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  Copyright © 2019 Alison Hughes

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Watch out / Alison Hughes.

  Names: Hughes, Alison, 1966– author.

  Series: Orca soundings.

  Description: Series statement: Orca soundings

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190066326 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190066350 | ISBN 9781459822351 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459822368 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459822375 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8615.U3165 W38 2019 | DDC jc813/.6—dc23

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019934064

  Simultaneously published in Canada and the United States in 2019

  Summary: In this high-interest novel for teens, fifteen-year-old Charlie investigates a series of break-ins in his neighborhood.

  Orca Book Publishers is committed to reducing the consumption of nonrenewable resources in the making of our books. We make every effort to use materials that support a sustainable future.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Edited by Tanya Trafford

  Cover images by Stocksy.com/Marcel (front) and Shutterstock.com/Krasovski Dmitri (back)

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  22 21 20 19 • 4 3 2 1

  For Maureen

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Acknowledgments

  An Excerpt from “Hide and Shriek”

  Chapter One

  Chapter One

  “Doorbell,” said Tom. My brother didn’t even look up from his computer.

  “Oh, man!” I had just poured both of us bowls of cereal. I had just rushed them upstairs, spoons shoved in my back pocket. I was rushing because cereal needs to be eaten within thirty seconds of pouring in the milk, of course. For prime cereal/milk blending. Anybody knows that. Leave it one or two minutes and that cereal is doomed. It turns into a mucky, soggy mess. And who wants to eat that?

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Charlie! Doorbell.” I was busy choking back a few bites of perfect cereal. Tom grabbed one of his crutches and poked me with it. “C’mon. Go see who it is.”

  Last week Tom broke his leg in two places in one of the most spectacular injuries in the history of Walter Watts High School’s football team. (The Wildcats. Name another W animal. Okay, I just thought of wolves, which would have been way better. Also wolverines. Never mind.) Anyway, it was a really grim injury. A hall-of-famer.

  Even the doctor called it a “super-ugly, ugly break.” You know when a doctor looks scared and says “ugly” twice that it’s a bad one. It was one of those injuries they play over and over and over on the sports roundups. You know the ones— a baseball player crashing into the wall trying to make the catch, or a ref accidentally getting clocked by a giant linebacker. Maybe with a voice-over of the announcer saying, “Oh! That’s gotta hurt!”

  It was brutal, but it made Tom a minor celebrity at school. Who knew that a crippling injury was a ticket to popularity? I didn’t. I might have to try it some time. It wasn’t as if Tom needed more attention. Tall, popular, athletic—Tom was one of those twelfth-graders we tenth-graders pretty much hate. Well, not hate. He’s my brother, so that’s the wrong word. Resent? No, that’s too negative. Envy? Bingo.

  But I did feel bad for him when he got injured. It was the kind of injury where parents run onto the field. The kind of injury where a leg bends in several places that no leg should. The kind of injury where bone rips right through the skin (I’m feeling sick just thinking about it). The kind of injury where everybody holds their hands over their mouths. Or sucks in their lips and groans or says, Jeez. Or just turns away and prays that people with stronger stomachs will deal with it. I was in that last group. Mom was the parent running onto the field. And Uncle Dave too. Not a parent, but an adult. Sort of.

  Now Tom was stuck in a huge cast. A toe-to-hip cast. What a massive hassle! For me especially. Because Tom was going to be, as far as I could see, living a great life for the next few months. Sure, he was in a bit of pain. Okay, a lot of pain. But he had medicine to help control that. He had special permission from school to do his schoolwork from home for a few weeks. He had his computer and his books. And he had a 24/7 personal servant. Me.

  Uncle Dave had piggybacked him up to our room after he got back from the hospital. And other than some slow crutching to the bathroom, that’s where he’s been. Watching Netflix, playing video games, making music on his computer.

  So I had to pick up the slack around the house. Do everything. Well, everything other than make the money. Mom took care of that one. She had a job cleaning the operating rooms at the hospital. She didn’t panic much at all about Tom’s leg once she knew he was okay. She’s seen enough gore, I guess. She knows things heal. She’s a tough cookie, as Uncle Dave says.

  So Tom’s injury became my problem. Mom works, and Uncle Dave, who is currently living in our basement, is looking for work. In theory. He also does volunteer stuff and other various things. That means I had to do all the yard work. Garbage. All the housework. All the running food upstairs, all the taking dirty dishes downstairs. All the stacking dirty dishes in the dishwasher. All the unwrapping and cooking of frozen foods. Everything.

  Including answering doorbells.

  I pounded down the stairs and gave the peephole a quick glance. But I knew who it would be. It was the middle of the day. I yanked open the door on the third ring. Gary is our mail carrier. No matter the weather, Gary always seems to have a cold. His baseball hat is too big for his little head. His mail bag looks too heavy for him to carry. It practically hangs to his knees.

  “Another package for ya,” Gary said to the front step.

  Gary always looks at something else when he is talking to you. At first I found this confusing. For example, he’d tell our mailbox it was going to rain. Or mention to his shoes that postage rates were going up. But now I know he’s actually talking to me. He’s not so into eye contact. He’s just an oddball, Mom says.

  Gary wiped his nose with the back of his hand as he shoved the package at me. “For Tom, actually.”

  “Thanks, Gary,” I said. This is where the door should be shutting, right? Mail guy comes with package. Mail guy delivers package. It’s done. That’s how normal mail people do things. But not Gary.

  “Amazon again,” he said, pointing to the package.

  “Yep. Sure is.” I gritted my teeth and tried to be nice. Gary obviously didn’t have much of a life. He always wanted to stop and talk, even if it was only about mail. Or the weather. Or…actually, that was it. Mail and weather. Those were the only things we ever talked about.

  “You guys sure get lots of packages,” said Gary.

  I sagged against the doorframe. Gary is a death-by-boredom kind of guy. I was really, really hoping he wasn’t going to tell me yet again h
ow packages are tracked before they’re delivered. That one was a long, painful ramble.

  “Yep, we sure do. My brother does, actually.”

  “Yeah? What did he order?” He said this to the porch. He didn’t care. He was just making lame conversation.

  But somehow I hate it when he flat-out asks what is in the packages. It isn’t like there is ever anything exciting or private in them. Just electronic equipment and software for the music Tom makes on his computer.

  It is the principle of the thing. Gary just shouldn’t ask. Isn’t that against some mail-carrier code? Aren’t they just supposed to silently deliver things through rain and hail? This was like a grocery clerk asking why you bought that broccoli or how you were going to cook it. Mail, like broccoli, just seems private to me.

  I don’t know. Maybe I’m the one with the problem.

  “Oh, just stuff. You know. Brrr…it’s a little chilly.”

  Gary showed no sign of moving off the step. The guy could not take a hint. Ever.

  He lifted his cap and scratched his mop of red hair. He glanced at me with his watery, pale-blue eyes. They swam fishlike behind his thick glasses. He wiped the back of his hand across his nose again.

  “It’s fall. October,” he replied. I nodded. Killer observation. He nodded too.

  God, I felt sorry for the guy. Maybe I was the only person who ever talked to him. Gary took out a stained handkerchief and blew his nose.

  “Well, don’t let me keep you, Gary. That looks like a wicked cold you have there. And you probably have lots of other mail to—”

  “Nah, pretty much finished the route. Did it in two hours, twenty-three minutes today.”

  Yes, he times himself. And has to talk about it.

  “Hey, nice. Sweet. One of your better times. Well, I better—”

  “You hear about all the break-and-enters in the neighborhood?” Gary said suddenly.

  No way. Gary was actually talking about something other than the mail or the weather. My brain snapped from half-asleep to alert.

  “Yeah. Mom told us. People on the corner. Two doors down. Across the street. Next street over.”

  “Yep. Five so far. Couple new ones yesterday. Bet you didn’t know that.” Gary can also be a bit of a jerk. “At 218, the yellow house. And 198. Wait, is it 196 or 198?” He paused to puzzle out this detail. What did I care what the house number was? There had been five—no wait, now seven—break-ins in our neighborhood in the past two weeks! That was the important point.

  “Yeah, 198,” he said with a nod. “That one with the hedge. Lady there was talking to the cops when I delivered.” Gary seemed quite cheerful with this neighborhood crime report.

  “Jeez.”

  “Don’t worry, kid. Don’t worry,” he said.

  Do I even have to say how much I hate it when he calls me “kid”?

  “I’m not worried,” I lied. “The cops will stop—”

  “Because,” said Gary, cutting me off like I wasn’t even speaking, “I’m watching. I’m out there. On the ground. Every day. And I’m watching.” He pointed two pasty fingers at his thick glasses.

  I almost laughed out loud. Detective Gary. Mild-mannered mail carrier by day, fearless sleuth by night. Gary sniffing around for clues. Getting in the police’s way, probably. Screwing things up to add some excitement to his dismal life.

  “Well, good. That’s good, Gary. Those thieves better watch out. But, you know, you should be careful. They might be dangerous.”

  “I’ll be okay. It’s them that better look out.” He looked more ridiculous than ever as he said this. He literally puffed out his chest. Then, mercifully, he turned to leave.

  “Go get ’em, Gary,” I said. I quickly shut the door, in case he turned around.

  As I locked it, I thought about the break-ins. Mom was sure spooked about them. She was leaving on lights all night long. She had got Uncle Dave to trim the bushes near the back door. She would not be happy to hear about two more houses broken into.

  Poor Mom. So many worries. About us, about her job, about Uncle Dave. Like she needed this added stress. It made me mad thinking about these jerks, freaking out people like my mom (and, let’s face it, me).

  So much stuff stolen in the neighborhood.

  So many houses broken into.

  So little being done about it, it seemed. The cops wrote up reports, but Mom said they told the neighbors there wasn’t much chance of tracing their stuff. The thieves were pretty smart, the cops said. Only took smaller things. Grab and run. Quick resale. They didn’t back up moving trucks and clear out the houses completely.

  But now Gary was on the case. I felt a little guilty for wanting to laugh at that. Gary at least had the guts to get out there and try to help. What was I doing? Nothing.

  I was smarter than Gary. Way smarter. Not so socially awkward. Better vision.

  I’d watched Sherlock on Netflix.

  I had nothing to do this whole week other than be Tom’s legs. And running up and down the stairs, fetching and carrying, was already getting old.

  Maybe I’d do a little detecting of my own.

  Chapter Two

  “Another package for you,” I said, tossing it onto Tom’s lap.

  “Oh, good. Probably the audio interface.” Tom started ripping into the box. “What took you so long?”

  “Gary. The guy makes what should be a ten-second delivery into an awkward, ten-minute chat.”

  Tom grinned. “Is he your new friend, Charlie?” Gary is a legend in our house. Uncle Dave and Mom hide, literally hide, when they see him stumbling up the walk.

  “Yeah, right. The guy is nosy. Isn’t it illegal or something for a mail carrier to ask what’s in your mail?” Then, not caring that I was being nosy too, I asked, “How much are you spending on all this stuff?”

  “None of your business. Not tons. Some of my job money.”

  Tom works at Sport Shed. Worked at Sport Shed. Maybe he will again when he can actually walk around.

  “Oh, hey. There’s been another couple of break-and-enters in the neighborhood. That’s what Gary said. I don’t know if we can believe him.”

  “Really? Jeez. Mom will freak.”

  “Gary could be making things up for a little drama. A bit of excitement. He’s in full crime-fighter mode.”

  “That’s all we need,” said Tom, laughing.

  “Look, you want anything else? Got your medicine? Water? I’m going to go for a walk.”

  “Nope, I’m good,” Tom said. He was studying the instruction manual for the electronic blah-blah he’d just gotten. I grabbed the cereal bowls. One empty, one a soggy mess. Tom looked up. “Thanks, buddy.”

  “No prob.” Tom was, in fact, a really good guy. My best friend, if I wanted to get all emotional about it. So mostly I didn’t mind doing stuff for him. I knew he’d do the same for me.

  I ran down to the kitchen to unload. I noticed a blinking light on the answering machine.

  Hi, this is Carly Silberman from the office at Walter Watts High School. I’m calling about Charlie’s absence from school. We’ll just need a note to confirm—

  I pushed Delete. I had told Mom the school was okay with my taking a week off to help Tom.

  “That’s so good of them!” she had said. “They must know how close you guys are. And you’re such a good student, Charlie. Missing a few days shouldn’t affect your grades at all.”

  What I didn’t tell Mom was that I had lied. I had been emailing notes about my absences all week as Mom—Gloria Swift.

  I wanted to help Mom out. She had been working double shifts lately. She was worried about how Tom was going to manage on his own. Uncle Dave was out all the time “job hunting.” There was only me.

  Thing is, I desperately needed a break from my new school anyway. I was doing great, grades-wise. I had a much higher average than Tom. But high school isn’t only about grades. It’s not even mostly about grades. I needed a break from walking the halls alone. From timing my arrival to ma
ke sure I got to school right at the bell so I didn’t have to stand alone in the hall. From pretending to talk on my cell phone at lunch so nobody thought I was a loser.

  Other than us both having dark hair and blue eyes, Tom and I looked very different, that was a fact. He was tall, I was short (but really hoping for a growth spurt). He was athletic, I was not. He was relaxed and easygoing and popular. I was none of those things.

  Mom had no idea how miserable my life was. Even if she did, she would say I needed to give it time. To make friends at a new school, to feel more comfortable there. I knew all that. But it didn’t make it any easier. And I wasn’t about to start worrying her with my problems.

  Tom’s injury had been the perfect opportunity for me to take a break.

  As I stacked the bowls in the dishwasher and wiped down the kitchen counter, I planned my route. I was going to walk past the two houses that just got broken into and see if I could gather any information. Clues. Observations.

  Maybe the police needed a bit of help solving these break-ins. An extra pair of eyes. Somebody who knew the neighborhood. Somebody who would blend right in.

  Somebody who had no idea what he was getting himself into.

  Chapter Three

  I stepped out of our house and hung a left.

  As I walked, I thought about why someone would decide to become a thief. I mean, did they sit around with their friends, kicking around job options, and settle on thief? How did that work?

  McDonald’s? Nah, not fast food. Too much grease. Grocery store? No way am I wearing those weird aprons. Hey, I know! How about stealing other people’s stuff? Yeah, maybe burglary is my future.” Seriously. Is that how they made the decision?

  I know, I know. They would likely argue that they would make a lot of money with less time and effort by stealing stuff. That is true. No doubt about it. But it’s other people’s stuff. Stuff that other people have spent their money on. But I guess thieves aren’t really sitting around worrying about the moral side of their job. Or they wouldn’t be thieves, right?

  But even if they didn’t think it was wrong to steal stuff, weren’t they afraid of getting caught? You might think this would be a total deal breaker. Break and enter, possession of stolen property—I’ve seen the crime shows. That gets you into a whole scary world of police and courts and possible jail time. Jail. Do thieves actually think they’re smarter than the entire police force? That they won’t get caught? Seriously? I couldn’t imagine getting away with something like that. I can’t lie to save my life. (Mom says my ears always turn red.)