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

if there was no Tony, ever, at all, would you even have told me, or Mom, about any of it, I mean, about Tony’s mom?” I couldn’t stand to think about it, but I had to know.

He kind of looked angry for a second, just a flash across his face, and I didn’t know if the anger was at me, for asking these questions, or if he was just mad at himself.

“You’re at a weird age, Mags,” he said. “Mom and I are still trying to figure it out, what we can talk about with you, I mean, because you’re kind of on this bubble, between being a kid and being a grown-up. Do you know what I mean?”

“I guess,” I said. “What you’re saying is I’m suddenly really hard to talk to.”

“No, Maggie, that’s not—”

“Yes, it is, and that’s fine, and you know what? You’re not easy to talk to either these days.”

He just stood there and looked at me while I felt my tears starting up again. Had he said I was on a bubble? Well, I felt like I was the bubble, and I was ready to pop.

Dad wiped some tears off my cheek with his thumb. “Sometimes we don’t tell people things because we’re trying to protect them. Because we love them.”

I took a couple ragged breaths. “Is that why you told Mom you didn’t . . . want me? Because you wanted to protect me?”

That seemed so wrong. It couldn’t have been to protect me, and it certainly couldn’t have been because he loved me.

“What? Maggie, what are you talking about?”

I turned away from him, hiding my face. “In second grade,” I said. “When you and Mom were going to get divorced, and I had to decide who I was going to live with, Mom said you didn’t want me to live with you.”

He took a very slow, deep breath. “You remember that?”

Of course I did. I would never forget it. Why do parents think kids forget everything? We might forget to brush our teeth, but we remembered the important things. And not just the hurtful moments. I remembered all our talks, how they said we had to stay close as a family, how we were like a stool, the three of us, all balancing each other out.

He let out a long sigh. “Your mom shouldn’t have said that to you,” he said flatly. “I only suggested that a girl would probably want to live with her mother, but we weren’t even at that point, not by a long shot. That was premature, on her part, to imply we were separating. She was hurting, and she . . . well, we’ve worked that out now. A long time ago. You were only what, eight?”

“Seven,” I said.

Outside, the streetlight flickered on, and Mittens crawled up on my beanbag. I picked her up and put her around my neck. A minute or two passed while we both listened to Mittens purring.

Finally, Dad said, “Tell me something good, Mags.”

The only thing I could think of that was good right now was the contest, but he knew about that. I hadn’t told him about the prizes, however.

“So, the winner of that design contest? At my school? She gets to be Principal for a Day,” I said. I could suddenly see it so clearly, me in the principal’s chair, feet up on the desk. I could tell other people what to do for a change. I’d be in charge.

Dad stood up and moved to the door. “Sounds fun, honey.”

That was it? That was all he had to say? “There’s also a trophy and a pizza party,” I added.

“Well, isn’t that wonderful? Time for bed, okay.” He left my room but poked his head back in a minute later. “I assume a big kid like you doesn’t need anyone tucking her in anymore,” he said.

I gave him a half smile, then got into my pajamas, went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth, and bumped into Tony on my way out.

“Hey,” I said. “Sorry about your mom, you know, not calling.”

“Yeah, well, I better brush my teeth,” he replied, and scooted past me.

Guess he didn’t want to talk about it yet, or maybe ever. Back in my room, I kicked aside some Better Homes and Gardens that were littering my floor.

I hadn’t thought about it much before now, but you know, nothing was ever as perfect as it looked in those magazines. The photographers spent hours staging a little area of a room to get the perfect photo, but we couldn’t see what was just outside the frame. I mean, we never saw the cat’s hairball on the chair around the corner, never heard the camera guy snap at the designer over some stupid thing, or find out the posh tablecloth was actually made by a kid who was forced to work in some factory on the other side of the world when she should be out playing in the sun.

And the families in these magazines . . . a husband and wife and two kids in matching polo shirts, a baby on the mom’s hip. And everybody smiling, always smiling, like there was an extra-large ice-cream sundae waiting for them after the photographer was done. I thought of our own family photos on the wall in the hallway, everything so posed and perfect. All “before” photos. Or were they? Would I always think of our family as before and after Tony?

I sat in my beanbag and read some Edgar Allan Poe for an upcoming Language Arts assignment, but it started to freak me out, so I put the book away and crawled into my loft, where I found Mittens curled on one of my pillows. I carefully picked her up with one arm and climbed back down with the other. Then I snuck into Tony’s room, where he was sprawled on his stomach and already snoring. I set Mittens down on the foot of his bed, petting her a minute while she got settled, and I went back to my room.

I missed