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

on us first. “You didn’t make the best choices yesterday,” she said, looking at both Tony and me.

This was my least favorite lecture, the bad choices one.

“You should not have gone over there, either of you,” Dad added. “You should have called one of us, and we would have helped.”

“But there wasn’t time,” Tony protested.

“Not true,” Dad said. “We could have gotten the police to your apartment way faster than it took the two of you to take a bus across town. You should have called as soon as Rachel said she’d gotten your mom’s text, Tony. There’s a good chance your mom wouldn’t have even been there, and then what?”

“But she was,” I murmured. “And her name is Rakell.”

“And, Maggie, you stole medicine?” Mom added, slightly changing the subject. “How did you even know how to use it?”

“I learned it from watching you,” I said.

“What?” both my parents said.

“Your allergy medicine, Mom.” I shrugged. “It’s the same type of thing.”

They looked at each other like they were deciding who was going to speak next. Tony’s spoon was clinking against his bowl. Mittens was meowllll-ing from the floor by our feet, waiting for an invitation to get up on the counter and lap leftover milk, which my parents did not allow.

“We accept some of the responsibility,” Dad said. “We haven’t done a good job of laying out ground rules, especially for you, Tony. We’re going to make up a list and talk about that next week, and you need to be able to check in with us, so we’re getting you a phone—”

“Really?” Tony said, super excited, but Dad squashed him right back down.

“But you’ll not be using it, for the time being, for anything except calling home—that’s this home, to me or Mom—and when you’re home, I get the phones. Yours too, Maggie. They’ll go right in this basket when they’re not charging.” He pointed to the basket by the door where he kept his wallet and keys. “And no TV or video games for a week. You’re both grounded.”

My mouth was hanging open as I listened. This was so weird. Was my dad being bad-cop? I glanced sideways at Tony and could see he didn’t believe it either. Yet this was one of those times that I felt anything I said would only get me into even more trouble. One week of being grounded was bad enough. I didn’t need to make it two.

As Mom and Dad were leaving the kitchen, they piled even more on us.

“I want you both to straighten your rooms today,” Mom said, almost gleefully.

“And I could use some help sweeping out the garage,” Dad added.

Once they were safely out of the room, I raised my eyebrows at Tony, and he did the same back at me, and we both started laughing.

“Welcome to the family,” I said.

“What’s your favorite color?” Olive asked Tony.

“Oh, I got this,” I said. I pointed to the hoodie he was wearing. “It’s blue, right?”

Tony looked down, like he was noticing his favorite sweatshirt for the first time. “Oh yeah, I like blue just fine. But I wear this because it’s so comfortable. I don’t really notice the color.”

Rakell laughed, and Olive sucked in her breath while she looked over at me, likely waiting for me to launch into a discussion about how color affects mood, even when we’re not consciously aware of it. But I didn’t think that was necessary, mostly because they already knew all of that. In fact, Rakell or Olive would be perfectly capable of giving that lecture themselves.

I had our roles all wrong, or at least, my belief that we needed super-strict roles in the first place had been all wrong. There wasn’t just one way to do things. I didn’t always have to be in charge. And a stool with three legs wasn’t the only metaphor for perfect harmony. You could find balance in all sorts of different ways, with any number of people.

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