The Rule of Threes

by Marcy Campbell

  It wasn’t like I was going to wear our awful school color combination of green and brown anytime soon. I mean, a girl’s gotta have standards. And I wasn’t abandoning design rules. I was just loosening them a little, letting in a little light. Some pretty cool things can happen when you’re open to change, in design and everything else, even if that change is nothing you ever could have imagined, not even in your pig-flying dreams.

  Tony’s closet door was open, so we could see all his new clothes, in a full spectrum of shades but heavy on the blues, that my mom had bought him. Thankfully, the duffel bag and thrift-store stuff were out of sight, so the room didn’t smell like old gym socks anymore, nor did it smell like my grandma.

  Mom and I had visited her at the assisted living facility recently, and she actually seemed a little happier there than she had at our house. She showed us the big living room she shared with the other residents. She introduced us to a new friend named Beatrice. She did complain about the food, though, and Mom said she’d definitely had some ups and downs with the transition, so it wasn’t perfect, but then nothing ever was.

  That said, there was nothing wrong with making something better, if you could. This room, for starters, could be so much better for Tony.

  “Should we still do this?” Rakell asked, holding up the card with all the paint colors attached. “Since Tony says he doesn’t notice colors?”

  “Let’s hold off on colors for now,” I suggested. “Let’s do the love-hate.”

  “Fantabulous!” Olive yelled and clapped her hands. She opened her notebook to a fresh page.

  “Why don’t you ask the questions, Olive?” I said. “I can take notes.”

  “Really? Okay.”

  She handed me her notebook and pen and sat up a little straighter from her spot on the edge of Tony’s bed. She looked around the room. I followed her gaze to the floral comforter, to the closet, to the oak nightstand sitting between the bed and the ancient brown chair with the matching footstool.

  “Tony,” she said, “tell us what you love and hate about this room. Don’t think about it too hard. But be honest.”

  We all leaned in toward Tony, who was sitting in the brown chair. Rakell gave him a little smile, which he returned, like they were sharing some private joke. I thought it was annoying when they did stuff like that, but thankfully, they didn’t do it often. And honestly, if Tony was going to have a girlfriend, at least it was someone I liked.

  “That comforter,” Tony said, pointing. “HATE it!”

  “Oh yes, that’s a disaster,” Olive said. “Did you get that, Maggie?”

  “Got it,” I said, and wrote, “Comforter = hate.”

  “How about the chair?” Rakell asked.

  Tony shifted around in it a bit, like he was trying to test the cushion for comfort. Then he put his feet up on the ottoman, which was really worn. It sagged in the middle, and the fabric was thin.

  “It’s pretty comfortable,” he said.

  “We have to re-cover it.” I couldn’t help jumping in on this one. The chair was incredibly ugly; I didn’t care how comfortable it was.

  “Is that in the budget?” Olive asked.

  “We have a budget?” Tony perked up.

  “A small one,” I answered. “My mom said she’d give us a little money, but honestly, the only way we could afford to re-cover this chair would be if we did it ourselves, and that’s way beyond my skill set.”

  “I could re-cover the ottoman, though,” Rakell said. “Add a little pop of pattern to that, some kind of fabric Tony likes. It would take the focus away from the chair, and I’ve done that type of thing before.”

  “Yes!” me and Olive said together.

  “And he needs a desk and chair and a good lamp, for doing homework,” Olive added, while Tony groaned.

  “She’s right,” I said. I took out a piece of graph paper and starting mapping out where we could put the furniture. My week of being grounded had passed by quickly, and it felt really good to be working on another project again, especially after losing the contest. Although, as Olive had pointed out to me many times since then, we didn’t lose. We came in second, which was hardly losing. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I was going to, from now on.

  I heard some laughter coming from my parents in the kitchen, which kind of startled me. It had been a while since laughter was more common than quiet, angry whispers, and it was really good to hear it again.

  They were down there working out a menu for Thanksgiving. We’d bring Grandma here from the assisted living facility for the day, and Olive’s whole family was coming, and so were Rakell and her mom and brothers. It was usually just the three of us, which was kind of lonely, and we always had plenty of room for more. Now we were going to have a full house.

  Dad called up the stairs, “Tony, your mom is going to be calling soon.”

  Tony said to us, “I’ll be back,” and he ran downstairs. Right on cue, I could hear Dad’s cell phone ringing. Ever since she’d gotten out of the hospital, Tony’s mom called him from the rehab house exactly when she said she was going to call, right on time. Next week, Tony and my parents and I were starting counseling. I wouldn’t let him walk out this time. Tony was going to be there for his mom, and I was going to be there for him, like he was for me.

  “What did I miss?” he asked when he came back in.

  “We’ll need some objects that inspire you,” Rakell said. “For your nightstand.”

  “How about this?” Tony grabbed his basketball and set it on the nightstand, where it promptly rolled off, bounced across the floor, and out the door.

  “That would be a no,” I said, laughing. “Why don’t you look through my prop box? Let me get it.”

  I came back in with my overflowing box of dollar store and Shoppe finds. Tony knelt down and picked through the stuff. He pulled out the silver frame with the generic photo of the little boy being pushed on a swing by his father. The last time I’d looked at it was on the day I was teaching about tablescapes, the day Tony arrived.

  “I like this,” he said, “but I guess we need a new picture.”

  “Oh, I know what we should do,” I said, pulling out my cell phone. “Selfie, everyone! How about around the ottoman?”

  The four of us got on the floor with the ottoman in the middle. Since Rakell was going to redo the ottoman, this would be a great “before” photo. Maybe I’d take another one when the room was all done. Tony could pick out a hinged frame for two photos, or maybe he could have two hinged frames, so he could also have a picture of him with his mom, plus one of him with Dad and my mom and me.

  “Okay, ready?” I said. Rakell beamed her best smile. Olive stuck out her tongue. Tony made bunny ears behind my head.

  “Say cheese,” Rakell said.

  “No,” I said, “say BFFs!”

  “BFFs!” we all yelled.

  Click. I looked around the room. We’d already decided to paint the beige walls the same blue as Tony’s hoodie. All the little stuff in the room was going to have to come out; the furniture would be draped with tarps. Yup, things always looked a lot worse before they looked a lot better.

  Just then, Olive said, “We haven’t done the love part, of the love-hate.”

  I looked down at my notebook, at the columns I’d made labeled Hate and Love. Then Tony and I looked at each other. And I guess because we’re related and all, I knew what he was thinking. Sometimes the things we love don’t need to be written down in a list. Sometimes, the things we love aren’t things. For once, I didn’t have an exact picture in my mind of our “after” photo, but I knew one thing. It would be fantabulous.

  Acknowledgments

  Like Maggie, I also have a flying pig. She’s made of iron and sits on my office windowsill. I bought her a long time ago, when I was ready to give up on my dream of publishing a novel, and needed a visual reminder to keep trying.

  I sent a similar pig to my extraordinary agent, Steven Malk, when this book sold. Steve took a chanc
e on a writer with a single picture book rough draft to her name, and I am forever grateful. I’m so glad he said, in our very first conversation, “You should really consider writing a novel.” Thank you to Steve and his team at Writers House, especially Hannah Mann and Andrea Morrison, for their smart and thoughtful editorial feedback through numerous drafts.

  My editor at Chronicle Books, Taylor Norman, was a dream to work with, and her vision took this book places I’d never thought possible. She’s an absolute master of constructive criticism, so good, in fact, that I’m not sure I’ve ever worked so hard while smiling so big.

  A huge thank-you to Mariam Quraishi for her beautiful book design, and to the whole team at Chronicle for getting my first novel out into the world, especially Mary Duke, Claire Fletcher, Diane Joao, Andie Krawczyk, Margo Winton Parodi, Kaitlyn Spotts, and Eva Zimmerman.

  Thanks to Yasmin Imamura who created a stunner of a cover that so wonderfully captures the tension in the book.

  My “walking workshops” with Yvette Benavides and Lisa Sharon gave me the confidence to pursue this book when it was just a few notes. I’m also grateful to all the friends who provided keys to their homes when I needed a quiet place to work, especially John and Lee Ann Eyre.

  So many friends have encouraged me when the writing wasn’t going so well (and celebrated with me when it was!), especially Danni Schantz and Amy Jo Stavnezer, my “egghead” sisters.

  Chelsea Churpek, Marlane Kennedy, and Laura Sirot provided tremendous insight and suggestions to make this book stronger. Thank you.

  My family is forever indulgent of my decorating whims and never complains when I rearrange the furniture while they are out of the house. My husband, Rick, and children, Lily and Whit, are my first readers, always. A special thanks to Lily and Whit, who were so helpful in correcting my mistakes depicting middle school. Any remaining errors are mine. So happy to celebrate each success with you, no matter how small (“To the car!”).

  Lastly, to all the amazing people creating children’s literature who have inspired my own children, and all of us, to be better humans. It’s an honor and privilege to be part of this community.

  Ericka Karazsia

  Marcy Campbell loves to redecorate, when she’s not writing. Like Maggie, she also enjoys collecting objects to display, especially cool rocks, shells, and feathers. Her award-winning picture book Adrian Simcox Does NOT Have a Horse was an Indie Next Top 10 Pick and a Junior Library Guild selection, and has been translated into eight languages. Marcy lives in Ohio with her three favorite people in the world, plus three cats, and a lovable dog named Turtle. This is her first novel. Visit her at marcycampbell.com.