The Rule of Three

by Megan McDonald

  “Yeah, then I bet Alex will fall in love with the Voice Man, the same as Meg falling in love with Laurie’s tutor in Little Women, and they’ll have a wedding and get married and everything.”

  “Great. At least Alex will be too busy sewing and learning to make jelly and doing wife stuff to be in the play.”

  “Ooh, ooh — and Alex will give her glove to the Voice Man, the way Meg gave hers to Mr. Brooke.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but Alex doesn’t even own gloves.”

  “Mittens, then,” said Joey.

  “Forget it. It’s no use. I might as well just stop thinking about singing in the play and concentrate on cupcakes,” I said, furiously knocking the wooden spoon against the rim of the mixing bowl.

  Joey reached over and stopped my hand. “You’re going to get the part.”

  “Huh? You don’t know that, Joey.”

  “Yah-huh.” She sopped up every last drop of syrup on her plate with the last pancake. “I’ll prove it. But you have to come upstairs.”

  I surrendered my spoon and followed Joey up the stairs to our room. She marched over to my bed, lifted up my mattress, and pointed. Under the mattress was a lone cat’s-eye marble, sky-blue with a cloud-white ribbon running through it.

  “See? Don’t you get it?” Joey said.

  “One marble, Joey?” I asked.

  “It’s like the princess and the pea. Alex had tons of stuff under her mattress and she slept like a log. But you — all you had was one little, teeny-tiny-weeny marble the size of a pea, and you said yourself that you couldn’t sleep at all. You know the line from the song: ‘For a princess is a delicate thing.’ See? You’re the sensitive one.”

  “Joey, just because I slept on a marble doesn’t make me —”

  “Yah-huh. It was a test. You passed. Alex flunked. That means you’re the princess. You get the part.”

  “And what does that make Alex? Princess Runner-Up?”

  “I don’t know. I was thinking a . . . porcupine.”

  “Porcupine, huh?” Joey watched me as a slow smile crept back onto my face. It was just a made-up test, but I couldn’t help getting a shiver. A maybe-I-have-a-real-chance-at-getting-the-part shiver.

  “You just gave me a great idea, Duck. Now I know what to name my new batch of cupcakes. Want to help me?”

  “What are they?”

  “OK, how about pumpkin cupcakes with dark icing and almond slivers for quills. My-Sister-Is-a-Porcupine cupcakes!”

  Whoever thought up pins and needles should have called it bed of nails. Waiting all day Wednesday for Mr. Cannon to post the cast list was like sitting on a bed of nails. A Prickle of Pinecones. A Murder of Marbles.

  It was way worse than a pea under twenty princess mattresses, I can tell you that. I thought three o’clock might never come. But even though the day seemed to take a year and a half, the bell finally rang.

  By the time I got down to the auditorium, a Gaggle of Drama Club kids crowded around the bulletin board outside Mr. Cannon’s room. The list was posted, but I couldn’t see it. I tried standing on tiptoe and peering around this tall, skinny white eighth grader with baggy pants and a big mop of curly hair.

  After lots of pushing and squinting, I spotted the name at the top of the page. It might just as well have been flashing in neon lights, because once I saw it, I couldn’t stop seeing it.

  PRINCESS WINNIFRED: Alex Reel.

  My heart thudded. A wave of nausea hit me in the middle of my chest. My arms and legs suddenly felt heavy.

  I ran my finger down the list, looking for my own name.

  QUEEN AGGRAVAIN: Jayden Pffeffer

  PRINCE DAUNTLESS: Alvin Albertson

  LADY LARKEN: Zoe DuFranc

  SIR HARRY: Scott Howell

  My eyes started to blur. Maria Martinez. Kirsten Dunbar. I kept scanning down the list, but I didn’t see my name anywhere.

  “Hey, you got Chorus: First Soprano. That’s great,” said a girl next to me. I could barely eke out a simple thanks.

  Chorus! After all that, I hadn’t even gotten a real part! I was just one of a whole Shrewdness of Singers.

  My ears were ringing. I tried to squeeze through the clump of tall kids in front of the bulletin board.

  “Alvin’s perfect for Dauntless!”

  “Who’s Zoe?”

  “Fluffernutter was born to play Queen Aggravain.”

  My head was spinning. Like when you’re a little kid on one of those playground merry-go-rounds and it’s scary to stand up. I needed something to lean on. I went over and stood against a Raft of Lockers, hoping the solid, cold steel would prop me up. I slid down the lockers, crumpling to the floor.

  I’d been doing my best not to get my hopes up, but then along came Joey’s princess test, which turned my head around.

  It wasn’t till my head stopped spinning that I glanced up and saw Alex. Her eyes were blazing green, but when they landed on me, they seemed to pale to an almost dull leaf brown. They were no longer the green-eyed monsters of jealousy I’d come to know so well these past few weeks.

  I tried to forget my own heart-sinking disappointment for a moment, willing myself to smile. But my mouth didn’t seem to be working.

  My sister sprang to action. She somehow wrestled her way out of the pressing crowd and slid down next to me on the cold, hard floor of the school hallway.

  Alex started talking super-fast, like the people on one of Dad’s old vinyls that we used to spin by hand around the turntable so they’d sound like Alvin and the Chipmunks. “You should have at least gotten Larken. Or Queen Aggravain. Jayden Pffeffer can’t act the warts off a toad. And that Zoe girl, what was Mr. C thinking? It’s like she came out of nowhere. She’s only been in Drama Club for like a few weeks and nobody even knows her.”

  “It’s OK, Alex.” I found myself comforting her. “You don’t have to say that stuff.”

  “It was your first audition. Don’t feel bad.”

  Why not?

  “I’m sure Mr. Cannon wanted to give you a part. But there were just too many other kids trying out. Seventh and eighth graders, I mean. And they’ve been in Drama Club longer.”

  Somehow, Alex cheering me up was making me feel worse.

  “A big part of acting is disappointment,” she said. “You deal with it.”

  Easy for you to say, Princess Winnifred.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking, anyway,” I said. “I’m no actor. You really were the best up there. You deserved to get the lead.”

  “You mean it?”

  “Yeah. I guess deep down I never really thought I’d get it. I mean, it’s a musical, and you know how I like singing, and I thought there wouldn’t be a lot of lines to memorize. But let’s face it — acting still gives me hives.”

  Alex couldn’t help smiling. “Well, I’ve got a lot of work to do on my singing. No matter how much I practice, I’ll never sound as good as you.”

  “Hey, Shakespeare,” Scott Towel called, coming over to us. “Princess Winnie. Nice going.”

  “You too, Sir Harry,” Alex said, her green eyes sparkling. “We both got the parts we wanted! Isn’t it great?”

  Apparently I had turned invisible. “Yeah, great,” I mumbled. Am I smiling and nodding too much? “Just-just-just great,” I heard myself say. Stop stuttering! “Really great.” Stop saying “great.”

  “You too, Steven.” Scott Towel was nodding his head like that Shakespeare bobble-head doll on Dad’s dashboard, making me feel nauseous again. “First soprano. Not too shabby, huh?”

  “It’s just chorus. I mean, I don’t even know if I’ll do it.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” said Alex, leaping to her feet and looking down at me like I’d just said we should set the school on fire or something. “Of course you’re taking it. You worked hard for this. And you have a beautiful voice. You can’t just up and quit before you even start, just because you didn’t get the part you wanted.”

  “Chorus isn’t a part
at all!” I said.

  “Alex is right. You can’t quit,” said Scott Towel. “I just bumped into Mr. C outside his office, and he said he’s gonna break you out of the ensemble to sing a lot of solo parts that tell the story. Like that scene when I go running off to find the Swamp Princess. C’mon, bail me out here, Steven. Don’t make me sing up there all alone.” He shook his head as if to say not pretty.

  “I guess I could. I mean, I did try out because I wanted to sing,” I said.

  “Cool! It’ll be like that scene we did together last year in Beauty and the Beast.”

  “At least you won’t be so hairy this time,” I teased.

  “Nope, just Sir Harry.” I couldn’t help it. I cracked up.

  “That’s great, you two. Just great,” said Alex, faking enthusiasm. Suddenly it was the Green-Eyed Monster again, not my sister, who flashed her eyes at me.

  SHAKESPEARE MONKEY

  Starring Alex

  Sock Monkey: You are a flap-mouthed wrinkled witch. A toad-spotted vile worm. Lower than dirt. You are like the dirt on the worm under the dirt.

  Me: Wait a minute. Since when do you get to start conversations? You wouldn’t even be able to talk if it weren’t for me, don’t forget. So who’s calling who dirt?

  Sock Monkey: How can you possibly be feeling bad? You got the part. The lead. You beat your own sister. You beat everybody. You win. Don’t you get it?

  Me: Then why do I feel so lousy?

  Sock Monkey: Oh, maybe-possibly-kinda because you ratted out your own sister? You toad-spotted rat-nosed foot licker!

  Me: Ha! Who are you, Shakespeare Monkey? You know not of what you speak.

  Sock Monkey: Yes, yes, I do. I know plenty. I can tell when you feel guilty, and you should — after telling Mr. Cannon that Stevie was soooo very, very busy! Too busy to, say, handle a lead role?

  Me: I did not say that! I said she might have trouble making such a big commitment. You have to practice like every afternoon and on Saturdays for weeks and weeks. How can she do that AND the cake-off?

  Sock Monkey: That’s not up to you.

  Me: Yeah, so? It’s up to Mr. Cannon. I didn’t make the rules.

  Sock Monkey: No, but you know what you said. And don’t try to tell me you didn’t do it on purpose. If you hadn’t said anything, Stevie may have had a chance at getting the lead. Then where would you be?

  Me: Can’t you just shut up for once?

  Sock Monkey: And still you’re acting jealous? Just because Stevie jokes around with your boyfriend?

  Me: He’s not my boyfriend! And besides, now I have to be a loud-mouthed Swamp Princess and learn to sing all those silly songs and hang with Alvin the Chipmunk during practice every day, while Stevie gets to rehearse songs with Scott Towel.

  Sock Monkey: Uh! I don’t want to hear it! You know what you are? You are a beef-witted boar pig.

  Me: Ha!

  Sock Monkey: Say it!

  Me: I’m a beef-witted boar pig.

  Sock Monkey: Well, just so you know.

  Me: OK, OK. So I’m a horrible person!

  Sock Monkey: And sister.

  Me: And sister. (Putting Sock Monkey on dresser and facing him toward the wall so I don’t have to look at him!)

  The January calla lilies had rusted long ago, hanging their heads, and the February daffodils were fading, making way for March daisies. The fog had lifted, too. Green fur carpeted the hills around Acton, and the first fingertips of fir trees and redwoods reached for the almost-April Oregon sky.

  Joey was all about Oregon these days. She was working on a big state project for school now. I could usually find her sprawled on the floor, surrounded by markers and colored pencils, drawing western meadowlarks (state bird) and hairy tritons (state shell). Every day now, she drank at least one glass of the Oregon state beverage (milk).

  “Oregon is boring,” she said one day while shading a hazelnut.

  “Ha! Oregon is so NOT boring,” I told her. “We have caves and craters and Lewis and Clark, and don’t forget Beverly Cleary and the Oregon Trail. You used to love pioneers. And hello! There’s a volcano right outside your window.”

  “We don’t even have a state poem,” Joey said.

  “So write one,” I told her.

  “You sound like my teacher. We have to write one as part of our project.”

  “See? You love writing poems,” I reminded her.

  “Not about boring old Oregon. You know what I wish?”

  “That Louisa May Alcott lived here?” I asked.

  “You read my mind,” said Joey, grinning. “Why did she have to live all the way across the map in Boston, anyway?”

  My little sister still had Little Women on the brain.

  Can I just say — it’s been pretty much peaceful around here for the last several weeks. Almost too peaceful. Kind of like the calm before the storm. Joey actually counted the number of days since Alex and I had had a fight (forty-three). Or disagreement, as Mom and Dad always make us call it.

  I didn’t see how it could stay this way — it was like one of those laws of nature, or something.

  You know that feeling, how the world looks upside-down when you tip your head back really far? It was like that. Somehow my trying out for the play had tilted the axis. Not the whole earth, just our family. I had upset the balance somehow.

  Once Alex got the lead (and I more-or-less got over her getting it) things went back to normal, I guess you could say. But I remember it took at least three weeks and three dozen My-Sister-Got-the-Lead cupcakes to get used to the idea.

  On the first dozen, I had just wanted to smush her curly head face-first into a bowl of gooey cake batter. By the second batch, I wanted to hit her over the head with a spatula full of icing. Somewhere around Dozen Number Three of my Post-Audition Cupcake Frenzy, I tried to stop seeing my spatula as a means of revenge.

  By the time I finished baking that third dozen, I was able to ice them without crushing each one to smithereens. I had finally decided I was better off not getting the lead in the play anyway. After all, by not having to be the princess in the play, I got to:

  Still be in the cake-off

  Not wear an ugly swamp princess dress made of dripping wet rags

  Get out of saying stuff like “Gluggle-uggle-uggle”

  Avoid any lovey-dovey scenes with Alvin the Chipmunk

  Not have Alex mad at me for the rest of my natural-born life

  I think I was icing Cupcake Number Thirty-Three when it hit me for the first time that I was actually happier to be in the chorus.

  So, it all turned out for the best. This way, I get to do what I love: sing. And NOT do what I don’t love: memorize lines and speak in front of people, which, when I really think about it, still kind of gives me hives. After all, in the chorus, I got to sing way more songs than just one puny solo. And instead of being mad at me, Alex got to be mad at Zoe DuFranc, who was playing Lady Larken and smooching Paper Towel (a.k.a. Scott).

  The best thing about being in the chorus was that we didn’t have to go to every single cast rehearsal or practice every day. So I sang in the chorus three times a week and the rest of the days I practiced making cupcakes because . . . did I mention . . . once Mr. Cannon came up with the genius idea of putting me in the chorus, I realized I had time to enter the First Annual Cascade County Cake-Off! For real! (For Reel?)

  Not only did I have more time now to get ready, but I also had the rest of the money for the entry fee! After guilt-tripping Mom and Dad about letting Alex continue with voice lessons, they agreed to lend me enough money to enter. (I think they also felt bad for me that I didn’t get a bigger part in the play!) So even though I’ll be kissing my allowance good-bye till I’m eighteen, I was pretty pleased with myself.

  I’d finally decided that my perfect cake, my masterpiece, would be an enchanted castle made entirely out of . . . you guessed it . . . cupcakes! I wouldn’t cheat and use a cake mold or layer cakes or sheet cakes — just cupcakes. It would have at le
ast six towers, complete with spires and windows, and a moat around it made of blue sprinkles, maybe even a working Kit Kat–and–licorice–shoelace drawbridge.

  Even though I hadn’t figured it all out yet, I showed Joey my rough-draft sketch and she said it kicked big gingerbread-house butt!

  I went to bed and counted cupcakes. Guess what? It doesn’t work like counting sheep, where cute, woolly animals leap over perfect white fences in lazy green meadows, and suddenly you yawn and drop off to Dreamland. These cupcakes might as well have had mean-guy faces, because they sure weren’t lulling me to sleep.

  Just the opposite.

  They were keeping me awake. They were keeping me awake because I was trying to calculate whether or not I had enough cupcakes built up in the freezer for the castle I hoped to make for the cake-off on Saturday.

  Saturday! Only one and a half days away.

  I must have finally drifted off, because when I woke up, it was Friday. At school that day, I doodled more cupcake castles in the margins of my notebook, trying to figure out the Grand Total number of cupcakes I would need, but I kept coming up short. Somebody (a.k.a. Joey) had obviously been stealing my Do-Not-Touch-or-I’ll-Chop-Your-Hair-Off freezer cupcakes.

  I even had the cake-off on my mind at play practice after school.

  “Stevie, are you with us?” Mr. Cannon.

  “I’m with you.”

  “You missed your cue.” I stepped out of the chorus and sang a few riffs of “Quiet,” then stepped back in line.

  “Great. Good,” said Mr. Cannon. “Except that wasn’t the verse we were on.”

  Oops.

  “I like the energy we had on the finale today. That’s exactly what I want to hear tomorrow, people. Don’t forget, I want to see everybody in full costume for the final dress rehearsal. Full cast. Great work, everybody. See you then.”

  I turned to Samantha, the seventh-grade girl next to me. “Did he say tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, tomorrow. You know, dress rehearsal.”