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

“I don’t know, I mean, he knows how many kids there are, and he can count the votes.”

Tony put his hands on his hips. “Do you really think he’s going to go through all that trouble? And what about people who aren’t at school that day?”

Tony was acting like he was way older than me, instead of just one year. He was deflating my excitement balloon so fast I could almost hear the air leaking out.

He must have noticed, because then he said, “Listen, I love frozen yogurt, and obviously I’ll vote for you.” He was looking around my room in that way he had, like he was silently memorizing everything. “Your room looks really nice,” he said. “Put together, I mean, like everything is just where it’s supposed to be, but I don’t mean, like it’s boring, but more like . . . if something was moved somewhere else, it wouldn’t look right.” He scratched his ankle. “Never mind, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

I stood there with my mouth hanging open. Did Tony understand . . . design? Is that why he was always looking so closely at things? I found myself having two competing thoughts: First, designing was my thing. I didn’t need Tony barging into it. But, second, with Rachel’s disappearance, and with all the work we had to do . . .

“I totally know what you mean,” I said. “Thanks, Tony.”

At the very least, maybe I could help Tony fix up the spare room where he was sleeping. Right now, it was just an old boring room with his clothes strewn all over the floor.

“What was your place like? Your apartment?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing special,” he said. “I mean, it’s not as nice as this place, not by a long shot, but my mom . . . she always used to try and fix it up, before she got sick.” He looked at my yellow vase. “The landlord wouldn’t let us paint or put any holes in the walls, so there wasn’t a whole lot we could do, but she liked to go to garage sales and buy stuff, like old vases that she’d put flowers in, you know, just wildflowers we’d pick alongside the road. She’d put them in a vase in the dining room.” He looked embarrassed suddenly. “I don’t usually notice stuff like that.”

“Of course you do,” I insisted. He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Even if you don’t consciously notice it, your subconscious is paying attention, always,” I said. That was the whole plan behind the color scheme, the calming happiness combo of greens/blues/yellows.

Tony stood up. “I’ve got enough problems with my conscious self,” he said. “I don’t need to go digging for more trouble beneath that.” He laughed a little and so did I.

“So . . . you’re okay, with living here? I mean, you like it here?” For the first time, I really felt like, if Tony didn’t like it, then it was mostly my fault, and I didn’t want to be a bad host, or a bad person.

“Yeah,” he said, looking around. “It’s a nice place. Robert, I mean, Dad, is a nice guy. It’s nice to play ball again.”

“Is that it?” I asked. “He’s your dad, I mean, he’s not just some guy.” I felt a bit offended, like I had to stick up for my dad, even though lately I’d been having some confusing thoughts about him.

“Well, yeah, but he is just some guy, right now. You can’t just meet somebody and have some instant connection like you’ve known them all your life.”

I was thinking of stories I’d heard of long-lost family members reuniting. “Sometimes that happens, though,” I said.

“In the movies, maybe,” Tony scoffed. He chewed his thumb. “I miss my mom,” he said.

“Has she called you yet?” I asked, but was immediately sorry I did. Tony looked away.

“Yeah, she did, but it wasn’t easy to talk to her, you know? She doesn’t . . . sound like herself, and she’s got someone, some person, who’s in charge of the house, standing there listening, plus a bunch of people in line waiting for the phone, rushing her.”

“Where is she?” I asked. This was a house? It sounded more like a prison.

“She’s in a rehab house,” he said. “At least it’s not jail, though it sort of seems like it is,” he added, reading my mind.

He looked like he was about ready to cry. “I’ve never been there. She doesn’t want me there. She said some of the people are ‘scary’ and anyway, she’ll be out before we know it. She’s just got to work . . . really hard and . . . not mess up.”

Tony talked like he was the grown-up, like his mom was the kid. “It’s real easy to mess up, that’s the problem. You think you’ve got yourself cured, and then your brain plays tricks on you, pulls you right back.” He shrugged. “That’s what my mom says anyway.”

“I guess being around my mom is pretty different,” I said.

I saw a slight smile appear on Tony’s face. “You can say that again. They’re different as night and day.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“It’s just different.”

I kicked my legs out from under my covers. I didn’t feel like lying around in bed any longer. I didn’t feel very sick. But Mom had already called in to the school, and Tony wasn’t going back today. I looked at my clock. It was only 11:30.

“Hey,” I said. I couldn’t believe I was saying this. “Do you want to help me paint a bookcase?”

Watching Paint Dry

Tony was a pro with the primer. I admired the way he made clean, careful strokes with his paintbrush. Most kids would just make a mess of things. Come to think of it, most kids wouldn’t even know what primer is.

We took turns dipping our brushes into the can. “Where’d you learn how to paint?” I asked.

“My mom’s boyfriend.”

For a second, my dad’s face flashed into my head, but he couldn’t have meant him. They’d just met. Then I had another thought. Had Tony’s mom considered my dad to be her boyfriend once? What had Dad thought?