by Peg Kehret
Fire!
Behind him, the flames leaped higher, and the light from the fire illuminated both yards. Wood crackled and split. Smoke blew toward Pete, making his eyes smart.
Pete howled louder. “Fire!” he screeched. “Wake up! Wake up and call the fire department!”
Alex opened his eyes, blinking sleepily. It took a moment for him to realize what had awakened him. He lay in bed, listening. Where was Pete? Alex was sure he had heard Pete yowling, but the cries sounded far away, as if Pete were shut in a closet.
Alex got out of bed and went into the hallway.
“Wake up! Bring a ladder and get me off this roof!”
Alex listened again; the yowling seemed to come from outside. Had Pete managed to sneak outdoors?
Alex went downstairs. He opened the front door, looked out, and gasped.
“Mom! Dad!” he yelled as he raced to the telephone. “The Morrises’ house is on fire!”
THE
STRANGER
NEXT
DOOR
PEG KEHRET
AND PETE THE CAT
THE
STRANGER
NEXT
DOOR
OTHER BOOKS BY PEG KEHRET
Abduction!
Cages
Danger at the Fair
Don’t Tell Anyone
Earthquake Terror
The Ghost’s Grave
Horror at the Haunted House
I’m Not Who You Think I Am
Night of Fear
Nightmare Mountain
Searching for Candlestick Park
Sisters Long Ago
Spy Cat
Terror at the Zoo
Trapped
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in the United States of America by Dutton Children’s Books,
a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 2002
Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2003
This Sleuth edition published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2008
Copyright © Peg Kehret, 2002
All rights reserved
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE DUTTON EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Kehret, Peg. The stranger next door / by Peg Kehret and Pete the Cat.—1st ed. p. cm.
Summary: A clever cat’s heroism helps two twelve-year-old boys become friends
after their families, one of which is in a witness-protection program,
move to neighboring houses in Hilltop, Washington.
[1. Witness-protection programs—Fiction. 2. Cats—Fiction. 3. Arson—Fiction.
4. Moving, Household—Fiction. 5. Friendship—Fiction. 6. Hilltop (Wash.)—Fiction.]
PZ7.K2518 St 2002 [Fic]—dc21 2001040396
Puffin Books ISBN: 978-1-101-66177-2
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition
that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise
circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume
any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
For Ginny, Bob, and Mr. Buddy
—P.K.
For Carl
—PETE
Table of Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
Prologue
Allow me to introduce myself. I am Pete, a cat of superior intellect and handsome features. My fur is mostly white, with several attractive brown spots. My eyes are the sweet, clear blue of a robin’s egg, and I wear a matching blue collar. My ears and tail are deep brown, and a dark mask surrounds my eyes.
But I am telling you only about my outside, when any fool knows it’s what’s inside that matters—in cats as in people. Inside, I am courageous, clever, and capable. If you ever want to describe me, remember the three C’s.
You will notice I did not mention my size. Despite what the misinformed veterinarian who gives me my checkups says, I am not—repeat NOT—overweight.
* * *
Until now, I’ve always written my books alone. This time, I had help. I didn’t ask for help; Pete, my cat, volunteered. Demanded is closer to the truth. Like most cats, Pete does what he wants without asking permission.
He simply started adding pages to the book I was working on. I had no idea Pete could type, and I certainly did not know that he was smart enough to help write a novel. The papers that came with him from the Humane Society said only: “Good with children.” Not a word about any literary talent.
One afternoon when I was working on a new book, I got interrupted, and I left my office without turning off the computer as I usually do. When I returned, there was a new page in the story I had been writing. Even more astonishing, the page was signed by its author. It clearly said: “by Pete the Cat.”
I read the page; then I read it again. It was good—really good! I didn’t like the way he had changed the villain from an escaped convict to a rottweiler, but other than that I was truly impressed with Pete’s ability. He didn’t even make any typos.
I don’t know why she was so surprised that I can write. We cats are known to be exceptionally intelligent creatures. How many humans do you know who can catch their dinner in the weeds behind the garage? Who else can convince a soundly sleeping person to get out of bed at three A.M. on a cold night to pour cat food into a bowl—simply by walking up and down the piano keys? This trick works every time, although I must say the humans tend to be cranky at that hour.
The night after I discovered that first page, I purposely left my computer running when I went to bed. If Pete the Cat wants to help me write my books, who am I to discourage him? Heaven knows writing is hard enough work that I need all the help I can get.
When I first approached the computer keyboard, I had no desire for literary fame. I wanted to write because I had heard that every computer has a mouse. By the time I discovered that the computer mouse was not edible, I was interested in the story.
Two amazing things happened that night. First, I g
ot a complete night’s sleep for the first time in the seven years since I adopted Pete. Usually, Pete wakes me up at least once during the night. Either he jumps on the bedside table and tries to knock my glasses to the floor, or if I have shut him out of the bedroom so he can’t do that, he sits outside the door and yowls. That night, I slept straight through with nary a whisper from Pete.
Until then, I had been bored at night. Catnip-scented balls are fun for a few minutes, but I needed intellectual stimulation. I had told her that many times as I sat outside the closed bedroom door, but she never could figure out what I was saying. Humans are not as bright as cats are.
The other astonishing thing that happened the first time I left the computer on overnight was that three pages of the new book were waiting for me the next morning. Good pages. Pages that I didn’t have to write.
Excitement crept up the back of my neck as I read them. If he does this every night, I thought, it will double my output. Some days I don’t finish even one page, much less three. With Pete’s help I can write my books twice as fast. Do twice as many each year.
Make twice as much money. Buy twice as much cat food.
I should point out that as you’re reading this book, the words in italics, like the two sentences just before this one, are the ones Pete wrote. You probably guessed that already.
This is a novel, so all of the events and characters are fictitious, but you will notice that the cat in the story looks exactly like Pete. He is also named Pete. I tried to explain to my coauthor that characters in a novel are not supposed to be real, but, as I’ve already mentioned, Pete does things his own way.
Why make up a pretend cat when a fine feline, with the perfect name, appearance, and disposition, is willing to be in the story? There’s an old saying that truth is stranger than fiction. In the case of the cat in this book, truth is better than fiction.
Enough of this explanation. Here is the story that Pete and I wrote together.
The byline REALLY should read: “by Pete the Cat, with a little help from Peg Kehret.” I did most of the work.
1
They’re coming! They’re coming tomorrow!”
Alex Kendrill sighed as his little brother, Benjie, burst through the back door, yelling as loudly as he could.
Pete, Alex’s big brown-and-white cat, leaped off the chair where he had been napping and ran under the table. Pete disliked sudden loud noises, which was why he usually avoided Benjie.
Alex did not look up from his homework. “You don’t have to yell,” he said. “I’m right here.”
“They’ll be here tomorrow morning!” Benjie shouted.
“Who?” Alex asked, anticipating another of Benjie’s tall tales. Benjie loved to draw goofy animal pictures and then make up stories to go with them. Alex expected Benjie to say that a green-haired dog with five legs would be in their yard tomorrow, or some equally ridiculous story.
“Our new neighbors,” Benjie said. “Mr. Woolsey came to take down the FOR SALE sign, and he said people will be moving in next door on Saturday.”
Alex paid attention now. “Did he tell you anything about them?” he asked.
“Nope. But I bet they’ll have a six-year-old boy, just like me. They might even have twin boys—or triplets.” Benjie’s voice got even louder as his imagination ran wild. “Maybe our new neighbors will have quadruplet boys or—what’s the word for five?”
“Quintuplets,” Alex said.
“Right. I bet they’ll have quintuplets—five boys exactly my age—and they’ll all like to play spy and ride scooters and draw animal pictures and invent stories!”
Pete’s tail swished nervously back and forth on the floor. Five more boys exactly like Benjie was a thought too terrible to contemplate. It would be even worse than getting a family dog.
Alex said, “If the new neighbors have quintuplets your age, I’m moving out. I’ll go live with Grandma.”
“Take me with you,” said Pete.
“Good,” Benjie said. “Your bedroom can be our clubhouse. We’ll set up my race-car track.”
Alex knew it was unlikely that the new neighbors would have five boys all the same age and personality as Benjie. “Did Mr. Woolsey tell you their name?” he asked.
“No. He told me to quit bothering him.”
“That sounds like Mr. Woolsey,” Alex said. “He does a good job of building houses, but he sure is crabby.”
“He doesn’t like kids,” Benjie said.
“Or cats,” said Pete.
“Maybe they’ll have a boy my age,” Alex said. He liked that idea: a neighbor boy to sit with on the school bus and to eat lunch with. It might not be so hard to be the new kid if another boy was new at the same time.
Benjie scowled briefly, then brightened. “One twelve-year-old boy would be okay,” he said, “as long as the quintuplets are in first grade.”
“Maybe they’ll have a cat,” said Pete.
“What are you meowing about?” Alex asked. “Is your food bowl empty?” He took the box of cat crunchies out of the cupboard and shook some into Pete’s dish.
Pete waited until Benjie went back outside before he strolled across the kitchen floor, hunched over the bowl, and began to chew. It was frustrating that he could understand everything people said, but they were not capable of understanding him. On the other hand, since they nearly always misinterpreted his remarks as a request for food, their ignorance did keep his bowl full.
Instead of returning to his homework, Alex thought how nice it would be to have someone else from Valley View Estates at school. Maybe if Alex wasn’t the only one, the sixth graders who had lived around here all their lives would quit picking on him.
His thoughts slid back to the ugly incident at lunch that day. School had just started on Tuesday, so this had been only the fourth day, and Alex still felt like an outsider. Determined to try to make new friends, he had carried his lunch tray to a table where two boys from his class were eating.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
The boys, Duke and Henry, looked at him without smiling. Duke said, “Actually, we do mind. We don’t like spoiled rich kids.”
Startled, Alex asked, “What makes you think I’m rich?”
“You live in one of those mansions in Valley View Estates, don’t you?”
“My family moved into a new house there a couple of weeks ago,” Alex said, “but I wouldn’t call it a mansion, and we certainly aren’t rich.”
“You took away our trails,” Duke said.
“What?”
“That whole area where the Valley View houses are being built is where we used to ride our dirt bikes. We had trails all over, and the first thing you people did was bulldoze them.”
“That’s right,” Henry, said. “You wrecked our dirt-bike trails.”
“It was never your property,” Alex said. “That land belonged to the Fircrest Paper Corporation for thirty years. They’re the ones who bulldozed it and made it into building sites and sold it. My family had no control over that.”
“You bought the lot,” Duke said.
“All we did was answer an ad in the newspaper about a house that was for sale. The first time we saw Valley View, the roads were paved, the lots were staked out, and three houses were already under construction. We didn’t know anything about your trails.”
“Sure,” Duke said.
Alex turned away and carried his tray to a table on the other side of the cafeteria. He no longer had much appetite.
Spoiled rich kid—what a joke, he thought. Mom and Dad had saved for years before they bought the house in Valley View Estates.
Alex’s family had lived all summer in a borrowed camping trailer parked next to where their house was being built so that the money they would have spent on rent could go toward the cost of building the house.
“I know it’s crowded,” Alex’s dad had said, “and none of us have any privacy, but it’s only for three months. We can stand it for three months in order to have
a smaller mortgage with more affordable payments for the next thirty years.”
They had finally moved out of the trailer and into their new home two weeks ago. Compared to the trailer, the house was spacious and beautiful, but three bedrooms and two bathrooms was hardly a mansion.
As for being spoiled, Alex had spent most of his summer chopping and stacking firewood and taking care of Benjie while Mom and Dad were both at work. In the evenings, he and Dad painted the house and picked rocks out of their future lawn.
Alex had looked forward to the start of school, hoping to make some new friends who lived nearby. His friends from his previous school kept in touch over the summer, but it wasn’t the same as when they lived in the same neighborhood.
He used to get together with Randy and John almost every day after school to shoot baskets or ride skateboards or just to hang out together. Now they had to set a date and time when their parents could drive them back and forth. The visits had become less frequent as the summer went on, and now that school had started, Alex knew he would see his old pals even less often.
So far, only four other houses in Valley View Estates were occupied; two of the families had preschool kids, and two were couples without children. Several homes were finished and for sale, but Alex rarely saw potential buyers looking at them. He certainly hoped the new neighbors would have a boy his age.
That night, Alex told his parents about the dirt-bike trails. “The kids at school resent us for living here,” he said. “They think it’s our fault that their trails are gone.”
Mrs. Kendrill turned to Benjie. “What about you?” she asked. “Have the children in your class been nice to you?”
“At first they didn’t talk to me,” Benjie said, “but I showed them my picture of the flying blue elephant and told them how he pulls the moon into the sky with his trunk every night, and after that they let me play with them.”
“One boy named Duke called me a spoiled rich kid,” Alex said.
Mr. Kendrill choked on his coffee. “Don’t we wish?” he sputtered.
“Ignore them,” Mrs. Kendrill advised. “They’ll get used to the fact that there are homes here now. They’ll find someplace else to ride their dirt bikes.”