The Break-In
Authors: Tish Cohen
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Fiction
TISH COHEN
The
Break-In
Copyright © 2012 Tish Cohen
First published in 2012 by Grass Roots Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Grass Roots Press gratefully acknowledges the financial support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies:
the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Alberta through the Alberta Foundation for the Arts.
Grass Roots Press would also like to thank ABC Life Literacy Canada for their support. Good Reads® is used under licence from ABC Life Literacy Canada.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Cohen, Tish, 1963-
The break-in / Tish Cohen.
(Good reads series)
ISBN: 978-1-926583-82-2 (Print)
ISBN: 978-1-927499-42-9 (ePub)
ISBN: 978-1-927499-43-6 (Kindle)
I. Readers for new literates. I. Title.
II. Series: Good reads series (Edmonton, Alta.)
PS8605.O3787B74 2012 428.6’2 C2012-902309-4
Printed and bound in Canada.
For Max and Lucas
Discover Canada’s Bestselling Authors
Alex watched a cricket creep along the baseboard and disappear. He didn’t feel strong enough to go after it. Not today. Besides, why try? Seven more crickets were on the loose, and he’d lost the plastic lunch bag they came in.
He sat with his elbows on his knees. His suit jacket didn’t fit anymore. It bunched up and hurt him under his arms. All around him, grown-ups sipped tea and ate tiny sandwiches and cookies. As if he couldn’t hear them, they whispered about the tragedy. Of course it was a tragedy. Alex’s dad was the best police constable on the force, everyone said so. Two days ago, he had stopped a guy for speeding. While he was writing the ticket, another driver hit
and killed him. Who could imagine anything worse? Not his son, that’s for sure.
“Poor fellow was too young to die,” a woman said. Alex knew her; she worked at the main desk of the police station. “Barely fifty. Makes no sense.”
The constable beside her nodded. “That’s the thing about life. Does its best to mess us up.”
Alex hated this little house on Poplar Avenue. Everything about it was bad. His dad had wanted to live closer to work. That’s why the family had moved here from the other side of town a month ago. Four crappy weeks. In that time, Alex had had two teeth filled and his mother had had the stomach flu. Now his dad was dead. Loose crickets didn’t matter compared to that.
His mother looked sadder and taller than ever in her borrowed funeral dress. “Honey,” she said, “you need to eat.” She held out a plate of salad.
Alex stared at the lettuce, making a face.
“You need to keep your strength up.”
Using the smallest amount of air he could, Alex said, “L-l-lettuce is for c-c ... crickets.”
His mother’s hand went to her throat and started to play with her pearl necklace. His stutter was getting to her. She couldn’t handle that it had
come back after three years. Alex felt guilty as hell. His mother didn’t need to worry about her son not being able to speak, on top of everything else.
Alex flipped a piece of lettuce behind the sofa. “B-b-b-b ... b-bait.”
“Did the whole bag of crickets escape? Or just a few?”
He didn’t answer.
“Alex, how many crickets escaped?”
He just shook his head. Knowing that eight crickets were loose in her house wasn’t going to make her feel better.
“I still don’t understand why I had to buy you a pet spider right now,” Alex’s mother said. “You can’t even hug it and get any sort of comfort.”
Alex stared at the ceiling. How many times did he have to tell her? The Mexican palomino spider was
not
poisonous. Well, not very poisonous. Boris the spider’s bite was something like a bee sting. He was extremely gentle and easy to handle. And— bonus!—his hair didn’t give humans a rash, like the hair of some spiders did. No itching. No killer biting.
“He’s not p-p-p ...” Alex tried to let the word escape. “Not p ... p ...”
His mom’s sadness made her face droop. “It’s the stress of what happened. Losing Dad. You’ll feel better once you get back to your old routine. That’s what you need.”
That wasn’t what he needed. What he needed was to get back at the guy who killed his father.
Sergeant Hines walked across the room with a black box in his hand. He sat in the chair next to Alex while Alex’s mother watched, wiping her nose with a tissue. At the funeral, Alex’s dad’s police hat had been placed on the coffin. Then, at the end of the funeral, the sergeant gave the hat to Alex’s mom, the widow. She’d cried. Man, had she cried.
“A few things from your dad’s desk,” Sergeant Hines said to Alex as he opened the box. The World’s Best Dad mug Alex had given his dad for Father’s Day. A framed picture of Alex with his parents in front of the fireplace in their old home. An award for bravery.
Alex said, “W-w-w-what d-d-d ...?”
The sergeant leaned closer. “What’s that?”
Alex’s mom answered for him. “He wants to know what his dad did. For the award.”
“Took on an armed suspect all by himself during a home invasion. Saved a young mother and her three little ones. Your dad was quite the cop, Alex. He will be sadly missed.”
The sergeant meant to make him feel better, but Alex only felt worse.
His mom took the box and held it to her chest. Alex could see she was blinking back tears. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
“I know who d-d-did i-i-i ... who d-did it.”
Sergeant Hines smiled sadly. “Who would that be, son?”
A good cop looks at the clues. The hit-and-run driver who killed Alex’s dad left almost none. Only chips of dark red paint on the door of the car Alex’s dad had pulled over. The guy getting the ticket couldn’t describe the other driver’s car. All he knew was that it was an old red clunker.
Old Man Morrison, Alex’s one and only suspect, lived across the street. He and Alex were enemies. As the new boy at school, Alex got picked on, of course. Two weeks ago, bullies had stolen his backpack. Alex couldn’t care less about his school books, but in his backpack he’d had a bendable
pen from Disneyland. Now he’d never get it back. The day after the bullies took his backpack, Alex saw them again. To get away, he cut through Old Man Morrison’s yard.
Morrison had trimmed his shrubs into crazy shapes: a swan, a giraffe, a rocket ship. He was nuts about those bushes. He threw a fit when Alex cut through his yard. Alex, he said, had broken some of the lower branches. He demanded that Alex fix them. Which was impossible. How do you put a broken branch back together?
Alex’s dad went to calm the guy down, even offered to pay him, but Morrison wouldn’t listen. He said he’d get even. That alone didn’t make the old man a suspect. But this did: Morrison drove a very old, very red clunker.
Alex decided to tell Sergeant Hines the name of his suspect. “M-M-Morr.”
“Excuse me?”
“He thinks Mr. Morrison, across the street, did it,” said Alex’s mom. “He drives a red car.”
“O-o-old
red car.”
The sergeant, like about ten other people that day, tapped Alex under his chin. “Every dark red car is being looked at. If the paint matches, we’ll be
talking to Mr. Morrison in the next few days. Don’t you worry.”
But Morrison could leave town. Every good cop knows the bad guy will try to run. “In the next few days” wasn’t soon enough. Alex shook his head angrily.
The sergeant leaned close and smiled. “You just leave the policing to the police. You’re the man of the house now, son. It’s up to you to take care of things around here.” He stood up to leave, and a puzzled look crossed his face. “Do I hear a cricket?”
The next morning, Marcus sat across from his doctor and rubbed at his new beard. Strange that it took him until age twenty-seven to finally grow a bit of hair on his face. He wondered if stress could do that. Make a person hairier.
Dr. Ling yawned into her hand. “Excuse me,” she said as she opened his file.
He leaned back into his chair and tried not to yawn back. He’d had a bad night. Didn’t fall asleep until three or four o’clock. Then he slept through his alarm and raced out the door without even showering. He didn’t want to be late for therapy. It was all that was keeping him sane since Lisa walked out.
The doctor looked up. “You were starting to tell me about your sadness. How you’re coping with it.”
Marcus looked down at the photo in his hand. It was taken three years ago, back when he and Lisa were in their last year of art college. God, she was beautiful. Her freckles, her wavy brown hair. It blew across her face and got in her mouth. That drove her nuts. She was so pretty it wasn’t fair. No one could hold on to such a woman. And no one could get over her once she was gone.