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

it. And now I couldn’t think of the last time I’d heard them argue. Before today.

I stopped walking, dug into my backpack to see if I had a spare pair of sunglasses. I didn’t. When I turned the corner toward my house and saw that the red car was missing from the driveway, I picked up my pace, eager to get inside. Mom must have forgotten to text me. They were probably busy making dinner. I’d come in, and Dad would use that silly voice where he’d pretend to be a waiter at a French restaurant: “Welcome to Chez Owens! Tonight, ze chef has prepared ze most delectable spaghetti in all ze land!” I smiled at the thought of it, my stomach grumbling. The nauseous feeling I’d had at Olive’s was gone. I was really hungry, and really hoping for spaghetti.

I got to my house and was just reaching out to turn the knob to the side door by the kitchen when Dad opened it. I smiled at him, waiting for his funny voice. But he didn’t smile back. And I didn’t smell garlic bread or anything. Dad just stared at me, like he wasn’t sure if he should let me in. When he finally spoke, he said, in the most un-funny voice ever, “Mags, we need to talk.”

I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.

When Pigs Fly

The kitchen light shone behind my dad’s head, creating a halo around his black curls. Neither of us said anything for a moment. I wanted to go in, but he was blocking my way.

“What is it?” I asked, wondering if I would finally get the “family business” discussion my mom had promised earlier. Maybe they’d sit me down in the dining room and do the good-cop, bad-cop routine, like when I got in trouble for using my phone after bedtime. Mom would accuse me of breaking the rule, and say they couldn’t trust me, and Dad would step in to smooth everything over and insist it must have been an honest mistake, that I needed to text someone about homework, and he was sure I’d never do it again. The truth was usually somewhere in the middle.

Dad was still staring at me. “What is it?” I asked again. “What do you need to talk to me about?”

I had my backpack on, but I felt like I should take it off and hold it in front of me, like I needed to somehow protect my heart. Dad threw a glance over his shoulder toward the hallway, like something was behind him, but I saw nothing except our family photos on the wall, our worn carpeting. Then he finally stepped aside so I could come in. He spoke softly.

“That boy you saw earlier? When you left for Olive’s? The one who was waiting outside, wearing the blue sweatshirt?”

“Yes,” I said, impatiently. How many strange boys sat on our front stoop? What other boy would it be?

“Well, sweetheart, the thing is that . . . I don’t know how to say this so I’m just going to say it . . . he’s my son.”

Just like that, the basketball boy poked his head around the corner like he’d been summoned. He stood there with his hands in his pockets. A brother?

“That’s crazy.” I shook my head. “I mean it’s possible . . . when pigs fly. Right Dad?”

Dad opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I glared at the boy, and he glared back. Like he was mad at me! Like I’d done something to him!

Mittens sauntered in and did her figure-eight around my legs. The boy smiled at her, so I picked her up before he could get his grimy paws on her. I held her close, feeling her soft fur tickle my chin. It seemed like the room was shrinking around me, and my backpack weighed a hundred pounds.

“You’re kidding, right? Good one, Dad. Very funny.”

“No, Maggie. I’m not joking.”

He looked slumped, bent. My dad—who was actually six-foot-something, who worked as some kind of manager at the power company, American Power, who liked to flex his bicep when he left for work saying he was going to American Power! and pretend to zoom out the door like a superhero to make me laugh—he looked very, very small.

“I don’t . . . I don’t understand,” I said.

I blinked. I set Mittens down, and she ran for the kitchen, where I could hear water running into the big spaghetti pot. Oh great, spaghetti. At least one thing I’d hoped for was actually happening, though everything else was going wrong. My eyes went all swimmy, filling with tears, but I could see well enough to notice Mom come out of the kitchen and gently take the boy’s shoulders, steering him out of the room.

Dad had reached out to take my little, shaky hands into his big, steady ones. “I know this is impossible to believe,” he said. “I know that, but you have to at least let me try to explain.”

I closed my eyes, thinking maybe when I opened them, I’d find myself in my bed, realizing this had all been a dream.

He said, “You remember back a few years, when you were little, and your mom and I were having some . . . some difficulties . . .”

My eyes were still leaking, and his words sounded far away, like I was underwater and he was standing on the shore. I could not listen to this, so I let go of his hands and ran to my room, my footsteps heavy, stomping up the stairs. I closed the door and inched myself into my packed closet, nestling between a dozen stuffed animals. I did not turn on the light. I sat in the dark.

There was no lock on my closet door, but nobody came in here other than me. I had put a homemade door-hanger on the knob, decorated with a sequined skull and crossbones and the words “Health Hazard. Do Not Enter.” My parents thought it was funny, and they never made me clean up, as long as the mess stayed inside and