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

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you sick?” He looked like he was about to throw up.

“That’s what I told the nurse,” he said.

“Doesn’t a parent have to get you if you’re sick? Wait . . . are you sick, or not?” He was all sweaty and out of breath. “Did you run all the way home?”

“Yeah. I told the nurse my mom had texted and was waiting outside, and then I just left. It’s no big deal; I’m used to getting around on my own. My mom and I didn’t have a car for a while. Anyway, that doesn’t matter.” He waved his hands in the air like this conversation was wasting his time and leaned toward me with this super intense look on his face.

“Something happened to my mom,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I closed my book. My report was clearly going to have to wait. “What happened?”

“Well, she texted Rakell,” Tony continued and explained, “I gave her Rakell’s cell number, just in case.”

“Are you supposed to do that?” I remembered him saying his mom wasn’t supposed to call him directly, and this seemed like a sneaky way of getting around that. Maybe that was why he’d given her Rakell’s number instead of mine, in case my parents were looking at my phone.

“That doesn’t matter,” he repeated, his voice rising. “Listen! This is an emergency.” He sprang up and started pacing the room. “She told Rakell to tell me she left the rehab house, that she couldn’t stand it anymore, so she left!”

“Can she do that?”

Tony tugged at his hair and looked at me like I was the dumbest person alive. “Of course she can’t do that! She’s got to be there at least ninety days. She’s got to . . .” He sat down and crossed his arms over his eyes like the outside world would cease to exist as long as he couldn’t see it. “She’s got to get her life together!”

He put his arms back down. He wasn’t crying, and I was glad to see that, but he looked scared. Tony hardly ever looked scared, except for that one time when Grandma was questioning him. Angry, yes, especially lately. Sad, unfortunately, yes, he always looked a little sad. But not scared, not even when he had first come to the house. Even then, he’d just stood on the front stoop doing basketball tricks, calm and cool.

He stood up abruptly. “We have to do something.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “Like call the police?”

Tony gave me a withering stare. “The last thing we’d do is call the cops,” he said.

I felt myself shrink. How should I know what to do? I didn’t have the first idea how to deal with Tony’s mom. The worst thing my mom ever did was wash a red sock with my new white leggings.

“Well, what, then?” I asked.

“She went home,” Tony said. “She didn’t say it. I just know it. She kept saying the last time we talked that she missed our house, even though it’s just a tiny, crappy apartment. It was ours, you know?” He put his hands on his hips. “I think she misses having something that’s hers.”

I thought of Tony sleeping on the couch I was sitting on now. I was glad he’d be back in the bedroom tonight, even though it meant Grandma would be across town.

“But how can you be sure that’s where she went?”

“Because she’s my mom,” he said. “Because I know how she thinks.”

He didn’t look as scared anymore. He looked focused and sure, like he had a plan.

He picked up his coat from the chair and put it back on. “I’m going to find her,” he said. “I’m going home, and then . . . I’ll figure something out. I’ll talk her into going back.”

He walked into the kitchen, and I followed him. The look on his face told me there was nothing I could do to change his mind. I’d just have to watch him go. Maybe I could call Dad and tell him what happened? He’d know what to do.

Tony paused at the kitchen door, then turned around. “You coming?” he asked.

“Me?”

“Well, I wasn’t talking to Mittens,” he replied. She’d gotten up from her bed when she heard Tony come home and, as usual, was rubbing against his legs.

“I . . . I don’t know if we should leave the house,” I said. I suddenly felt panicky. This whole thing, this whole situation, seemed like something no one would want to be involved with. It was getting really serious, really fast. Part of me was thinking this was something that Tony and his mom needed to figure out with each other, as a family. That I should stay out of it.

“We’ll be back before anyone even gets home. They won’t even know.”

If I were a person who chewed my thumbnail, I’d definitely do it now. Tony looked at me across the kitchen island. He ran his hand through his hair, which reminded me of our dad, who did the same thing in the same way.

And I realized in that moment that if this was a family problem, I had to help. I was Tony’s family, too. In fact, we were better than family. We were friends.

I took my coat off its hook. “How far is it?” I asked.

Tony was all smiles now. “Too far to walk,” he said. “We’ll have to take the bus. There’s a stop near school.”

I quickly packed my backpack—granola bars, a couple bottled waters, a pack of gum, and a notepad and pencil, in case I got a great design idea, which seemed unlikely, but you never knew. And my phone, of course. Tony stood there watching, growing increasingly impatient, but too bad. I liked to be prepared.

“Have you ever ridden a bus before?” I asked Tony. We were nearing the school. I had a five-dollar bill in my pocket, left over from my latest trip to the Good Samaritan Thrift Shoppe. I didn’t know how much it cost to ride