***

The last bell rang. Grinning, I grabbed up my Biology books and papers, nearly dropping them on the floor in my haste, and crowded out of the classroom along with all the other students. Jostling through the crowded halls, I reached my locker without getting knocked about too much and this time- just for a change- the combination worked on the first try. It was ironic how often this lock stuck; I kept telling Frank it was because he’d picked it so often, he’d altered the combination.

Tossing my Biology books into the backpack that hung on the door-hook, I pulled on my jacket, then grabbed up the ‘pack, zipped it, and hauled it over my shoulder. Not too bad. Usually it was a lot heavier. But today I’d done all my English homework at lunch, which just left me with Bio, Geometry and Spanish. I kicked at the end of a book that was sticking out, then slammed the locker shut and made my way for the far end of the hall. The racket was as loud as ever, but I hardly noticed the loud babble of students calling to each other over the metallic slam of locker doors. Getting through the crowd was another matter, but I was pretty well built for a sophomore; it was annoying when someone bumped up against me, but it didn’t send me staggering, unlike some of the frailer students.

No one’s been trampled in Bayport High yet, but I keep waiting for it to happen- probably to some poor little freshman girl when some hulking senior comes plowing through. Bayport needs a second high school badly, but it ain’t happening in any kind of a hurry. Politics keep interfering.

‘It’s good to have a brother who can drive,’ I thought as I made my way down a less-used corridor that led to the athletics department. ‘Certainly better than trying to fight for a seat on those overcrowded school busses.’ It was less stressful, too- those bus drivers don’t wait long for you to get aboard before they take off. Makes sense, since they have to stay on schedule to pick up the Elementary kids, but a lot of people get stuck taking the late busses every day, whether they want to or not.

Our gang- that’s me, Frank, Chet, Iola, Callie, Biff, and sometimes Phil and Tony when they aren’t working- make a habit of meeting by the stadium bleachers after school to see who needs a ride and who doesn’t. Sometimes Chet’s car isn’t behaving and he and Iola need a lift; Callie almost always asks for a ride, but I’m sure that’s more because she wants to spend time with my older brother than because she really needs one. I don’t much care one way or another; I always get the front passenger seat regardless. Phil usually takes the bus home and then his parents take him to his afternoon job- how he gets all his homework done, much less with a straight-A average, is beyond me. Sometimes Tony gets to use one of his Dad’s trucks, but sometimes Mr. Prito needs them all and Tony’s left needing a ride.

The other reason we meet there, of course, is to get in more talk than a passing ‘Hi!’ in the halls. Very few of us have classes together, since we’re spread out over three grades, so the habit continues.

We all had the first lunch that year and tended to eat together, but there was always a lot of homework-completing or last-minute cramming going on then.

I went towards the bleachers at a jog and found that once again we’d all arrived at just about the same time. Biff thumped me on the shoulder as I paused by the huge wood-and-metal structure, and I pretended to take a swing at him. Frank was already sitting several steps up, next to Callie. They were laughing about something and the wind was blowing their hair around. Then my brother saw me and smiled as Iola came up beside me. "Hey, you," he greeted me. "You look as happy as a clam."

"He must be feeling his oats, he nearly got into a boxing match with me," Biff joked, sitting down.

"Whoa, you need to be a little less enthusiastic, there, pal," Chet said from behind me. He reached up and chinned himself a couple times on the bleacher in front of him.

"Stop showing off," I suggested. "Just ‘cause you can do eleven pull-ups-"

"How many can you do?" Iola stage-whispered.

"Enough," I retorted, rolling my eyes at her.

"So what’s got you so chipper, baby brother?" Frank asked, and grinned at my reaction. I always pretend to hate being called that, but actually I don’t mind it at all.

"Yesterday’s math test," I explained, anticipating his pride and the congratulations when I gave my news. "She passed ‘em back-"

"Yeah?"

"I did great!" I enthused. "I got a sixty out-"

"A sixty?" my brother repeated, sort of sputtering. "Joe, I hate to break it to you, but sixty isn’t great! It’s appalling!"

"It’s not-"

"Yes it is! It’s a fail, Joe." His dark brown eyes were narrowed. "You know that- sixty-four and lower is an F! I thought you told me you’d been studying-"

"I have, Frank, you don’t-"

"A sixty grade says otherwise, Joe. You don’t concentrate, you don’t take it seriously, you fiddle around too much and let yourself be distracted with other stuff. You never discipline yourself, and you get all pissy when I try to work with you. What the heck good is my tutoring doing when you won’t even try?"

I closed my burning eyes, ground my teeth, and tried very, very hard to keep my temper. Being interrupted drives me crazy, but being scolded for absolutely no reason at all was heating my temper faster than being interrupted could’ve done. I had studied, I had taken it seriously, and Frank’s version of tutoring me almost always left me with a raging headache. I didn’t trust myself to speak, and it was no use anyway. It was either wait till he shut up or let my actions speak for me. And I didn’t feel like waiting a second longer.

I slung my backpack off my back, trying to shut out my brother’s voice as he told me how disappointed our parents would be and how I could probably look forward to a parent-teacher conference. No one else said a word as I unzipped my backpack, pulled out the test, and stomped up the bleacher steps. I didn’t hand it to him; I held it in his face so he could see the 100% EXCELLENT WORK! in red marker at the top of the page.

"Six. Questions. Ten. Points. Each. Sixty points achieved out of sixty points possible," I snarled at him. 100% on a math test, I’d never done that before. And this was what I got for it? I crossed my arms on my chest and glared into his eyes, waiting for his apology.

"Oh," he said after a pause, tweaking the paper from my hand and studying it as though he hoped to find an error in the grading. "You could’ve made yourself a little clearer, you know."

I stared at him, incredulous and then doubly enraged. "Oh, so it’s my fault that you’re too busy telling me how rotten I am to let me get a word in edgewise?" I shouted at him. "Well, at least now I know what you really think about me!" I tore the test out of his hands- literally, it ripped halfway across- crumpled it up, hauled my backpack over my shoulder, and stalked back down the bleachers. Silence followed me as I jumped down to the ground; the backpack banged painfully against my spine as I landed, but I ignored it and stomped away. Passing a trash can, I crammed the paper inside. Mrs. Mallory had already marked it in her gradebook, I didn’t need it anymore and I certainly didn’t care to keep it now.

My fury stormed inside me and my immediate impulse was to turn around, march back to the bleachers, and absolutely pound on that rotten jerk of a brother of mine. I squashed the urge because of the burning in my eyes and the tightness in my throat. It had been a long time since I’d felt mad enough to cry, but I was now, and there was no way on earth I was going to take the chance of anyone realizing it. I was feeling humiliated enough without adding to the experience. And a deeper doubt nagged at me: why hadn’t anyone spoken up and defended me? Probably they would agree that Frank had been way out of line, but I wasn’t going to pick any fights with anyone until I knew who was on my side and who was on Frank’s.

I made my way around to the front of the school, stalking past the closed ground-floor windows and kicking at the shriveled brown and red leaves that had fallen from nearby trees. There was a sidewalk, but I didn’t use it. A narrow brown-dirt path ran close to the building, showing that it was a frequently-used shortcut, but I didn’t take that, either. I just went straight across the grass and halted as I reached the sidewalk in front of the school, staring at the pick-up/drop-off area. The student and faculty parking was farther down, to my left, and I frowned as I looked that way, weighing my options.

I didn’t want to wait for the late bus; I didn’t want stand outside the whole time and going inside would mean mingling with other students. I didn’t want to be around anyone, and besides, it would be an hour and a half wait. My next option was to go to our car and wait for Frank, but I didn’t even consider that. There was no way I was going to let Frank drive me home; the mere thought of seeing his face made my blood boil, let alone tolerating his company and his talk. That left me one last option: walk. It was a mile and a bit, but I didn’t care- maybe walking would vent some of my anger. I set out at a fairly fast pace, putting quite a bit of distance between me and the school before I calmed down enough to think.

The first thought that came into my head, trickling past my rage, was that I’d better take the back route. It was a little longer, but it would keep me off the main road. Considering that drivers blazed along a thirty-mile-an-hour stretch of road at about fifty miles per hour, that was a significant point. Especially so since there was no sidewalk. Much more to the point, though, was that Frank would drive home this way and I didn’t want him to pull up and offer me a lift the rest of the way. In his own way, he was as stubborn as I was and he would insist that I get in- maybe even to the point of stopping the car and trying to force me in. So I took the side jaunt that led through the woods.

It was chillier under the trees than on the road, despite the fact that most of the leaves had fallen already. Halloween had been the week before and there were still wads of toilet paper wrapped up in many of the bare branches. The days were cool now, and the nights were nippy, but all the same it was a warmer near-winter than we’d had for a while. Between my rapid walk and my coat, I was warm enough, once I zipped up; only my cheeks and ears really felt the chill.

***

I was not appreciably mellowed by the time I got home. I probably could’ve walked to Florida and still been just as angry by the time I got there. Rather than try to talk to Mom or Aunt G about my mood, I went upstairs and shut the door to my room. That was my sign not to be disturbed, and as extra insurance I put on my headphones so I wouldn’t be able to hear anyone knock. There’s a lot that I can talk to Mom about, and even Auntie makes a pretty good sounding board when you tell her you’ve got a problem, but I didn’t care to run the risk of hearing, "Oh, Joe, you’re overreacting again, dear." Maybe I was doing them an injustice, but I was in an unjust mood.

Working on my homework did calm me somewhat, and I turned off the headphones after an hour or so- the rock I was playing was giving me a headache. It was a good thing I did, because Mom called us to supper just a few minutes later. I sighed and closed my books reluctantly, not because I was crazy about doing homework but because the thought of going down and sitting at the table with the rest of the family was really uninviting. But I couldn’t think of any convenient excuse to eat in my room, or grab something later, and I wasn’t about to go into why I was feeling anti-social. Resigned, I plodded down to the bathroom and washed up, taking my time about it and feeling sullen at the world in general.

When I finally got downstairs, I saw that the table was already set; even the glasses were full. That was usually my job and I had a pretty shrewd notion who was responsible for this little surprise. But I didn’t look at him; didn’t even glance his way as I sat in my usual spot. The smell of roast beef made my stomach gurgle, and as Mom set the platter of meat on the table with the gravy-boat, I was happy to see that it had already been sliced. The sooner I finished eating, the sooner I could get back to my solitude.

It’s surprisingly easy to ignore someone who’s sitting beside you. Especially during a meal, when you have every reason to look at what’s in front of you and not at what, or who, is beside you. I didn’t say a word during dinner and scarcely even looked at my parents, keeping my attention on my plate and tuning out all the talk.

Fortunately for me, Aunt Gertrude was in full voice about the perfidies and injustices of her day, and though her voice made me clench my teeth, I was glad enough that no one could override her. I usually talk a lot during dinner- to be honest, I talk a lot in general- so Mom and Dad would’ve been sure to notice how quiet I was being. They wouldn’t take ‘nothing’ for an answer, either, if they asked what was the matter. And I didn’t feel like talking about it. I had a sullen, probably misled notion that Dad, at least, would come down on Frank’s side.

The meal seemed to take forever to end, but if I’d known what was coming, I wouldn’t’ve resented that so much. After we’d finished supper and dessert and the dishes were done, Dad asked Frank and me to come upstairs to his study. My heart sank; obviously he had another tough case and equally obviously he wanted Frank and I to help him. Normally I would have been thrilled at the opportunity, but this time I avoided Frank’s excited glance and shrugged without much interest.

Dad led the way upstairs to his study and I trailed along in the rear, wishing I could just go back to my room and shut the door. As I flopped at one end of the old leather sofa, as far from my brother as I could get, my resentment started welling up again. The last thing I wanted was to work with Frank now- or even with Dad. Dad always assumed we wanted to help, he never asked how much he was interrupting our lives in order to take these assignments of his. As far as that went, I thought, tuning out his explanations, Dad never really needed me on these cases anyway; he only included me out of charity. Humoring me. Letting me think I was helping, when we all knew I’d never be half as good a detective as him- or Frank.

Dad’s voice dinned in my ears, but I paid no attention at all. I was too busy exploring this thought- not a new thought, but one that I had tried not to take very seriously before. ‘They don’t need me,’ I thought with sudden conviction. ‘They don’t need me, and I bet they don’t even really want me, either. What am I doing here? I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to think about crimes or criminals or how to catch them. I don’t want to try and meet Dad’s detecting standards again, and fail again- and I definitely don’t want to work with that jerk next to me!’ Frank was asking questions, leaning forward eagerly- easy enough to see that he wanted to be here. I was the odd one out.

So what was I going to do about it? I asked myself, and my bitter anger made my decision for me. I stood up from the sofa and walked out of the study, closing the door quietly behind me. Half numb, half raging, I hurried down the stairs without any real notion what I was doing, knowing only that I had to get out. I needed to be alone. I could hear the study door open as I snagged my jacket from the closet, but I was out the front door even as Dad’s voice called down from the upstairs. Ignoring him, I shut the door and trotted down the driveway; when I reached the sidewalk, I took off running.

I hadn’t the slightest idea where I was going, but I did have enough sense left under my anger to get off the main road, where I was visible, and take quiet, dark back routes. I found myself working my way out to the edge of town, and decided that was a good idea. I kept running for a while, getting some distance between me and the house, but I was tired from the walk home earlier and heavy with dinner. My heart thudded as I slowed to a walk.

They don’t want me, don’t need me.

It ran in my head over and over again, blotting out my surroundings and even the road under my feet. Up until that night, I’d told myself that I was wrong, that my feelings of inferiority were just natural moments of self-doubt. But now-

I get people into trouble, into danger; I make stupid mistakes; I talk too much when I shouldn’t; I’m not logical or deductive enough to compare to either of them; I snap to conclusions and let my temper get the best of me. Worst of all, I’m too easily distracted or biased by personal feelings.

Why hadn’t I seen it before?

A noise behind me brought me to alertness; I prickled all over at the sound of a car’s tires on the damp road. It would be just like them to try and track me down! I scurried off the shoulder, down a slight incline, and flopped on my belly in a shallow ditch alongside the road. The darkness and a good crop of long wet grass obscured the make and model of the car as it passed me, not slowing. I lay there for a moment, thinking, realizing that any car could be Dad or Frank, or the police if they’d called headquarters, and that my best bet of not being found was to stay away from roads altogether. Detective’s paranoia; sometimes annoying, sometimes an overreaction, but often very useful.

I got to my feet and brushed at the water droplets clinging to the front of my jacket; my jeans were very damp and I scowled about that for a moment. Well, I would dry off eventually. I turned my back on the road and made my way through the thin woods that bordered the road. I didn’t worry about animals; the most dangerous critter I was likely to encounter was a rabid ‘coon, and there hadn’t been a rabies outbreak for the past nine years.

***

I lost track of how far I walked in those dark woods. My thoughts were boiling like a pan left too long on a burner, the same thoughts over and over again. And out of the thoughts came a sort of solution.

I liked detecting, for the most part; liked the work- even when it was boring or frightening. I particularly enjoyed it on those rare times when I, not Frank, came up with a workable plan or a logical deduction. The part I didn’t like was getting reprimanded, told I wasn’t doing this right or leaving that incomplete- or worst, hearing that terrible, ‘You know better’ from Dad. Despite the number of times he’d said it to me, I didn’t seem to know any better- because I kept doing the same things.

"So I’ll quit," I muttered out loud, stamping on a root that I could feel under my sneaker. Then I stopped, frowning. Was I overreacting, or was I making a sensible decision? ‘Look at it this way, J,’ I told myself. ‘If the main time you enjoy it is when you’re beating out Frank for the solutions, you’re in it for the wrong reasons. Keeping score and chalking up wins and losses is no way to investigate. Don’t compete with him on his turf; excel on your own turf.’

Okay. That made sense. Now I just had to find out what my turf was.

I shivered, realized I was cold- it was a chilly wet night and my jeans were still clammy- and looked around, wondering how far I’d walked.

The woods had thinned, showing a dirt road a few paces away. An old house loomed before me and I abruptly recognized my surroundings. This was the old Purdy place, an abandoned mansion that I was all too familiar with. One of our more dangerous cases had been centered around this decrepit dwelling. As I crossed the road and paused at the gate to take a peek at the old place, I felt a shock run through me. There was a light in one of the upstairs windows!

‘A vagrant taking shelter?’ I wondered. ‘Or a gang up to something?’

Only one way to find out. Pressing on the metal gates, I found that they still opened easily- and without squeaking, so someone had oiled them since the last time I’d been there. The grounds were in better shape, too; the caretaker must have been by recently to- but there was no caretaker, I reminded myself with a frown. So someone else had hauled out the weeds and half-grown trees that had clogged the yard. The wooden porch steps still creaked underfoot, and I moved cautiously as I ascended. Adrenaline was pumping through me; I felt hyper-alert, acutely aware of every sound and movement around me. The doorknob was cold in my hand, but it turned easily. Unlocked. I eased the door open and moved stealthily across the threshold.

Never leave a closed door behind you; you may come back to find you need it open.

As I moved into the hall, the floorboards groaned and crackled under me. I froze, and my scalp prickled at the sound of rapid footsteps upstairs. Someone had heard me. I ducked to the side and nearly bumped into a heavy wooden piece of furniture- some sort of cabinet. It was the best I was going to find, and I stood silently on the far side of it, in the shadow, suddenly wishing I had closed the door. The footsteps came down the stairs, accompanied by the steady, narrow beam of a flashlight. In that little light, I saw the inhabitant; an elderly man with disheveled white hair.

‘J, you nitwit!’ I told myself, relaxing. ‘It’s Mr. Wandy!’

Mr. Dalrymple, a banker from Lakeside, had bought the Purdy place after Mr. Purdy died. What he hadn’t known when he took possession of the place was that a gang of river thieves was using it as a hideout. Amos Wandy, an old inventor who’d been unable to find a market for his inventions, had been duped into working for the thieves. After Frank and I solved the case, Mr. Dalrymple had turned the house over to Mr. Wandy so he could have a quiet, remote place to concentrate on his work.

"Who’s there?" the old man quavered, apparently seeing the open door, and I snapped back to the present. The poor old guy sounded awfully scared, and I didn’t blame him. I stepped out from my hiding place and lifted my hands to show I meant no harm.

"Sorry to startle you, Mr. Wandy," I said as soothingly as I could, feeling very sheepish. "It’s just me- Joe Hardy."

"Oh! Oh, my goodness." The light shone in my face for a moment and I winced. "Yes, so it is. Whatever are you doing here?"

"I saw the light on and was a little worried. You really should get a security system for this place, sir...the gate was open and the front door unlocked."

"Oh, there’s no harm," the old man said mildly. Apparently my unexpected drop-in hadn’t ruffled his good nature at all. "Nothing to steal, anyway- not now."

"Well, vagrants might come by and steal your food," I pointed out. "And if they caught sight of your inventions, they might try to take one and palm it off as their own- and they’d certainly get rich off it in a hurry." A little judicious flattery never hurt, particularly when it was more true than not.

Mr. Wandy held the light very still, thinking that over. "Yes...yes, you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. Should have. Jensen did that himself, or very nearly. Yes. A very good point."

Jensen. I tried not to shiver. Arthur Jensen had been a madman, sane enough to exploit Mr. Wandy, but twisted enough to come within a hair of blowing the old house up...along with me, Frank and Mr. Wandy himself. "I had almost forgotten you were living here," I said conversationally, wanting to change the topic. "That’s why I wondered when I saw the light. You’ve had the place spruced up, haven’t you?"

"Oh, some, some. Got someone to come in and clear the yard, and another to take care of the dust- allergic to dust. And the roof fixed, yes. Couldn’t work with all that dripping, and the damp was no good."

It was just like the old man, I thought with a smile. The four of us cramped into the tiny room behind the clock, the thunderstorm raging outside, the rain pouring down...and the constant drip-drip all over from the leaky slate roof. With all we’d been through that night, it was the only thing Mr. Wandy had complained about. The wet made it hard to work on his inventions, making wheels stick, wood rot, and metal rust. His inventions were his life, and they were marvels of engineering.

"How do you think of them all?" I asked, half-aloud. My elderly friend chuckled.

"Patience, perseverance, and process of elimination. P, P and P of E," he told me with surprising whimsy. "My personal code, that. Of course it’s mostly the P of E. Eighty percent of my inventions don’t work the way I envision them, but I persevere. Sometimes I find a different way, sometimes I find a different use than I’d originally had in mind. Not unlike your own work, eh my boy? But I search for a different thing than you do."

Ordinarily I have some objections to being called ‘my boy’, but it was hard to resent from Mr. Wandy. He did have a paternal way about him, and besides, he was nearly eighty-five.

"I’m pretty good with the P of E and the perseverance," I answered, smiling. "Need to work on my patience, though."

He chuckled again. "Well, now, come in and talk with me a bit. I don’t get much company- don’t crave it, but there’s exceptions."

"Actually, I need to be heading home," I told him. I knew he was only making the offer from courtesy anyway and wouldn’t mind a bit if I didn’t sit and talk a while. "I’ve still got some homework to do...had an argument earlier and it was making it hard to concentrate, so I went walking to clear my head. Now I need to start thinking about my Spanish verb tenses."

The old inventor chuckled again. "In my day, it was French," he remarked. "Well, good luck. And thank you for your advice, I’ll have an alarm system put in and a good lock on the gate."

I thanked him, said goodnight and left, closing the door to keep the cold dampness out. As I reached the road, I looked up at the window and saw a figure moving across the light. I turned my back and started down the road for home.

***

It took me longer to get home than it had to get to the Purdy place; I was walking, not running, and going by the road instead of straight through the woods. But that was all right with me; I wasn’t really in a hurry to get there. I was tired, but not at all ready to sleep, and definitely not looking forward to the questions I’d field when I walked into the house. And more- the further I walked, the more another irritation began to grow in me.

I hadn’t left home with the intention of checking out a suspicious light in an old house; I hadn’t intended to discuss safety precautions or possible crime scenarios with Mr. Wandy- but I’d done it, without even thinking about it. I’d become so indoctrinated to detective work that even when I’d just made up my mind to quit, it still took over me. It was a hint of how difficult it was going to be for me to stop investigating; poor detective or not, unwanted or not, it had become too deep of a habit to break easily.

I wished for a moment that I could just leave- leave Bayport, leave New York, leave everything and just start over somewhere else. Somewhere that I didn’t have to deal with everyone’s expectations. Somewhere I could find completely new habits and make a completely different life. But I didn’t really want to leave Bayport, I thought as I looked toward the ocean. Just my family. And not even them; Mom and Aunt G weren’t the problem. I sighed and hunched my shoulders, digging my hands into the warmth of my pockets, and kept walking. I would just have to be on my guard for a while, be alert to my own behavior and nip any investigating instincts in the bud. And the first step to that was the one I was least looking forward to: telling Dad.

There were still lights on in the house when I got back, and I thought resignedly that I’d probably have to deal with a lot of fussing before I could get up to my room. But at least I wouldn’t be setting the alarm off. That would create even more fuss. I was pleasantly surprised, though, when I went inside. No one was in the living room. The television was on, which indicated whoever was watching would be back soon, so I hurried up the stairs as quietly as I could. I knew I ought to tell my parents I was home so they wouldn’t worry; in our family, prolonged absences usually equal trouble. I was thinking this as I reached the top of the stairs and I had just turned to go to my parents’ room when Dad’s study door opened and he nearly walked into me.

"Where have you been? Why did you run off like that?" he demanded. Already with the third degree.

"I went to the old Purdy place and talked a while with Mr. Wandy," I answered sullenly. "I just now got in and I was going to tell Mom I was home." I said ‘Mom’ deliberately, for the sole purpose of implying that I didn’t care if Dad was worried or not.

"Joe, it’s not like you to get up in the middle of a briefing and walk out," Dad said, sounding less like a lawyer and more like Dad. "Are you all right?"

‘Now that,’ I thought, ‘is a stupid question! Obviously not, if I’m doing something that’s not like me!’ "Why?" I asked in return. "I mean, why do you ask?"

"Well, if you’re not feeling up to par, or you’re bothered about something, it’ll probably affect the case-"

I saw red, felt a thrill of sheer hate rush through me. All of a sudden I understood how a kid could hate his parents. Right then, I hated my father more than I’d ever hated anyone in my life. "Oh," I replied, shocked at how completely casual I sounded. I was too angry even to show how enraged I was! "Oh, of course, the case- that’s the most important thing. For a minute there, I thought you actually had my welfare in mind. Silly of me, I guess I am a little distracted. But it doesn’t have anything to do with the case, so everything must be fine."

"Joe-"

"However, as far as the case goes, there is one thing. Count me out."

"What?"

"Count me out," I repeated grimly. "In fact, you might as well make it permanent. Count me out from now on when a mystery comes up."

"But-"

"You don’t need me," I said coolly. "Not when you’ve got him." I nodded down the hall, behind Dad, to where I could see Frank standing in the doorway of his room and watching the whole thing. "And- I know it’s taken me a long time to finally get the message, sorry- but I just figured out that you don’t really want me, either. You two will work together much better without me."

"Joe, that’s not true-"

"Of course it’s true!" It all poured out of me then, everything I’d thought and felt and concluded. I hadn’t meant to say a word about it, just to tell him to leave me out of his plans in the future, but I couldn’t stop my words. And what dimly surprised me was that, although I was raging inside, my voice was calm and cool and logical- as logical as Frank on his best days.

I ran out of breath after a while and took a new one, meaning to say more, but then stopped myself. The longer I stood there, the more I wanted to punch or kick or hit something. I was losing control, and I had pretty much said all I felt like saying anyway. "So, like I said: count me out. No more investigating for me, now or ever." I turned my back to walk away and felt Dad’s hand close around my arm. I yanked away and snapped, "Don’t you touch me!" I cannot bear to be touched when I’m angry; it makes me mad enough to truly hurt people.

"Joe, listen to me?" My father sounded more upset than angry or disciplinary.

"No," I informed him curtly, not turning. "I have homework I still need to do, and I’m not going to get it done standing here in the hall." I went into my room and closed the door, a little surprised that he didn’t try again to stop me and very nearly disappointed, too. It just proves, I thought, that I’m right; if he wanted or needed me to help, he’d try harder to convince me.

All the same, I locked my door. I knew that wouldn’t accomplish much if Dad really wanted to get in- he had drilled Frank and I long ago on how to pick just about any lock and we were all about equal at it- but I locked it anyway. Having done that, I sat and reflected bitterly that in most homes, kids didn’t have to worry about this problem. If they lock their parents out, their parents either wait till they come out or break the door down- which is a pretty extreme act and generally not done.

I decided to play it safe and rummaged in my top desk drawer until I found a little wooden wedge that I keep for one very specific reason. I shoved this under the door-crack and nodded as I sat down; any attempt they made to knock that out of the way would alert me. I glanced into the drawer as I closed it and toyed with the idea of scattering a few thumbtacks on the carpet, but decided not to. I’d get into a lot of trouble if someone stepped on them; I might forget and step on them myself; and anyway, whoever came in would probably have shoes on.

Having done what I could to maintain my solitude, I pulled on my headphones again and tried to make myself concentrate on my homework. It was hard; my mind kept drifting off to what I’d just said to my father and I spent at least fifteen minutes just staring at the wall and feeling rage churn through my body. ‘Forget it,’ I told myself at least a dozen times. ‘At least you won’t have to work with Frank.’ It did help, but when the anger subsided a little, I was left with an uneasy feeling of having burned my bridges. I reminded myself that I’d made a sensible decision and forced myself to concentrate on my homework.

***

The rest of the night passed in a quiet blur. No one tried to get in and talk to me, or if they did I was completely unaware of it. On the whole, my family knows it’s best to leave me alone when I’m mad and talk to me later, when I’ve cooled down. I finished my homework, unlocked the door long enough to get into the bathroom and clean up for bed, then returned to my room and tried to get to sleep. That wasn’t easy; I was still so angry that it was about impossible to relax. I finally drifted off sometime after one in the morning.

I woke up sooner than I was used to- a full half hour earlier. I’d deliberately set my alarm for six instead of six-thirty, and as soon as I was awake, I remembered why. I quietly got up and dressed for school, shivering in the early-morning chill, then crept downstairs and went into the kitchen to get breakfast and make my lunch. I couldn’t stop yawning, but I didn’t regret my decision. Being the first one up had major compensations. Particularly when one didn’t feel at all like being civil.

I had finished my breakfast and was about done making my lunch when Frank walked in, looking sleepy. His eyes widened in surprise as he saw me; it was very unusual for me to be up before him. I turned my back, put my lunch in a brown bag and took it into the dining room to get my backpack and leave. To my dismay, I found Dad there; he had just come down the stairs. I hadn’t heard either of them- they always do move silently- and I wished I had because I hadn’t felt like facing either one of them.

"Good morning, son."

"Morning."

"I’d like you and your brother to come home straight away this afternoon. I’ll have some things to go over with you both- hopefully. Frank can fill you in on what you missed on your way to school."

In that second something solidified inside me. If he had not made that remark, there’s no doubt I would have been coaxed into working on the case sooner or later, and probably sooner. But with that one simple refusal to take me seriously, with that assumption that my ‘Count me out!’ of the night before was just a whim, all the bets were off. I resolved grimly, then and there, that there was no way in Hell itself I was going to come home and pitch in with his case. And if Dad didn’t like it, too bad. Frank and I volunteered to help; he couldn’t compel us.

I made no reply, not even a nod, just turned on my heel, settled my backpack on my shoulders, and left the house. The idea of driving in to school with Frank was as objectionable to me as driving home with him yesterday had been, so I walked up to the bus stop and waited with the other students, none of whom had much to say at that hour. The sun was only just up, the air was cold and everyone was yawny. Little clouds of frozen breath puffed into the air and frost glittered on every lawn.

I went through the day in a state of fierce concentration, using schoolwork as a buffer between me and my anger. As long as I had something else to think about, I was fine, even fairly cheerful. But as soon as my concentration lapsed, the fury and hurt started to seep back in. After lunch, Frank stopped me in the hall and reminded me to head home right away. "Dad told me to remind you," he added over his shoulder as he hurried away, and I almost wished I had the time to tell him where to stick his instructions. It took me a while to stop fuming over that and pay attention to my Spanish teacher.

When classes were over, I didn’t go to the bleachers to meet the gang. Frank would be waiting to take me right home so we could get to work on Dad’s case; but he could wait till his ears froze if he wanted to, I thought sulkily. I wasn’t going to be there. I went to the library and settled in an out-of-the-way spot among the bookcases, doing my homework and then reading for a while. I didn’t hear the late bus bell ring; when I finally put the books away and left the school, I found I had missed the busses by about fifteen minutes. It really didn’t upset me; the later I was, the more chafed Dad would be. I don’t go out of my way to get Dad angry, usually, but I really wanted to drive in the point about keeping me out of his investigations. My time was my own.

Still, I didn’t really relish the walk home. It was not that much colder than the previous day had been, but the wind was blowing, the sun was lower, and clouds were piling up in the sky. I hurried, taking the shorter and slightly more dangerous route this time, and got home about three minutes ahead of a torrential autumn downpour.

Naturally, the first thing out of Dad’s mouth when he saw me- which was about two minutes after I got into the house- was, "Didn’t you remember what I said this morning? Didn’t Frank remind you? Why weren’t you home when I asked you to be?"

"You didn’t ask, technically," I answered coolly, pulling off my coat and hanging it up in the closet. "You ordered. And yes, I remembered, and yes, Frank reminded me." I turned to glare up at him as he stood on the upstairs landing. "And I wasn’t home when you demanded because I’m not involved. I told you that last night, if you remember. It’s sure nice to know just how seriously you take me when I tell you something."

For a few seconds, I really thought he was going walk down the steps and slap me. His face turned dark red and his eyes narrowed and I thought in a flash how big and strong he was.

"I helped you on other cases because I wanted to," I went on before he could speak, and wondered if I was digging myself in deeper. "And if I don’t want to, which I DO NOT, there’s nothing you can say or do that will compel me to. I’m not one of your employees; you can’t stop my pay or fire me for failure to complete my duties. I will not work with you again, and you can stop expecting me to change my mind just because my decision doesn’t suit you. I will live my life, thank you very much- not the one you’ve decided to shove me into."