Ten Rules for Living With My Sister

by Ann M. Martin

  Since they hadn’t run errands in quite some time, I knew they would actually be gone for about three hours.

  “Can you two take care of each other?” Mom asked Daddy Bo and me.

  I looked at my grandfather and grinned. “Don’t worry about us,” I said.

  My parents left and I studied the skull I had painted and decided to make its eye sockets red. I was admiring my work when I realized that Daddy Bo wasn’t sitting on the couch anymore. He was standing by the window, staring outside.

  “Did you finish the paper?” I asked him.

  “Cover to cover.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know. What are you going to do?”

  I wasn’t finished with the flag, but I set it aside and said, “Do you want to play a game or something?”

  “Sure,” replied Daddy Bo.

  I opened the closet where we keep some of our toys and pulled out Sorry! It is currently my favorite game. My favorite game used to be Mouse Trap, but I have moved beyond that.

  I arranged the Sorry! board and cards and game pieces on the table.

  “Have you ever played this before?” I asked Daddy Bo.

  He looked uncertain. “A long time ago, I think. I might need a refresher course before we start.”

  “Okay. Well, it’s a little like Parcheesi. You have four pieces, and the object of the game is to get all of them around the board from your starting point to your home. And you do that by drawing these cards.” I indicated the pile of cards in the middle of the board.

  “No dice?” asked Daddy Bo.

  “No dice. Each card has a number on it, and each number means something different. Like, for instance, a four means you have to move one of your pieces backward four spaces. And if you draw a seven, you can split the move between two of your pieces. You could move one five spaces and another two spaces. Now if you draw an eleven, you can more forward eleven, or switch places with another player’s piece. That could get one of your pieces almost Home, and send the other player’s way back, depending on where the pieces are on the board.”

  “Very tricky,” said Daddy Bo. “Also, a little hard to remember.”

  “I’ll remind you,” I offered. “I’m sort of a professional. Now, what color do you want to be?”

  Daddy Bo chose green, which was good, since I always like to be red. But if he had chosen red I wouldn’t have said anything.

  I let him go first. “You have to draw a one or a two to get your pieces moving,” I said.

  Daddy Bo drew a four and hopped one of his pieces four spaces around the board.

  “Um,” I said, “you have to draw a one or a two before you can start. And anyway, four goes backward.”

  “Oh, dear.” Daddy Bo returned his piece to Start and scratched his head.

  “My turn,” I said, and drew a two and got going.

  Then Daddy Bo drew a one and looked at me.

  “Okay, now you can go!”

  He edged one of his pieces onto the board.

  I drew a twelve, which is a very good card, and I slid a long way around the board.

  Daddy Bo studied his fingernails.

  “Your turn.”

  “Oh.” Daddy Bo’s next card was a five. “Drat,” he said.

  “No, that’s okay. You can move that piece five spaces.” I pointed to the one that had moved one space on his last turn.

  “Huh.” Daddy Bo’s gaze had drifted to the window.

  “Don’t you want to play?” I asked.

  “Oh, sure.”

  But each time Daddy Bo drew a card I had to tell him what to do. It was like playing Sorry! with Justine—or against myself, which I have tried, and I am here to tell you that it really isn’t any fun, because no matter what, you’re going to both win and lose every game.

  “Daddy Bo, is something wrong?” I finally asked him.

  He reached into his pocket. “I can’t find my keys.”

  This was mystifying. I was pretty sure that my father had taken Daddy Bo’s keys since Daddy Bo didn’t need them anymore. He lived with us now, and his car and his house were back in New Jersey.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, and then I remembered that my parents had given Daddy Bo a key to the apartment and a key to our mailbox in the lobby. “Oh! Your new keys. I think they’re on the table in the hall.”

  “No, I do not mean any new keys,” said Daddy Bo in a tone of voice that reminded me of Lexie. “I mean my old regular keys. The ones on my old regular key ring. They aren’t in my pocket and they aren’t on my dresser.”

  “Are you sure you still have those keys?” I said. “Because you don’t really need them right now.” I was going to say something about his house and his car, but I thought better of it.

  “Well …” Daddy Bo scratched his head again.

  “At least you have keys,” I said, handing him the new set. “I don’t have any keys at all. I don’t even have my own key to the apartment. I’m the only one in the family without keys. I don’t have a computer or a cell phone either,” I added. “But you know who does have those things? Lexie.”

  I wasn’t sure whether Daddy Bo had heard me. He was walking around the family room, peeking in knickknacks and vases, looking under piles of papers and mail. He ambled back to the window, stared outside again for a few moments, then crossed to the table and began to lift my flag.

  “Wait, Daddy Bo! That’s still wet!” I cried. I took it from him gently. I was about to say, “Maybe I’d better let it dry in my room,” when I remembered that there wasn’t an inch of spare space in my new bedroom for drying pirate flags. I laid it on the kitchen counter instead.

  “Well, drat!” I heard Daddy Bo say from the family room.

  “What is it?” I asked, hurrying through the hallway and tripping over Bitey.

  “I can’t find my keys,” said Daddy Bo again.

  I thought for a moment. “Why do you want them?” I asked, and even before Daddy Bo could reply, I knew the answer. It came to me suddenly, and it was the reason I wanted keys: If you had been entrusted with keys it meant you were responsible enough to take care of things that were worth locking up, like a house or a car. Or an apartment. Furthermore, keys gave you independence. Daddy Bo had keys now, of course, but he’d been demoted to a mailbox key, and the key to a place where he was only going to live temporarily. The keys to the much more important things in his life—his very own house and his very own car—were gone. And so was his independence.

  The fact that I personally would have settled for something as lowly as a mailbox key was kind of pathetic, and the comparison chart flashed into my brain, but I banished the thought of it quickly.

  “Daddy Bo,” I said, “I think you need a cup of tea.”

  Mom and Dad came back in just under three hours, and Lexie came back not long after that. The moment she had taken off her coat she grabbed my arm and pulled me into our bedroom.

  “Pearl,” she said, and she looked around the room but didn’t see any place where the two of us could sit down together except on the floor, so she shoved aside a pile of books, and Owlie and Mr. Cougar, who had fallen out of bed, and hauled me down next to her. “I didn’t want to say anything before because I was too mad and anyway Valerie was here, but I’m going to say it now.”

  “Are you still mad?” I asked, thinking that she’d had several hours in which to cool off. She could have counted to ten about 1,000x since she’d huffed off with her best friend.

  “Yes. I am still mad. Pearl, you had no right to tell Valerie what happened last night. You wouldn’t even have known about it if you weren’t sharing my room. And anyway, it wasn’t your news to tell, since it happened to me.”

  I tried to think of a nice way to ask my question. “So you admit that it happened?”

  Lexie glared at me. “You are so rude!”

  I hadn’t meant to be rude. I just really wanted to know if I was right.

  “Out!” cried Lexie, and she po
inted to the door as if I were a puppy she was training, except that she was using a very mean tone of voice for either a puppy or a sister.

  I started to stomp out of the room, but then I turned back and grabbed something from one of my two drawers.

  “What’s that?” asked Lexie.

  “None of your business.” I started to stomp down the hall, but saw that the door to my old room was closed. Daddy Bo was taking a nap. I stomped back into Lexie’s room. “I need my alone time,” I announced. “You go out!”

  Lexie was so surprised that she stood up without asking any questions and left me alone. I closed the door quietly and sat at Lexie’s desk with the comparison chart in front of me. I added a new line:

  Lexie Pearl

  Has Thrown Up in Own Bed yes no

  At last something I could be proud of.

  11

  After I added the new line to the chart, I looked at my watch. One minute had gone by. I had fifty-nine minutes of alone time left. And since I had made such a big deal out of needing it, I realized I’d better use up the whole hour. I knew I couldn’t snoop through Lexie’s things. Mom and Dad had been clear about the rules of alone time. So I stretched out on the bottom bunk with Owlie on my stomach and I said to him, “Do you understand Lexie?” I said it very quietly in case my sister was eavesdropping in the hall. Then, just to be on the safe side, I tiptoed across the room, knelt down, and peered through the crack under the door to see if Lexie’s purple shoes were there. They weren’t, but Bitey’s feet were, so I let him inside, closed the door, and returned to my bed. Bitey lay down beside me and purred.

  I looked at my watch again. Fifty-eight minutes of alone time left. I decided that I might as well spend the rest of the hour doing something useful. “What’s the most useful thing I could do?” I asked Bitey, who closed his eyes and covered them with one front paw. “Well, I have the answer, whether you’re interested in it or not,” I told him.

  I needed to figure out how to live with Lexie without annoying her, so I started a list and I titled it Ten Rules For Living With My Sister.

  Ten seemed like a nice number, and I was pretty sure I could come up with that many rules. After all, the more rules I had, the more useful the list would be.

  The first few rules came to me easily. I could stop playing tricks on Lexie and teasing her, since I knew ahead of time that she would get annoyed. I wrote:

  1. Do not hide Lexie’s shoes even if you think it’s funny.

  2. Do not ever let Justine yell Fire!!!!! outside Lexie’s door unless there really is a fire.

  3. Try not to tease Lexie, sometimes this is hard because she says stupid things.

  “But what about all the things I do that I don’t know are going to annoy her?” I asked. (I was talking to Owlie since Bitey plainly wasn’t interested.) I thought over the lessons I had learned in the past few weeks and added another few items to the list:

  4. No underwear visits.

  5. Don’t show Lexie’s boyfriend her baby blanket.

  6. Don’t talk about her throw-up.

  I looked at my rules. They were fine, but they were awfully specific. I wasn’t sure how much help they’d be in the future. Obviously, I already knew enough not to yell Fire or talk about Lexie’s throw-up in front of Valerie. So instead of thinking about myself and what I was doing wrong, I began to think about my sister and her baffling behavior. I realized that the things most likely to make Lexie throw a fit were not listening to her, not taking her seriously, and embarrassing her. I added two more items to the list:

  7. Listen to what Lexie says, I mean really listen and then pay attention. It’s important to pay attention.

  8. Take her seriously. She has no sense of humor about herself and everything embarrasses her.

  Now I was getting somewhere. I was rather proud of myself. I thought for a very long time before I finished the list with:

  9. Try to be more patient with Lexie like Mom and Dad are patient with you.

  10. It couldn’t hurt to tell her you want to be just like her one day, whether you mean it or not.

  Good. This was a good list. Plus, the hour would be over in twelve minutes. I slid the list of rules into my drawer along with the comparison chart. I was ready to face Lexie with a new attitude.

  It was at dinnertime that night that I got my first chance to use the rules. I was inspecting my macaroni and cheese to make sure it didn’t have parsley flakes or anything else that was green in it when Lexie announced, “I have decided that I’m too old to go trick-or-treating this year.”

  What I wanted to say back to her was, “Are you kidding? You’re thirteen, not eighty-five,” but I thought that might be mean to Daddy Bo, and then anyway I remembered Rule #8. Next I wanted to say, “But you always go trick-or-treating with me! Why are you doing this? You’re just being mean.” I remembered Rule #9, though, and kept my mouth shut.

  I noticed Lexie looking at me in a funny way, like maybe she wanted to ask me a question, but she didn’t.

  “Speaking of Halloween,” I said after a few moments had gone by, “would you help me with my costume, Daddy Bo?”

  Daddy Bo grinned, and his chin swayed a little. “I would be honored,” he replied. “Costumes are the best part of Halloween. Have you decided what you want to be this year?”

  “I was thinking about a molar,” I said, and Daddy Bo’s eyes widened. “But don’t worry, this other kid in my class, James Brubaker the Third—he lives across the street—well, he’s going to be a molar and I don’t want anyone to say I copied him, so the tooth’s out.” (Everyone at the table laughed for some reason, but I ignored them.) “Now my list is down to four things: a miniature pony, a cell phone”—I looked pointedly at my parents—“a drama queen, and Clara Barton.”

  “The nurse?” asked Daddy Bo.

  “The founder of the Red Cross. She lived in colonial times. I think.”

  “That’s quite a list, Pearl,” said Mom.

  “How would anyone know if you were a miniature pony or a regular one?” asked Lexie, snickering.

  Maybe I should make a list of rules for living with me and give it to my sister.

  “Whatever you decide,” said Daddy Bo, “I’ll be happy to help you.”

  “Thank you.” I folded my napkin into a tidy rectangle, glanced in Lexie’s direction, and then said, “I wonder who will take Justine and me trick-or-treating this year. I mean, since Lexie will be staying home.”

  Daddy Bo raised his hand like he was in school. “How about your old granddad?”

  “Goody!” I said. “Is that okay?” I asked my parents, and they nodded. “It’s really fun,” I told Daddy Bo. “Justine always comes with me and we go to all the apartments in the building. Every single one. We each get a whole bag full of candy.”

  “Imagine that,” said Daddy Bo.

  At dinner the next evening I said, “I decided what I’m going to be for Halloween. A hamster.”

  “That wasn’t even on your list,” said Lexie, and she started to laugh, but in a nice way.

  The day after that I said, “I changed my mind. I’m going to be a molar after all.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Daddy Bo.

  The day after that I said, “I changed my mind again.”

  “Thank goodness,” said Daddy Bo.

  “I’m going to be a pirate.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Lexie. “That’s perfect! You already have such a good costume.”

  “It could use a little work, though,” I said. Then I remembered to add, “Thank you,” since my sister had nicely complimented me.

  “What else does it need?” asked Lexie.

  “A flag. But I’m almost done with the one I was making, so that’s taken care of. And a bag for pieces of eight. And a few more scarves and a big earring. And, oh, a hook hand.”

  My father looked up from his dinner. “I think we could buy you the hook hand now.”

  “Really? Oh, thank you! Daddy Bo and I can take care of the other th
ings. We can either borrow them or make them. Mom, do you have any scarves you don’t want?”

  By the week before Halloween my costume was in excellent shape. Daddy Bo had helped me with all sorts of piratey touches, like striped stockings and a medallion to hang around my neck. The hook hand was the best part, though, and I even wrote Mom and Dad a thank-you note for it.

  On Sunday afternoon Daddy Bo and I were working on a treasure map that I could attach to the hook, when Lexie wandered into the family room, threw herself dramatically on the couch, and said, “Well, if I’m going to make a Halloween costume, I’d better get started.”

  I looked up from my markers. “Why do you need a costume?” My heart began to pound. Lexie must have changed her mind. My big sister was going to go trick-or-treating after all.

  “I thought I’d wear it while I hand out candy.”

  I let out my breath. “You’re going to hand out our candy this year?”

  “Yup,” said Lexie.

  Handing out candy sounded even more grownup than deciding not to trick-or-treat.

  Halloween was on Thursday. On Wednesday, while Lexie was walking Justine and me home from school, she said, “Hey, you guys, I was wondering—would you like me to take you around the building tomorrow?”

  “Take us trick-or-treating? Yes!” squealed Justine.

  I was about to say, “What happened to handing out candy?” but I was getting a little better at thinking before I said anything. And in that one teensy moment I realized something: Lexie had made a costume, and now she was offering to take Justine and me out. That could only mean one thing: She wanted to go trick-or-treating herself after all. She just didn’t want to admit it.

  “Yes,” I said cautiously. “That would be great. Thanks, Lexie. But what about Daddy Bo? He thinks he’s taking us.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” said my sister, and she shouldered her violin case and headed down Twelfth Street like a steamship leaving harbor.