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.”
