The Rule of Threes - Marcy Campbell (the little red hen read aloud .txt) 📗

To my favorite three: Rick, Lily, and Whit

Copyright © 2021 by Marcy Campbell.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available.

ISBN 978-1-7972-0123-8 (hc)

ISBN 9781797204536 (epub, mobi)

Design by Mariam Quraishi.

Typeset in Bembo.

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Also by Marcy Campbell:

Adrian Simcox Does NOT Have a Horse

One Big Thing

In between forkfuls of spaghetti, my dad said it was time to play our new family dinner game, “One Big Thing.”

“Let’s hear something important that happened to everybody today,” Dad said.

I still didn’t see the point of this game. It seemed like a game other families needed to play, families who barely ever saw each other. We ate dinner together almost every night, unless Dad had a late meeting or Mom had to show a house. I honestly wondered if Mom and Dad had secretly been reading parenting blogs together. How to talk to your tween! Keep your middle schooler engaged at dinnertime!

“Do we have to keep playing this?” I asked.

Mom said, “We told you, Maggie, we just want to make sure we talk, really talk, like always—”

“—Even though you’re in middle school now and might think you’re too cool for your old parents,” Dad finished. He leaned forward. “So, Mags,” he said, “tell me something good.”

I sighed, my brain scrolling through the snapshots of my day. There were some good things. My choir teacher had me sing a solo verse of this Lion King song we’re working on and said I sounded great. And I’d gotten matched with a lab partner who seemed like he probably wouldn’t throw dead worms, or anything else, on me. That was kind of neutral, I guess. Oh, but Rachel . . . she seemed really distant at lunch, and also wants us to call her Ra-kell this year for some reason.

I knew Rachel’s family wasn’t playing any dinner games. They didn’t even eat in the same room, preferring to spread out to the different TVs around the house with their plates balanced on their knees. And at my other BFF Olive’s house, her baby brother was usually crying or flinging sweet potatoes against the wall. I was lucky. As an only child, I didn’t have any trouble getting my parents’ attention.

“Does it always have to be a good thing,” I asked, “or just a big, important thing?”

“It doesn’t necessarily have to be something good,” Dad said. “I mean, like, you remember last week when Mom had that house deal fall through, which was pretty bad, but still important.”

“Did something bad happen at school today, Maggie?” Mom cut in, her eyes going wide.

“No, geez, I’m just trying to figure out what to say.” They looked disappointed, like I was ruining their game again, and I knew right then that if I did have something bad to report, I’d have to do it in a kind of good news–bad news sandwich, like Mom did at her open houses. I’d been to plenty of them, so I’d seen her in action, witnessed her camouflaging the not-so-nice qualities of a fixer-upper. She might point out the “gorgeous natural light,” then quietly mention that the appliances could use some “updating,” and then she’d end by gushing loudly about the “solid oak floors!” It was a compliment sandwich. Good-bad-good.

Three was the best number of details. You didn’t want to overload a person’s brain with too many.

“Well?” Mom said, tapping her fingers against her glass.

“You go first. I’m still thinking,” I said.

She wiggled her eyebrows. “I listed a new house, on Briarcliff!”

“Bravo!” Dad raised his glass in the air, and Mom and I clinked ours against it.

“That’s awesome, Mom!” I said. Briarcliff was a street by the golf course with a bunch of McMansions, which typically sold for a lot of money. That meant more commission for my mom, even though often, the houses weren’t so great on the inside. Mom always said you didn’t have to have a lot of money to have style, and sometimes people with the most money didn’t have any of it.

“What’s it look like?” I asked cautiously, and Mom made a pukey face. I pictured crazy-patterned curtains puddling on all the super-cold marble floors, endangered animal heads hanging on the walls.

“Maybe you can help me stage it before it shows, Maggie,” Mom said.

“Sure!” I replied, but I wasn’t going to touch any dead animals.

“One more thing,” Mom added. “I got an offer on that little bungalow around the corner, for just under the asking price, so, fingers crossed.”

New mansion listing—but it’s yucky—and an offer on the bungalow. Good-bad-good.

“Well, I went to work today, and had a perfectly normal, no-surprises day,” Dad said, and raised his glass again, though Mom and I didn’t clink it this time.

I cocked my head at him. “Is that supposed to be something big?”

“What’s bigger than having a perfectly normal day? I consider that a big success.” Dad winked at me, and Mom shook her head, laughing.

“Oh! I just remembered!” I said, my arms goose-bumping with excitement. “There was this announcement about a contest at school where we compete to decorate the hallways or something. Mr. Villanueva is supposed to give the details at an assembly this week.”

“Well, that sounds right up your alley,” Mom said.

It sure was. Mom and Dad had prepped me all summer about how important it was to get involved, as soon as possible, at my new school, because it would make me feel more comfortable there, more like I belonged in middle school rather than back in elementary school. What better way to get involved than by doing design, something I already knew and loved? Plus, it was the perfect next job for the BFFs. This was big, all right.

“You should call Grandma and tell her about it,” Mom said.

“Just what I was thinking. I’ll