The Rule of Threes Marcy Campbell (animal farm read .TXT) 📖

my mom was going to tell Grandma? All lies, I couldn’t help but think.

“Mom?” I said as we passed the Welcome sign to our town. “Is Tony going home?”

“His mom is working hard.” She paused. “I’m sure it’s her greatest wish to have him back, as soon as possible.”

Her greatest wish. “Wishing doesn’t make it so.” That was something Grandma liked to say.

Later that night, I got a bad sore throat, and by Monday morning, I had a little fever, so Mom thought I should stay home.

“Try to get the place nice and clean after the gigantic party you have today,” Dad said, popping his head into my room.

“Ha, ha, Dad,” I said, heavy on the sarcasm, but honestly, I liked when he teased me. He was being his old, jokey-dad self, which helped me forget about everything that had happened. I wished he could stay home and make me chicken soup and read me Harry Potter, but he had to go to work. “American Power,” he said and flexed his bicep, but I could tell he’d rather stay home.

“Are you okay to stay home on your own?” Mom asked. She stood in my doorway biting her lip. “I have to go back out to Grandma’s and help her pack.”

Mom had spent a long time on the phone with Grandma after enlisting the help of the home health aide to talk some sense into her. Since my mom was an only child, the assisted living situation was all hers to deal with—one of the downsides of not having siblings that I’d never really thought about before. When I was in preschool and asked for a baby sister, my mom had gotten me a huge stuffed cat instead. I’d carried it around for a year. I used to rub its head, kind of like I rubbed my shell now.

Mom leaned over to kiss my forehead, and she let her lips linger. That was how she liked to check my temperature, which wasn’t exactly scientific. “Hmmm, maybe ninety-nine-point-five, not too bad. I’m going to call you at lunch and have you check your temperature with the thermometer and see if you need more Tylenol, okay?” she said.

“Okay,” I said, “but wait, Mom, I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

I saw both Tony and my dad rush past my doorway and down the stairs, probably late.

“What are we going to tell Grandma? About Tony, I mean? Are we going to keep him a secret?” If Tony always stayed home when we went to visit the assisted living facility, if we never, ever, slipped up and mentioned him, and if Grandma never came to our house . . . but I was really tired of secrets.

“We’ll figure it out,” Mom said, but she didn’t seem so sure. We were flying by the seat of our pants on a lot of things lately. That wasn’t like our family, and I hated it.

In a few minutes, I heard the door open and shut three times—Mom leaving for Grandma’s, Dad for work, and Tony for the bus. My concept board was still on its stand in the corner of my room, and I started thinking about Olive and our argument. We’d had fun at the Shoppe, but I still worried whether things were okay between us. Maybe I’d send her, and Rachel, a text, to hammer out some contest stuff. I could make use of the good-bad-good sandwich.

Good morning, team! I’m really excited to talk about art for the outer office. Yeah, ART!

BUT I’m sorry to say I caught something at the assisted living place we visited with my grandma and I have a fever. But it would be great if we could meet with Mrs. Abbott in case she has some ideas or posters lying around. I have a collection of great frames in my attic!

There. Good-bad-good, sort of.

After a few moments, I got a reply from Olive.

Oh no!! I hope you feel better soon.

Hope it’s not cookie day at lunch .

I will get you one if it is.

Aw, thanks, Olive. Don’t worry, I’ll be working on the contest from home. If I feel better later, I can paint the bookcase today.

That would be awesome!!! Also, I can stop by and talk to Mrs. Abbott today!

Thank you, Olive!

I lay in bed with the phone for a few minutes, but didn’t get any more beeps. Had Rachel even seen my message? I felt myself getting sleepy and lay my head back against my pillow. I sent one last text:

Have a good day!

There was no response. Olive was probably off the bus already and headed to class. I pictured Rachel looking at the texts and deciding whether or not to reply—and then not replying. It was better to imagine that she didn’t get them at all. Mittens hopped up on my bed, happy to find a warm body on a week-day morning, and settled in for a nap, while I burrowed under the covers and quickly drifted back to sleep.

I woke to the sound of the front door slamming and looked at my clock. 11 a.m. Why would Mom be back so early? Couldn’t she trust me to take care of myself? My stomach growled. If she was going to stay home and baby me, at least maybe I could get her to make me some pancakes.

As I started to get out of bed, Tony came rushing up the stairs. He poked his head into my doorway.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, “were you sleeping?”

“I was,” I answered, “until I heard the door. I thought you were my mom.” I pressed the back of my hand against my forehead. It didn’t feel very hot anymore. “What are you doing here?”

“Walked home.”

“Why?”

“This.” Tony pointed to his T-shirt. It had a picture of a big smiling poodle with a pink bow in its fur and the words Sexy B*tch Dog Grooming underneath.

“Ohhhh,” I said. “Did Mom see what you were wearing this morning?” There was