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

car got rear-ended, and she hurt her neck. But then she just couldn’t get off them, and she couldn’t get a prescription for them anymore, so she switched to even worse stuff, and she started dating some sketchy guys. The first time it happened, her boyfriend found her and called the ambulance, and then he took off, and she never saw him again. Nice, huh? He was probably the one who gave her the drugs to begin with.”

I put down my dandelion stems. “I’m so sorry,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say. How could anything I said make it better?

Tony sat back down on the blanket and took three of the stems I’d put in a pile. He started neatly braiding them. I gave him a funny look, which he noticed.

“My mom used to ask me to braid her hair sometimes. She said I was better at it than she was.”

We both kept our heads down, working on our dandelions. I started weaving mine into a crown.

“I don’t have all the details about the second time it happened,” Tony said. “I couldn’t get the social worker to tell me anything.”

He tossed his braided stems into the grass and wrapped his arms around his knees. “So, are you coming, or not?” he asked, and I saw something in Tony’s face that I hadn’t seen before. He was usually so good at hiding it, but he was really hurting. He was scared. And who could blame him?

“Yes,” I said, “I’ll go.” I set the crown I’d made on his head, and he laughed, then took it off and set it on the blanket. “But only if I get large fries.” I bumped his shoulder, and he bumped mine back.

“Okay,” he said, hopping up off the blanket like he’d gotten a jolt of energy. “Should we do the blue paint?”

He pointed toward the can sitting just inside the garage door, right next to his beloved basketball.

“Let’s wait a little while longer, make sure the primer is all the way dry,” I said. I hopped up, too. “How about we play some basketball? I mean, I don’t know much, but maybe you can teach me?”

I remembered when Dad used to play ball with me. It was all fun and games when I was little, but sometime after I got to maybe third grade or so, he seemed to get frustrated that I wasn’t improving. He’d tell me to “quit messing around.” Third grade is when girls can join a league at the Y, and I think Dad assumed all along that I was going to join. But I’d known all along I never would. Weird how we could both be so sure.

Tony ran over and grabbed the ball and dribbled it back to where I was standing in the driveway in front of the hoop.

“Can you dribble?”

“A little,” I said. He passed the ball to me, and I immediately bounced it off my foot. It had been a while since I’d done this.

Tony took it back. “Like this,” he said. “Use your fingers, not your palm.”

I tried again, and again. Tony was a patient teacher, and I was pretty surprised how much fun I was having. We moved on to my shooting form, laughing and goofing around, when Dad pulled up, home early from work.

I started to scoot out of the driveway, but Dad called out, “You’re fine! I’ll park out here!” He parked in the street and got out, then walked up the driveway toward us with his briefcase. “Looks like you’re feeling better, Maggie,” he said, and then to Tony, “How was school?”

Dad had that goofy look on his face that adults get when kids are cooperating nicely with each other without being told.

“School was fine,” Tony said, nonchalantly, as though he’d forgotten all about getting sent home for a dress code violation.

I held out my hands for Tony to pass me the ball, and then I took a shot and in it went, swoosh, all net.

“Nice one, Maggie,” Dad said.

He was so pleased with us that he must not have realized it was too early for Tony to be home from school. Although, it was too early for Dad to be home from work as well. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I noticed Dad’s smile start to fade, his face clouding over. He crossed his arms.

“Listen, I’m glad I got here before Mom and Grandma did,” he said.

“Grandma’s coming here?” I asked. Mom was supposed to get her settled at the assisted living facility today. “Is she coming for dinner?”

“Well, yes, for dinner,” Dad said, “but then . . .” He shifted his feet a bit, his pointy, shiny work shoes glinting in the sun. “She actually needs to stay here, at the house, just for a bit. The facility, you see, they messed up, said they had a room, but it wasn’t in the memory unit, where Grandma needs to be, and Mom had her all packed and ready, and so, well, Mom’s just going to keep an eye on her here for a bit, temporarily.”

Temporarily. There was that word again. I glanced at Tony, who was frowning. But I was excited about the prospect of Grandma being in the house. We could cut out pictures from magazines, of designs we liked, like we used to. She could help with the contest. I tried not to get my hopes up, though. With Grandma’s illness, I didn’t know what to expect.

“Where is she going to sleep?” Tony asked.

My dad ran a hand through his hair, which made it look even crazier than it usually did. He stared a moment at Tony, who was standing there with the basketball tucked under his arm. All the happy sounds from a few moments ago—the bouncing of the ball on the pavement, our laughter—all of that was gone. Even the birds had put their tweeting on pause.

“Would you mind sleeping on the pullout sofa for a little bit?” Dad asked Tony. “We