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

from a metal rod, brushing against the top of my head as I sat there cross-legged, listening to nothing but my own breathing.

I leaned against my pile of stuffed animals. My favorites were on my bed, but I had a lot. I rotated through them occasionally, trying to give them all a chance, even the ones I really didn’t like anymore, like a musty old carrot I’d won at the fair. If I gave any of them away, even that gross carrot, I knew I’d worry about them ending up in that big bin at the Shoppe, forever and ever, getting squished on the bottom, where no customers would ever find them, and it made me sad to think they wouldn’t have anybody to love them.

I took another deep breath. I was starting to feel, well, still bad, honestly, but more like someone had merely punched me in the stomach, instead of running over my foot with their car. I reached up to a hook on the closet wall and pulled off the knitted yellow blanket that a coworker of my mom’s had made when I was born. It was meant for a crib, way too small to be of much use in keeping me warm anymore, but I still loved it. It was soft from a million washings.

I didn’t remember when I’d quit carrying it around. Mom said I’d taken it to preschool but some other kids made fun of me. Maybe that was when I stopped. At some point, I moved it to the closet. Had I used the blanket in the same way I used my shell? I was so young when I used it, I couldn’t remember.

And then it hit me: the shell. The shell wasn’t just a reminder of good memories. It had also held all my bad thoughts, all the things I’d rubbed into it, like when I was worried about Rachel not wanting to be my friend anymore or about whether we could win the contest without her, or when I’d worry (huge worries!) about this new brother I never knew I had. Before that, I was fixated on that old, bad memory of Mom saying she and Dad were getting divorced, and I needed to decide who to live with.

I’d rubbed all of those thoughts into the shell, and now it was broken. But maybe, maybe, with those broken shards I’d thrown into the trash, I had also thrown out those bad thoughts.

I wasn’t going to forget the walks on the beach, the good stuff. I didn’t need the shell for that.

I couldn’t hear anything outside my closet. The double sound barrier from my closed closet door combined with the closed bedroom door meant I could stay quietly inside my little cocoon, wishing this day could rewind like a tape in one of those old cassette players Olive and I found at the Shoppe. I could go back to the beginning, start again.

I didn’t hear Tony come into the room. The first sign of his presence was the click from the closet doorknob. I quickly reached out to grab hold of it, but felt it turning in my hands. I caught a glimpse of his blue hoodie in the sliver of daylight when the door opened a crack.

“Get out!” I yelled.

He was stronger. He jerked the door open.

“Calm down,” he said. “Your mom told me to check on you. It’s almost time to leave for school, and you haven’t eaten anything.”

I had three stuffed animals clutched to my chest, but I could feel my heart thumping right through them.

Tony gave my pajamas a disapproving look. “Are you sick or something?” he asked.

“Sick?” I said. “What I’m sick of is you butting into my room and messing with my stuff.”

“I didn’t mess with anything!”

“You broke my shell! My favorite shell, my favorite souvenir of my trip to the beach with my dad.”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t break anything.”

I lunged out of my closet, which he wasn’t expecting. But he jumped back before I could shove him, so I landed on the rug in front of my desk. Behind me, the Lego kits toppled, and one spilled out all its pieces onto the closet floor. I pointed to a few tiny bits of shell embedded in the carpeting.

“What’s that?” Tony asked.

“It’s my shell, what’s left of it.”

Tony held up his hands. “Well, I didn’t do that. I’ve never even seen your shell.” He looked closer at the mess. “Why was it on the floor?”

“It wasn’t on the floor. It was on my desk.”

“Well, I didn’t see it, or touch it, and anyway, if it’s that special, why didn’t you put it away somewhere? Why would you have it where anybody could just accidentally knock it on the floor?”

“Because anybody doesn’t use my desk, get it? JUST ME!” I jabbed my thumbs into my chest.

“Well,” Tony sputtered, “you shouldn’t accuse people without evidence, and you should take better care of your stuff, I mean, look at that closet.” He pointed, and his lips curled up into a terrible smirk. “What a complete mess! I thought you were the queen of organization, the queen of decorating.”

That did it. “You really think I’m a mess? Really?” When I became Principal for a Day, my first order of business would be transferring Tony back to Bircher. I kicked the Legos into the closet, slammed the door. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

We just stood there staring each other down. I would have shoved him out of my room, but he had a look on his face that told me he’d shove back.

Just then, Mom came in with a look on her face that said she was about ready to clunk our skulls together.

“I don’t know what is going on in here, but I have got enough to deal with, and . . .” She looked at my pajamas. “Maggie. Get. Dressed,” she said in a voice so calm and steady that it was totally scary. Even