The Rule of Threes, Marcy Campbell [short novels to read .TXT] 📗

our eye to move around, looking for patterns, which makes for a more stimulating visual experience.”

“So, we could use fives or sevens, if we wanted?” Olive asked.

“Sure, if we had a big enough table.”

Olive was scribbling with her favorite pink pen in her notebook. She was the official notetaker. And Rachel (or Rakell now, I guess? I just couldn’t make the name stick in my head) was the one who added the “wow factor” to my designs. The three of us made a great team, perfect complements. Like a trio of knick-knacks on an end table.

Rachel would be the thriller. I would probably be the filler, keeping everything else in place, and that left Olive as the spiller. She was often more emotional than me or Rachel, and I imagined her moods—whether good or bad—filling up the planter, and then cascading right over.

“I love the little piggie,” Olive said.

“Me too,” I agreed, and Rachel added, “Bronze animals are very on trend right now.”

“Yes, they are,” I said, surprised Rachel knew that. Maybe she actually had read that article from House Beautiful I’d copied for her and Olive last week.

The tablescape would be nothing without that pig. Take out the pig, or the picture frame, and your brain would say you’re missing something, even if you didn’t consciously realize it. Add one more item, and your brain would say too much.

Three is perfect. Look at us—three BFFs. And there were three members of my immediate family, just me and my mom and dad. They always talked about us being a team, and I knew we were a lot closer than families with a ton of kids. There’s one family in our town with twelve kids, and I wondered how the parents could even remember all their names. Some people talk about a “third wheel” like it’s a bad thing, which I don’t get. I mean, think of a stool, a tricycle, my family. Think of our tablescape! Three is balance.

I heard a car door slam, then my dad’s heavy footsteps downstairs, crossing the living room floor. The doorbell rang, and Mittens, my cat, came shooting into my bedroom.

“Oh, sweet kitty!” Olive said and scooped her up. “You are such a sweetums,” she said, nuzzling her. “Such a sweet little wittle . . .”

“Shhh,” I said. I was back at the window. The old woman was standing on our front stoop now, looking the house over with a critical eye, like she was thinking about buying it or something, even though it wasn’t for sale. The boy was still in the car.

Olive was being so noisy with the cat that I didn’t hear Mom come upstairs. She stood in my doorway, resting her hand on the frame as though she was trying to steady herself. All the blood had drained right out of her face.

“Mom?” I said.

She looked around my room. “Are you almost done?” she asked, kind of breathless, like she’d just run a race instead of running up the stairs.

“Um, well, not quite,” I said. I looked at Olive, who shrugged. Rachel had retreated to my loft.

“Hey, Mrs. O,” Rachel called down.

“Yes, hi, Rachel,” Mom said.

“Actually, Mrs. O? It’s Rakell now. R-A-K-E-L-L.”

“Uh, okay, sure,” Mom answered, not looking at her. She hadn’t taken her eyes off me. It was like I’d done something bad, but what could I have done? Put a glass on the coffee table without a coaster? Left my towel on the floor in the bathroom? Nope and nope. I’d only been home from school for an hour. How much trouble could I have gotten in?

Mom said, “I need you to finish up, Maggie, now, please,” in a tone that made the “please” seem out of place. She leaned closer to me. “We have some family business to discuss.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. I heard Dad coming up the stairs. Of course, he wouldn’t be the one to tell me to finish my meeting or that I was potentially in trouble. It was always my mom who did that type of thing. If they had some good-cop, bad-cop arrangement, Mom was always bad-cop. Maybe that’s why me and Dad got along especially well.

He said from the hallway, “Susan, I need you down here.” He never called her that. She was always “Sue” or “Susie.” Maybe she was the one in trouble.

As Mom left my room, she said, “Robert, I’m trying. What do you want me to do?” The two of them moved across the hall to their own bedroom.

“What’s that all about?” Olive asked.

I didn’t know, but I didn’t like this whole using-full-names thing. My dad was always, always “Bob.” Outside, I heard the unmistakable thump of a basketball and the clang as it bounced off the rim of the hoop in our driveway.

“It’s that kid,” Olive said, “from the car.”

Olive nodded toward the window, then back at me like she was waiting for me to do something. What was I supposed to do? So the kid had a basketball, and we had a hoop, and it was a free country, and if he was waiting for his grandma or something, which reminded me . . . where was his grandma? Downstairs? In our house? Alone?

I could hear my parents’ voices, low and angry, seeping under their door. I heard my mom say, “I told you, Robert,” and the way she said it made my stomach turn loops like I was right back in second grade and crying on my way to the bus stop. I went over to my desk, grabbed my phone, and turned on some music so we couldn’t hear them.

“You don’t have to do that,” Rachel mumbled from my loft. “I’m used to it.” I knew without asking that she was scrolling through Teen Vogue on her phone.

“Used to what?” Olive asked.

Rachel didn’t answer. I busied myself with our prop box, trying to stuff everything in. I picked up the cheap silver-plated frame, which still contained the photo that came with it, of a boy being pushed on