The Rule of Threes

by Marcy Campbell

  “That doesn’t matter,” he repeated, his voice rising. “Listen! This is an emergency.” He sprang up and started pacing the room. “She told Rakell to tell me she left the rehab house, that she couldn’t stand it anymore, so she left!”

  “Can she do that?”

  Tony tugged at his hair and looked at me like I was the dumbest person alive. “Of course she can’t do that! She’s got to be there at least ninety days. She’s got to . . .” He sat down and crossed his arms over his eyes like the outside world would cease to exist as long as he couldn’t see it. “She’s got to get her life together!”

  He put his arms back down. He wasn’t crying, and I was glad to see that, but he looked scared. Tony hardly ever looked scared, except for that one time when Grandma was questioning him. Angry, yes, especially lately. Sad, unfortunately, yes, he always looked a little sad. But not scared, not even when he had first come to the house. Even then, he’d just stood on the front stoop doing basketball tricks, calm and cool.

  He stood up abruptly. “We have to do something.”

  “What do you mean?” I said. “Like call the police?”

  Tony gave me a withering stare. “The last thing we’d do is call the cops,” he said.

  I felt myself shrink. How should I know what to do? I didn’t have the first idea how to deal with Tony’s mom. The worst thing my mom ever did was wash a red sock with my new white leggings.

  “Well, what, then?” I asked.

  “She went home,” Tony said. “She didn’t say it. I just know it. She kept saying the last time we talked that she missed our house, even though it’s just a tiny, crappy apartment. It was ours, you know?” He put his hands on his hips. “I think she misses having something that’s hers.”

  I thought of Tony sleeping on the couch I was sitting on now. I was glad he’d be back in the bedroom tonight, even though it meant Grandma would be across town.

  “But how can you be sure that’s where she went?”

  “Because she’s my mom,” he said. “Because I know how she thinks.”

  He didn’t look as scared anymore. He looked focused and sure, like he had a plan.

  He picked up his coat from the chair and put it back on. “I’m going to find her,” he said. “I’m going home, and then . . . I’ll figure something out. I’ll talk her into going back.”

  He walked into the kitchen, and I followed him. The look on his face told me there was nothing I could do to change his mind. I’d just have to watch him go. Maybe I could call Dad and tell him what happened? He’d know what to do.

  Tony paused at the kitchen door, then turned around. “You coming?” he asked.

  “Me?”

  “Well, I wasn’t talking to Mittens,” he replied. She’d gotten up from her bed when she heard Tony come home and, as usual, was rubbing against his legs.

  “I . . . I don’t know if we should leave the house,” I said. I suddenly felt panicky. This whole thing, this whole situation, seemed like something no one would want to be involved with. It was getting really serious, really fast. Part of me was thinking this was something that Tony and his mom needed to figure out with each other, as a family. That I should stay out of it.

  “We’ll be back before anyone even gets home. They won’t even know.”

  If I were a person who chewed my thumbnail, I’d definitely do it now. Tony looked at me across the kitchen island. He ran his hand through his hair, which reminded me of our dad, who did the same thing in the same way.

  And I realized in that moment that if this was a family problem, I had to help. I was Tony’s family, too. In fact, we were better than family. We were friends.

  I took my coat off its hook. “How far is it?” I asked.

  Tony was all smiles now. “Too far to walk,” he said. “We’ll have to take the bus. There’s a stop near school.”

  I quickly packed my backpack—granola bars, a couple bottled waters, a pack of gum, and a notepad and pencil, in case I got a great design idea, which seemed unlikely, but you never knew. And my phone, of course. Tony stood there watching, growing increasingly impatient, but too bad. I liked to be prepared.

  “Have you ever ridden a bus before?” I asked Tony. We were nearing the school. I had a five-dollar bill in my pocket, left over from my latest trip to the Good Samaritan Thrift Shoppe. I didn’t know how much it cost to ride the bus.

  “Of course,” Tony said, “tons of times. Haven’t you?”

  I searched my brain. I’d taken school buses forever, but the long, white city buses? I didn’t think I’d ever been on one of those. I’d seen them downtown, and seen people waiting in those plexiglass boxes for the bus to come. I’d even stood in one of those boxes once, when my mom and I got caught in a rainstorm without an umbrella. But when the rain stopped, we walked to the parking garage and got in our car.

  “Not that I remember,” I said. “How much does it cost?”

  “Don’t worry,” Tony answered. “I’ve got a card.”

  I didn’t know if he meant a credit card, or like a card the teachers wore on lanyards to get them into rooms at school. I figured it wasn’t the time to ask too many questions, which was too bad, because I had plenty. What were we going to do when we got there? What if his mom wasn’t even there? Would we get back before anyone noticed we were gone? Tony seemed to know what he was doing, but it felt weird, not being in control myself.

  We were almost directly across the street from the school now, and of course Tony chose this moment to stop and tie his shoe.

  “Don’t stop here,” I hissed. “Someone might see you.”

  “So what?”

  “So, you’re supposed to be sick,” I said.

  “And you”—Tony took his time double-knotting his laces—“are supposed to be suspended.” He sounded so much like my dad when he said that, stern, but still kind of joking. It was easy to forget sometimes that he was only a year older than me.

  He stood up and turned toward the school, cupped his hands, and yelled, “It’s Maggie Owens, everybody! Total rebel!”

  “Cut it out!” I said. I punched his arm.

  “Ow!”

  “I mean it, Tony!”

  “I was just teasing you, just trying to lighten the mood, take my mind off things for a tiny second. Don’t worry, I won’t let anybody know about your bad-girl behavior.” He wiggled his fingers at me. “Wouldn’t want you to start sliding, one bad move after another . . .” He trailed off, and I didn’t think we were talking about me anymore.

  “What’s your mom going to do?” I said quietly. “She can’t just quit trying to get better. She wouldn’t do that, would she?”

  “She doesn’t want to do what she does,” he said. “She can’t help it.”

  Tony zipped his jacket all the way up. The air had a real bite to it this morning. “I just need to see her,” he said. “She listens to me, sometimes. If she’s thinking clearly, at least.”

  “What do you mean?” Tony gave me a look. “Yeah, yeah,” I said and let out a nervous sigh.

  I was about to ask Tony more about his mom when I noticed someone exiting the school from the side door by the gym. The kid who came out the door left it propped open with his backpack, which was totally against the rules but definitely helpful at the moment. I had an idea, but I had to act fast. I’d thought when we left the house that I was prepared, that I’d brought everything I needed for this little adventure, but I wasn’t, I hadn’t.

  “I need to run into the school for a minute,” I announced to Tony. “I forgot my social studies notes, and I have a report due tomorrow.”

  “What?” Tony said. “No, absolutely not.” He shook his head. “What if we miss the bus?”

  I ignored him, running toward the school. “I’ll just be a second,” I called over my shoulder.

  Thankfully, the gym was empty, and I raced across it, turned down one hallway, and then another, noticing a girl from my math class coming out of the bathroom. She gave me an odd look, but I
just put my head down and kept walking. I headed straight for Mrs. Sherman’s office and stood outside it, wondering what to do next. I could hear her talking to someone.

  Just then, a sixth-grade boy whose name I didn’t know came out to his locker. “Hey, you,” I whispered loudly.

  “Huh?” He gave me a confused look.

  “Can you do me a favor?” I asked. I dug my five-dollar bill out of my front pocket, and the boy suddenly grew interested.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Can you . . .” What did I want? I hadn’t thought this through. I just needed to get into that office. “Can you create some sort of distraction out here, like, pretend to be sick or something?”

  “Why?”

  “I need her to come out.” I pointed toward the nurse’s office and held out the money.

  He snatched it and immediately started making gagging noises.

  “Not here,” I whispered, waving my hand, “down there, farther away.”

  He jogged down the hallway, to the place where the next hallway crossed. I tucked myself into an alcove and waited. He started yelling, “Ugh! I don’t feel so good! Mrs. Sherman!”

  His acting was pathetic, but it had the desired effect. She came running.

  My heart pounding, I slipped into her office. I shouldn’t be doing this, I shouldn’t be doing this. But Olive and I had a meeting set up with Mrs. Sherman tomorrow, to interview her for her room redo. I’d just find a way to slip it back into the cabinet then. Grandma always said sometimes you needed to break the rules. Of course, she was talking about design, like mixing silver and copper, but still.

  It only took a moment. The supply cabinet was unlocked just as before. The Narcan box was right where it had been. I grabbed it, slipped it into my backpack, and was out the door.

  My backpack felt heavy on my lap. Tony sat next to me. There were only a few other people on the bus, a mother with a toddler (who kept turning around to smile at us), a couple of older women, and a college-aged boy wearing headphones. I didn’t know what song he was listening to, but I could hear the bass thumping.

  Tony had swiped us both on with his bus card, but he was a quarter short. The bus driver said not to worry and let us on anyway, and we went about halfway to the back and settled into the big blue seats. My hands were still sweating from my little mission inside the school.

  The little boy had opened a plastic bag full of Cheerios and was happily popping them into his mouth.

  Tony asked me, “You got any food in there?” He reached for the zipper of my backpack.

  “No!” I said, pulling it away from him. “I mean, yes, I’ve got food. But let me get it for you.”

  I didn’t want Tony to know about the Narcan. I was afraid he’d think I didn’t trust his mom and get mad at me. Better I keep it to myself.

  I handed him one of the granola bars.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking it. “Don’t you want one?”

  “No, not right now.”

  My stomach was jumping; there was no way I could eat. I was wondering how we were going to get back home, with Tony out of money on his bus card. Add that question to my already big list. He finished his granola bar and started shifting around in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his arms, glancing out the window.

  “Less than ten minutes,” he said.

  One of the older women pulled a cord, and the bus came to a stop by the curb. The mom and her son got off, too, and the little boy waved at us, and I waved back. Tony didn’t notice.

  Just then, I felt a buzz in my pocket and pulled out my phone. Rachel, it said. My heart skipped. It had been a long time since I’d seen her name pop up on my text messages. It also felt like a long time since she’d been “Rachel.”

  Is Tony with you? the message read.

  I wrote back, Yes.

  What’s happening?

  We’re on a bus, going to his old house.

  What?????

  He thinks his mom might be there.

  Maggie, I don’t like this.

  What could I do, he was going anyway.

  I couldn’t let him go alone.

  There was a long pause. I stared at my phone, waiting. She must be at lunch. We weren’t supposed to have phones out during class.

  “Is it Rakell?” Tony asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “She’s worried about you.”

  Tony got a slight smile on his face and tried to look at my phone. “Tell her everything’s going to be okay,” he said.

  “I will. I did.” I scooted closer to the window, turning the phone away from him. I wasn’t going to tell her that. How did I know everything was going to be okay? The phone dinged.

  Be careful, Rakell’s text read, then, You’re a good friend.

  He’s my brother. Of course I’m going to help him.

  Yeah, but I mean, you’re a good friend to other people, too.

  My fingers hovered over the screen. Finally, I typed:

  Hey, you know . . . Tony told me about your parents.

  I waited a minute. Would she be mad that I knew?

  I’m really sorry, Rakell.

  My phone autocorrected to Rachel, but I changed it back.

  Yeah, I was going to tell you but . . . you always seemed to think my parents were perfect.

  She was right about that. Her parents always acted perfectly. I guessed the way people felt and the way they looked didn’t always match up. Maybe it barely ever matched up. I wrote:

  Can we hang out sometime? Soon?

  I wanted to say that I understood, at least a little bit, wanted to tell her about when my parents were fighting, but I didn’t. Maybe I would, probably I would, soon, but not in a text.

  I could go to her house, and we could have a long talk on her bed covered with the pillows we’d bought when we did her room redo. There was one that looked like cheetah fur, one with a winking emoji. One said LOL in blue sequins that you could brush with your hand and make change to silver, and there were two or three more solid-colored ones. I remembered Rakell’s mom asking how a person could possibly need so many pillows and then Rakell looked at me and held up the LOL pillow, and we both fell off the bed laughing.

  Sure, Rakell texted.

  I’m going to apologize to the cheerleaders and Katelyn, too. As soon as I get back to school.

  Don’t worry about Katelyn. She was totally saying stuff about our office design behind my back. The cheerleaders could use a design 101 class.

  We should teach it!!!!!!!!!!!!

  LOL! Yes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Call me when you get home?

  I put the phone back into my pocket. Nothing was perfect yet, far from it, but it was a start. I was reminded of this one famous painting in a book at Grandma’s. She had lots of art books in addition to design ones, which is why I knew Michelangelo wasn’t just a Ninja Turtle. I was thinking of his painting, of God and Adam stretching their arms out to touch fingers. Rakell and I were reaching out to each other again.

  Just then, Tony leaned over me to pull the cord by our window. I guessed we were there. But where were we?

  Breaking and Entering

  “Here we are,” Tony said.

  We’d speed-walked the two blocks from the bus stop, Tony for once walking even faster than me. We’d gone past a couple fast-food places and a store selling cigarettes that had bars on the windows. Down the street, the stores turned into apartment buildings and small houses, some with plastic toys in the yards.

  Tony’s duplex was an old, wood-sided two-story house with a blue sheet hanging in the front window as a curtain. Three steps led to the front door, and a rickety staircase climbed along one side of the house and up to another door on the second floor.

  “Do you have a key?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, very matter-of-factly.

  “Wait, no?” This seemed like important information, information we should have had before we began this little journey. “Then how are we supposed to get in?”

  Tony stood b
y the front window, trying to look into the house, but the sheet was blocking his view. He started poking around in some weeds growing next to the concrete steps. “Sometimes she hides a spare key under a rock,” he said vaguely.

  I didn’t know how he’d find a key in that jungle of weeds. Some of them were up to my knees. But I tried to help, spreading the plants apart, feeling around on the ground. Then I stopped.

  “Tony, if your mom is here, wouldn’t she answer the door? If she sees it’s you?”

  Tony was on his hands and knees in the weeds, but now he hopped up the three steps and knocked. It didn’t seem like he knocked that hard, but the street was deserted and the door was thin, and the sound really carried. Tony jiggled the doorknob, and again I thought we were doing this all backward. Check the doorknob first. But it was locked. He knocked again, but no one came.

  “Let’s check the windows,” he said and ran to the side of the house with the staircase.

  “Tony, I really don’t think she’s home,” I said. “I’m sorry, but . . .”

  He completely ignored me. He pressed his hands on the window, trying to slide it up, but it didn’t work. It must have been locked. Then he made his way around the house, doing the same thing to all the windows. I followed him, watching his movements become quicker and more erratic with each failed attempt.

  Eventually, he’d worked his way through all of them and we were left standing next to an iron door, a bit bigger than my backpack, cut into the siding, a few feet up from the ground.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “A coal chute,” Tony said. “I told you this house was old.”

  “You heat your house with coal?” I asked. The only place I’d seen that was in very old books.

  “Of course we don’t. But the old houses still have these chutes.” He shrugged. “The landlord never bothered to seal it up.”

  Tony stood there and looked at me, really studying me, starting with my toes and going all the way up to the top of my head. Then he looked back at the coal door.