”

“Oh. I don't want to trouble you,” says the guy. “You look busy. But perhaps this young man can help me. But thank you”—he leans forward and reads the name tag on her flat chest— “Stacie, is it? Thank you.”

“It's no trouble at all.” She moves to the computer and types madly. Before he can say anything else, she taps the screen, “Classics. Is the one with Kenneth Branagh in it the one you want? Or Mel Gibson? Let me show you.”

The man looks back at me once as he follows her across the store.

Something about the way he walks… I can't quite place it, but he seems familiar. When he glances back at me, I look down and get busy separating the comedies from the dramas.

“Now that was weird,” says Stacie when she comes back.

“Weird how?” I ask.

“The movie he wanted was right on the shelf. But he didn't even pick it up.”

“Happens all the time,” I tell her. “Folks come in wanting one thing and find something better. Sometimes something recommended by people like you. Who know the stock.” I can't help making the dig.

It's like she doesn't hear me. She taps
Finding Nemo
against her chin and looks toward the big picture window smothered with posters. “Like, he just said thanks. Then took off.” She slips the movie in among the stack of others waiting to go out on the floor. “But first he asked your name,” she says. “Like you weren't wearing a name tag. Oh. You're not.”

I ignore the superior look spreading across her face and look toward the door.

A chill creeps across my shoulders. Now I remember that walk.

I remember the quiet of that day it snowed. The harsh sound of the shovel on the driveway. The guy walking to his truck after my mom was finished yelling at him.

Stacie is blathering on about privacy and store policy as I shove past her. She gives a little squeak when I tread on her foot.

I barge through the doorway past a skinny punk and his girlfriend who are on their way in.

I scan the sidewalk and the parking lot.

I can't see the guy anywhere. I hang on to the door handle, feeling its cold edge cut into my palm.

The guy's gone.

Mom said she would report him to the police if he showed up at the house again. But I bet she'd never thought he'd turn up at my work.

But that was him. I know it.

Which, in my book, makes him a stalker.

Chapter Four

DJ sits on my bedroom floor with his back against the bed. He throws a yellow tennis ball against the door. Good thing Mom's at work. She'd be on my case about the noise in a flash.

“I can see why you'd be freaked out, dude,” he says as the ball lands back in his hand. “What say we turn the tables on the guy?”

“Turn the tables how?”

“Give the guy a piece of his own medicine.”

“Taste. It's a taste of medicine,” I say. “You're mixing metaphors.”

“Thanks, Mr. Shakespeare. Taste then,” he says. “How about this? We follow him.”

“That makes us as bad as him, doesn't it? Mom called it stalking when he showed up here. It's stalking when he tracks me down at work. So it's stalking if we follow him.”

“What I'm planning is called a stakeout. Stalking! Your old lady is a drama queen. So the guy wants to shovel your driveway. Pick up a movie or two. Doesn't make it stalking.”

“Feels spooky though.”

“That's because you have no curiosity. Why he would want to come within a hundred miles of you and your mom is what I wonder.”

“Me too.”

“So let's check him out.” DJ reaches out to catch the ball, but this time he misses. “Suss out what he wants,” he adds, as he watches the ball roll under my bed.

“Leave it,” I tell him.

He bends down to peer at the crap I know is there. Lost underwear. Candy wrappers. The manila folder I took from Dad's desk. “It's no big deal,” I tell him. I've got another ball somewhere.”

Ignoring me, he kneels down with his butt in the air. I hold my breath as he sticks his arm under the bed and gropes around. He comes back up right away holding a cobwebby balled-up sock, a couple of pencils and a cd.

I grab for the cd with relief. “What's that?”

“Raffi.”

“Shove it back quick. Leah's been on about it for months. I swore up and down I didn't have it.”

Dust flies off the jewel case as he slaps it against his knee. “That Leah's a nice kid,” he says. As if that has anything to do with anything. He throws the cd on my bed, and as he gets up he chucks the sock at the wall. It just rolls down and falls to the floor. “So, you wanna check out the guy?”

“How are we going to do that?” I ask.

“So obvious.” DJ shoves me out of my desk chair, sits down and starts typing. “Canada411,” he says as his hands hover over the keyboard. “Let's get his address to start with. Phone number, too, would help. What's his name?”

When I don't say anything, he looks up at me. “Well?”

“I know it. Course I do,” I tell him. I knew the guy's name the other day. But right now it's like everything in my head is erased.