The Rule of Threes

by Marcy Campbell

  “Oh, and where would I find this magical drawer?” he shot back. He stood up quickly, which made Mittens leap down.

  “Mittens!” I called, but Tony scooped her up and held her like a baby in the crook of his arm.

  “Don’t you worry,” he said to Mittens, in this syrupy voice, “I’ll just keep carrying everything around with me, like a snail, carrying its house on its back.” He started wadding up the blankets in one hand, still holding Mittens in his arm.

  “She doesn’t like that,” I said, though she actually seemed to like it very much. She even had her tongue sticking out a little, which she only did when she was relaxed.

  “Yes she does.”

  Ugh, he was so aggravating. Was this what it was like to have a sibling? One minute you were laughing together and the next, at each other’s throats? Maybe he just didn’t get a good night’s sleep.

  “I’m sorry you had to sleep downstairs, Tony, but remember, I said I’d sleep on the couch, so you could sleep in my loft.” I set my brush down, though I knew there were still knots in the back of my head. “And you said no.”

  He didn’t say anything, just put Mittens down, then scooped his stuff into one pile and tried to carry it out of my room, all at once. I heard Grandma call to my mom.

  “Susan!”

  “Oh great, now you woke Grandma,” I said. She needed a peaceful night’s sleep more than any of us. I tried again. “I told you I’d switch places, Tony.”

  “You can’t switch places with me!” He walked out, hidden behind a mountain of clothes and blankets.

  I didn’t understand what his problem was. It wasn’t my fault he didn’t take me up on my offer. I knew he was probably still upset about what happened with his mom yesterday. I would be. But he didn’t have to take it out on me. I had gone with him! I was trying to help!

  I got down from my loft and noticed one of his socks sitting just inside my doorway. Must have fallen out of his pile. I got my plastic dinosaur-head-grabby-thing that I’d won at the fair, picked up the sock, and carried it to the hall, where I dropped it down the laundry chute. Then I went back into my room and closed the door tightly. I needed a lock.

  I thought about how Olive’s little brother wrecked all her stuff and Rachel’s brothers teased her. At least in Rachel’s family there were three kids, so if one sibling was being a pain, you could turn to the other one.

  I thought of that decorating show where families switched spaces and decorated a room in each other’s houses. Somebody always ended up crying, and I don’t mean happy tears. I used to think Rachel’s family was great because her parents had a lot of money, so she always had the latest cool things. But her dad was hardly ever around, and I wouldn’t like that. And I wouldn’t want to switch places with Olive’s family because things always seemed a little out of control over there, which bugged me. Were there no families that got along?

  I balled up my fists and could feel my own not-happy tears coming. I went to my desk to get my shell. But it wasn’t there. I moved the pencil cup, the little box with my paper clips, and the other box with pushpins for my bulletin board. The shell wasn’t behind them where it always was. I could feel my heart starting to flutter as I looked again behind everything. I looked in places where my shell had never been before.

  And then I saw it, or what was left of it, on the floor under my chair.

  It was in pieces.

  “Nooooooo!” I wailed. “No, no, no.”

  I picked up the shards, which pricked my fingers with their sharp edges. There were four larger pieces and then tiny bits, just fragments really, smashed into the carpet. Not even the strongest glue in my craft box was going to fix this. And I felt like . . . like all the memories that were part of that shell were ground to dust, and all that was left was the white powder on my fingertips.

  I put the big pieces into the trash. My nose was running. I reached for the box of tissues I usually kept on my desk, but it wasn’t there. Where was everything? I always kept everything right in the place where it was supposed to be, always, so it would be there when I needed it. I looked around and noticed my plant had been moved, and some of my books were gone, because there was a space like a missing tooth in my bookshelf.

  I sniffled and got another leftover whiff of Tony’s bag.

  Tony!

  He had been sitting at my desk doing his homework when I woke up. He was holding one of my pencils, which he must have taken from the cup. Who knew if it was the first time, either? What if he’d come in here before, when I was off with Olive working on the contest, and snooped through my stuff?

  I heard him come out of the bathroom, then tromp down the stairs. Then I heard Grandma say, “Susan, I’m hungry,” and then, weirdly, “I’m Eleanor Hanson,” which was in fact her name, but why she needed to say it like that, I had no idea. Perhaps that was part of the disease, like her brain was trying to grab everything it could and pin it in place.

  I heard Mom running up the stairs, heard the jangling of dishes on the bed tray. I couldn’t go in there and help, although I wanted to. Not right now.

  I leaned against my door and took deep breaths. My clock said it was well past the time that I should have been up and dressed for school, but I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t do anything right now. I opened my closet door, pushed away enough stuff so I could fit inside, and closed the door with a soft click.

  Ironic how my parents called my closet my “dirty little secret” now that I knew all the secrets they’d been keeping. I thought of it more as my “cozy little space.” I took a deep inhale of that bubblegum-mixed-with-lotion smell and made a mental note to someday look for those gum wrappers. I couldn’t really see anything in the dark closet, but I didn’t need to. I knew the stuffed animals were in the back left corner. I knew in the back right, there was a stack of Lego kits I’d gotten for presents when I was into that. I still had a half-finished Millennium Falcon. Dresses I hardly ever wore hung from a metal rod, brushing against the top of my head as I sat there cross-legged, listening to nothing but my own breathing.

  I leaned against my pile of stuffed animals. My favorites were on my bed, but I had a lot. I rotated through them occasionally, trying to give them all a chance, even the ones I really didn’t like anymore, like a musty old carrot I’d won at the fair. If I gave any of them away, even that gross carrot, I knew I’d worry about them ending up in that big bin at the Shoppe, forever and ever, getting squished on the bottom, where no customers would ever find them, and it made me sad to think they wouldn’t have anybody to love them.

  I took another deep breath. I was starting to feel, well, still bad, honestly, but more like someone had merely punched me in the stomach, instead of running over my foot with their car. I reached up to a hook on the closet wall and pulled off the knitted yellow blanket that a coworker of my mom’s had made when I was born. It was meant for a crib, way too small to be of much use in keeping me warm anymore, but I still loved it. It was soft from a million washings.

  I didn’t remember when I’d quit carrying it around. Mom said I’d taken it to preschool but some other kids made fun of me. Maybe that was when I stopped. At some point, I moved it to the closet. Had I used the blanket in the same way I used my shell? I was so young when I used it, I couldn’t remember.

  And then it hit me: the shell. The shell wasn’t just a reminder of good memories. It had also held all my bad thoughts, all the things I’d rubbed into it, like when I was worried about Rachel not wanting to be my friend anymore or about whether we could win the contest without her, or when I’d worry (huge worries!) about this new brother I never knew I had. Before that, I was fixated on that old, bad memory of Mom saying she and Dad were getting divorced, and I needed to decide who to live with.

  I’d rubbed all of those thoughts into the shell, and now it was broken. But maybe, maybe, with those broken shards I’d thrown into the trash, I had also thrown out those bad thoughts.

  I wasn’t going to forget the walks on t
he beach, the good stuff. I didn’t need the shell for that.

  I couldn’t hear anything outside my closet. The double sound barrier from my closed closet door combined with the closed bedroom door meant I could stay quietly inside my little cocoon, wishing this day could rewind like a tape in one of those old cassette players Olive and I found at the Shoppe. I could go back to the beginning, start again.

  I didn’t hear Tony come into the room. The first sign of his presence was the click from the closet doorknob. I quickly reached out to grab hold of it, but felt it turning in my hands. I caught a glimpse of his blue hoodie in the sliver of daylight when the door opened a crack.

  “Get out!” I yelled.

  He was stronger. He jerked the door open.

  “Calm down,” he said. “Your mom told me to check on you. It’s almost time to leave for school, and you haven’t eaten anything.”

  I had three stuffed animals clutched to my chest, but I could feel my heart thumping right through them.

  Tony gave my pajamas a disapproving look. “Are you sick or something?” he asked.

  “Sick?” I said. “What I’m sick of is you butting into my room and messing with my stuff.”

  “I didn’t mess with anything!”

  “You broke my shell! My favorite shell, my favorite souvenir of my trip to the beach with my dad.”

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t break anything.”

  I lunged out of my closet, which he wasn’t expecting. But he jumped back before I could shove him, so I landed on the rug in front of my desk. Behind me, the Lego kits toppled, and one spilled out all its pieces onto the closet floor. I pointed to a few tiny bits of shell embedded in the carpeting.

  “What’s that?” Tony asked.

  “It’s my shell, what’s left of it.”

  Tony held up his hands. “Well, I didn’t do that. I’ve never even seen your shell.” He looked closer at the mess. “Why was it on the floor?”

  “It wasn’t on the floor. It was on my desk.”

  “Well, I didn’t see it, or touch it, and anyway, if it’s that special, why didn’t you put it away somewhere? Why would you have it where anybody could just accidentally knock it on the floor?”

  “Because anybody doesn’t use my desk, get it? JUST ME!” I jabbed my thumbs into my chest.

  “Well,” Tony sputtered, “you shouldn’t accuse people without evidence, and you should take better care of your stuff, I mean, look at that closet.” He pointed, and his lips curled up into a terrible smirk. “What a complete mess! I thought you were the queen of organization, the queen of decorating.”

  That did it. “You really think I’m a mess? Really?” When I became Principal for a Day, my first order of business would be transferring Tony back to Bircher. I kicked the Legos into the closet, slammed the door. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

  We just stood there staring each other down. I would have shoved him out of my room, but he had a look on his face that told me he’d shove back.

  Just then, Mom came in with a look on her face that said she was about ready to clunk our skulls together.

  “I don’t know what is going on in here, but I have got enough to deal with, and . . .” She looked at my pajamas. “Maggie. Get. Dressed,” she said in a voice so calm and steady that it was totally scary. Even Tony looked taken aback. “Then, both of you. Get your things and get to that bus. Right now. Or so help me God, I will take you to school in tiny pieces.”

  Great, I thought. I’ll be just like my shell.

  When I heard my door open a minute later, I yelled, “I’m coming!” and spun around, still pulling a shirt over my head. But it wasn’t Tony, or Mom. It was Grandma.

  “Are you okay, honey? I heard yelling.”

  “Oh, Grandma, yes. I’m fine. I just . . . I was having a little argument with Tony. Sorry if it bothered you.”

  Grandma had on her long flannel nightgown, but over it was her cream-colored silk robe, knotted at her waist. Her silver hair was out of its typical bun and hanging loose around her shoulders, and she looked beautiful, especially her bright green eyes, which, this morning, seemed completely clear.

  “Tony?” she said. “The foreign exchange student?”

  “Uh . . .” So this is how my parents were dealing with the Tony situation? Another lie?

  “Go easy on him, Maggie,” she said. “It can be hard to get used to a new place.”

  She took a few steps toward me and held out her arms for a hug, and I squeezed her tightly until she pulled back and held me by the shoulders. She brushed a strand of my hair out of my eyes.

  “Don’t you look beautiful today,” she said.

  I knew I looked a mess. It wasn’t like I didn’t have a mirror in my room. But leave it to Grandma to find the beauty in anyone or anything. Why couldn’t she always be this way? Why couldn’t Tony always be like he was when we had our picnic? Why did things ever have to change?

  I sat on the bus, chewing the health-food Pop-Tart Mom had pressed into my hand as I’d run out the door.

  A girl named Sarah leaned over the seat in front of me. “Do we have band today?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m not in band.”

  She screwed up her face. “You’re not? I thought you played flute.”

  She popped her gum, and I looked at her blankly for a moment. “I think I would know if I played the flute,” I told her.

  “You don’t have to be mean.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, but she’d already leaned across the aisle to ask someone else. You’d think she might have noticed all the instrument cases clogging the aisle, where they were not supposed to be. I’d tripped over a trumpet case myself.

  I rested my head against the window and could see Tony’s head leaning the same way, three rows ahead of me. Talk about not noticing things. How could Tony not have noticed my shell? Especially after crunching it under his foot, or the chair wheels, or whatever happened?

  The bus started pulling away from the curb, but Olive was still missing. She hadn’t shown up at the bus stop. And Rachel’s mom was driving her to school more and more lately, probably because she thought the bus wasn’t Rakell-cool enough.

  Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of blue out the window. Olive’s coat. She was running alongside the bus, yelling, “Wait! Wait!”

  The driver hit the brakes, and I jerked forward and bumped my head on the seat in front of me. I heard the screech of the heavy doors opening and looked up to see Olive coming down the aisle, wheezing and panting. She sank into the seat with me.

  “Whew!” she said, “that was a close one. That would almost have been a catastrophe. The opposite of fantabulous! My mom had already left for work, so how would I have gotten to school? Plus, we have that quiz this morning, and if I don’t do well, I’m totally toast. Oh, and hey—” She caught her breath and looked at me. “What’s wrong with your brother?” she asked.

  “Huh?” I said. It was still so weird to hear someone say that. “Tony?”

  “Yeah, he’s crying, so something’s obviously wrong.”

  I stood up and tried to crane my neck to look over the seats.

  “Sit down, Miss Owens,” the bus driver called out.

  I sat down and pressed my cheek against the window again. I could see Tony’s head leaning against his window, just as before. From my position, it looked like he was taking a nap.

  “Are you sure he’s crying?” I asked Olive.

  “Pretty sure,” Olive said. “His eyes are all wet, and he was rubbing them. Unless he has allergies. There’s a high pollen count today. I checked this morning. Does he have allergies?

  “How would I know?”

  “Well, he’s your brother,” Olive replied with a shrug. “Hey, are you going to eat that?” She pointed to the other half of my whole grain, no high-fructose-corn-syrup Pop-Tart, which was still in the package sitting on my lap. I handed it to her.

  “Thanks,” Olive said. “You know, my baby brot
her is allergic to peas, which I think is totally lucky for him because he never has to eat even one bite of them. Pollen, though, that would suck. I mean, hello, it’s everywhere.”

  Olive sniffed at the Pop-Tart and made a face. “What is this?” she asked.

  “Um, could we, maybe, not talk right now?” I said. I was not in the mood this morning, for Olive or Tony or tripping over trumpet cases. “I’m just kind of tired,” I added. My head had started aching like crazy. I pressed my thumbs over my eyebrows to try and make it stop.

  I decided to go to the nurse’s office before my first class. I couldn’t afford to spend another day at home sick, not with the outer office waiting to be finished, but if I could just get some Tylenol or something, I’d be fine.

  “What’s up, hon? Not feeling well?” the nurse, Mrs. Sherman, asked.

  I hadn’t personally talked to Mrs. Sherman before, but she was introduced during an assembly and seemed really nice. Plus, I knew all the students loved her. I’d heard some of them faked an illness just to get out of class and hang out with her, though maybe that was just a rumor. I’d also heard Mr. V was going to give all the students a vacation day if everybody voted in the contest, but that was probably a rumor, too; it seemed too good to be true.

  Mrs. Sherman had short, gray hair, which seemed grandma-ish, but she also had a nose ring, which did not. I sure couldn’t picture my grandma with a nose ring. I was pretty sure she’d just stick to scarves as a fashion statement.

  “I’ve got a bad headache,” I said, rubbing my forehead.

  “Have a seat,” she said. She pointed to a green, cushioned table just inside another room. Like the principal’s office, the nurse’s office had its own divided space: one outer room with her desk and a filing cabinet, and another room with an exam table and tall supply cabinet. I expected it to smell like a doctor’s office, but all it smelled like was coffee. There was a big mug of it on her desk.

  “I’m going to get you a glass of water,” Mrs. Sherman said.