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

on their table like they didn’t think it polite to wear them inside, even inside a McDonald’s. They were staring, though, at Tony and his mom and the social worker, which wasn’t polite at all. Then I realized I was staring at the old guys, which wasn’t cool either, so I gazed down at the tabletop. It was orange with faint white shapes that looked like the amoebas we’d studied in science.

Tony’s mom asked him what he wanted to eat. “I brought some money, so it’s on me,” she said as she led the way up to the counter.

When they returned to their table, they had trays loaded with Big Macs and fries and shakes. An apple pie teetered on the edge of Tony’s tray, so close I could have grabbed it when he walked by. It was terrible to smell all that food and not eat any. My dad said they wafted the french fry smell through special vents into the neighborhood to make people hungry. I didn’t know if that was true. It didn’t seem legal.

As Tony passed me, he gave a little shrug and raised his eyebrows, like he was apologizing for not getting me anything. His mom was in front and didn’t notice Tony looking at me, but the social worker did, and she gave me the skunk-eye.

I tried to make myself smaller, shrinking down into the booth. The social worker didn’t sit with them, but she was at the table right next to theirs, where she played with her phone while she ate, pretending not to listen in. I was listening, too. I couldn’t help it. When was Tony planning to call me over? I was wondering if he’d give me some cue. And introducing . . . my half-sister!!!! And I’d hop over to their table, waving and smiling, like a game-show contestant.

But that didn’t happen, and the longer they talked, the more I wondered whether I should have come at all. My mom and dad had been on the fence about it. But Tony had said he needed “moral support,” and after the way he blew up at Dad and threw the basketball against the house, I think they didn’t want to argue with him.

I heard Tony’s mom ask how school was going, and Tony said, “Good, real good,” and as she asked him about each individual subject, he replied how he had aced this test or that quiz and gotten an A on this or that presentation. I would have wondered if he was exaggerating, but I’d heard Dad and Mom talking about checking in with Tony’s teachers and saying that he was doing really well. I knew seventh graders had more homework than sixth graders, but still, he seemed to spend a lot of time on it, when he wasn’t shooting hoops.

I’d gotten kind of used to doing my own homework to the accompaniment of the thunk, thunk, clang coming from the driveway. A few times this past week, I’d even taken a break and joined him. He never corrected my shooting form, like Dad used to. We also finished painting the bookshelf during our basketball breaks.

When I snuck a glance over the plants, over at their table, Tony was still going on and on about school and hanging out with Dad’s basketball friends and their sons for pick-up games, but his mom didn’t look so happy anymore. She clutched her coffee in both hands, her fingernails showing the remnants of some chipped red polish that matched her lips.

Finally, she interrupted him. “Well, I’m doing better, if you want to know,” she said.

Tony kind of stuttered, “Y-yeah, I mean, you look better, so I figured—”

Outside, the rain was starting to come down. Little drops splashed against the restaurant window. I saw the wipers of the cars in the drive-thru line all switch on like they were synchronized. There was an uncomfortable silence coming from Tony and his mom. I tried to keep my eyes on my table.

“Sounds like everything’s just going perfectly for you,” Tony’s mom said, kind of sarcastically. Tony was chewing his thumbnail and playing with his hamburger wrapper. “You’ve got the perfect dad and the perfect stepmom, but let me tell you something, your dad is not as great as he thinks he is.”

“Then why did you send me to live with him?” Tony asked, his voice loud.

The old men were really staring now and looking back and forth at each other like they were watching some TV talk show. The social worker sighed, gathering up all her trash onto her tray.

That’s when Tony’s mom turned and pointed at me. “And who’s this then? Your girlfriend, or your sister?”

I bolted. Right out into the rain. I didn’t wait to hear what Tony said, didn’t wait to see if his mom was going to lump me into the “perfect family” she thought Tony was part of. Some perfect family! What a joke.

I got my umbrella opened, but not before the rain pelted me a million times, stinging my face. A car honked at me as I dashed in front of the line of vehicles. I wanted to run home as fast as I could, but I didn’t want to leave Tony, especially when he seemed so upset. I skipped a puddle and waited on the sidewalk, the rain thrumming against the fabric of my umbrella like it might break through.

“Hey!” he yelled. He came around the corner, running over to me. I could see his mom and the social worker leaving the McDonald’s from the other door and hurrying to their car. So soon? His mom had already seen enough of him?

“You can share,” I said, waving him toward me and my umbrella. There was water running off Tony’s shaggy hair, making tracks down his face, and I noticed one of his shoelaces had come undone and trailed in a muddy line behind him.

“Thanks,” he said.

We squeezed under the umbrella, both of us smelling strongly of french fries. We didn’t fit very well.