The Rule of Three

  “Look at me! My hair! And the play is tomorrow! What am I gonna do?” She shook a fistful of burned hair at me. “You could have burned me and this old house down!”

  Alex zinged from mirror to mirror. In the bathroom, under the bright lights, she held up a hand mirror to inspect the back of her hair.

  “Ahhhhh! Look what you did to me!” she yelled (and a bunch of other not-so-polite stuff. I think “canker blossom” and “be-slubbering fly-bitten rat’s bane” were in there somewhere). “I look like a scarecrow!”

  “Too bad the play isn’t The Wizard of Oz!” I said, trying to lighten the mood, but it didn’t exactly go over.

  Alex shook the hand mirror at me accusingly. “You did this on purpose, Stevie Reel! Don’t think I don’t know —”

  “I did not! It was an accident! I was talking to Livvie and not paying attention for like one second. I didn’t do anything on purpose. You’re the one who had to iron your stupid hair.”

  “Oh, yeah? You’re just jealous.”

  “Me, jealous? Ha!”

  “You know you’ve been dying to get back at me ever since I got the lead and you didn’t.”

  “And whose fault is that? I didn’t even stand a chance, because you went running to Mr. Cannon, telling him that I was too busy and shouldn’t get the lead.”

  If I had thrown a rock at Alex and hit her right between the eyes, I don’t think I could have stunned her any more. For once, my sister wasn’t acting.

  Silence fell between us, thick and impenetrable, like a curtain that drops, separating actor from audience.

  When I finally worked up the courage to look up at my sister and meet her eyes, I saw that they weren’t hard anymore. In fact, it was impossible to stay screaming-mad at somebody who looked so pathetic, standing there in her pajama top and princess pantaloons, with her hair sticking up like an inside-out umbrella.

  “You know about that?” she half whispered.

  Just then, I heard a car honk outside. The doorbell rang. Olivia! It was time for the cake-off.

  Before either of us could say another word, I was on my way out the door, teetering down the sidewalk, trying not to topple my castle.

  5:19

  I came home from the cake-off to a house full of short-haired strangers (a.k.a. Alex AND Joey!).

  “Your hair,” I blurted in surprise, then covered my mouth.

  “I know,” said Alex. “It’s shorter than Shakespeare’s.”

  “But you’re not as bald as Humpty Dumpty!” Joey added encouragingly.

  My sister reached up and tugged a short hunk of hair over her ears, as if yanking on it might somehow make it longer.

  Joey jumped in. “It’s just like the Great Tragedy in Little Women!”

  “How is this like Beth dying?” I asked impatiently.

  “No, it’s like the time Jo tried to curl Meg’s hair, and she burned off all the ends.”

  “This is a Great Tragedy,” said Alex, tragically touching her short mop of curls. She went on to tell about the dress rehearsal I’d missed, and the fact that her moth-munched wig fell off no less than seven times during rehearsal.

  Then Joey told about coming home and finding Einstein Alex and getting her hair chopped off and giving it to Locks of Love.

  “How does it feel?” I asked.

  “Weird,” said Joey. “It was scary at first, but then thrilling.”

  “Thrilling, huh?”

  “You know. Just like when Jo March cut off all her hair and sold it for twenty-five dollars to help her family because they were so poor.”

  “That was a brave thing you did, Duck,” I told her.

  “Stop calling me Duck. Call me Jo!”

  “And way generous.” I felt guilty, twirling a lock of my own long hair.

  “Yeah, but then on the way home, at the supermarket, a guy stepped on my foot by mistake, and his wife said, ‘Say you’re sorry to the boy.’ Try explaining that I’m a girl named Joey with this hair,” Joey said.

  At least she could laugh about it. “Now we’ll have to call you J-O-E instead of just J-O,” I teased her.

  Mom and Dad came in. “Tell us all about the cake-off,” said Mom.

  “They must have loved your enchanted castle,” Dad said.

  “Did you win a blue ribbon?” Joey asked eagerly.

  “Nope.”

  “Did you win a gold ribbon?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you win a red or green or purple or silver?”

  “Nope. No ribbons, Joe. Although I could have won the You’re-the-Only-Person-Here-Under-Fifty ribbon.” Mom and Dad laughed. Alex went to check her hair in the bathroom mirror for the hundredth time since I’d walked in the door.

  “I’m not kidding, you guys. You’ve never seen such fancy cakes in your life. There was a candy-cane cake, a cake called Red Velvet, and a daffodil cake. Every ingredient in the whole entire cake was yellow, and it was decorated with tons of real daffodils.”

  “That sounds pretty,” said Mom. “I’m sorry I missed that.”

  “But your castle was so great,” Joey said. “How come you didn’t win anything? Too many I-Hate-My-Sister cupcakes?”

  I glanced toward the bathroom, hoping Alex hadn’t heard. “No-wa,” I said, making my “no” sound like it had two syllables. “I’m not kidding, these people are so way good, like professionals. When they saw my castle, since it’s made of cupcakes, I had to enter in the Sculpture Cake division. They had cakes like a pyramid, a dog in his doghouse, a stack of books, and a snowman cake. There was even a cake that looked like a big giant bloodshot eyeball.”

  “Did you know Shakespeare invented the word eyeball?” Dad asked.

  “But I bet he didn’t invent eyeball cake,” said Joey.

  “He also invented the word unhair,” said Mom, grinning.

  “As in, ‘Un-hair me, you villain!’” I waved my arm around in a fake sword-fight.

  Joey flipped to the back of the big dictionary. “It’s in here. It’s a real word. ‘To deprive of hair.’”

  “I can use it in a sentence. My unhaired sisters look really weird,” I teased.

  “I heard that,” said Alex, still tugging on her hair as she came back into the room.

  “So what cake won the contest?” said Joey.

  “The Seattle Space Needle cake won first prize. I think maybe they cheated, though. Because how do you get a big round UFO-shaped cake to balance on top of little skinny legs? They had to use wires or pipe cleaners or something, and that’s against the rules.”

  “No fair,” said Joey. “I think you should have won the Most Blue Sprinkles on a Cake Ever Award.”

  Alex lifted up her flip-flop and showed off the bottom, which was dotted with blue sprinkles!

  “Oops,” I said.

  “Well, there’s always next year,” said Dad.

  “And you still have the play,” said Joey.

  “And I still have my hair,” I joked. Everybody (minus Alex) laughed.

  THE SHOW MUST GO ON

  Starring Alex

  Me: (Riding in car on the way to the play.) I can’t believe it’s opening day.

  Stevie: I know. I’m so excited. Seems like we’ve been practicing forever. Me-may-mah-mo-moo. (Does voice warm-up.)

  Me: No, I mean, I can’t believe I have to go out there, like this. (Tugs on short hair.) I asked Mr. Cannon yesterday if he thought we could postpone the first show, since it’s only a Sunday matinee.

  Dad: (From front seat.) What did he say?

  Me: He said short hair was not really a good enough reason to cancel the show.

  Dad: (Coughs. Clears throat.)

  Mom: (Muffles a laugh.) I think Mr. Cannon’s right, honey.

  Me: They might as well just call me Princess Baldo instead of Winnifred.

  Joey: Princess Baldo! Good one.

  Stevie: I don’t see why you’re so upset. Who’s gonna know? You’ll be wearing a wig.

  Joey: Yeah, you can’t even see the moth
balls.

  Stevie: Moth holes.

  Dad: Your sisters are right. That’s what makes a play exciting. You never know what’s going to happen, and you just have to improvise.

  Me: It’s not just the wig. . . . I don’t know. There’s just something about everything that’s happened. It’s like bad luck. Like the play is cursed or something.

  Joey: Ooh! Ooh! It’s like that curse Dad told us about. You know, the Macbeth curse!

  Me: (Groaning.) Joey! Don’t say “Macbeth!”

  Joey: It doesn’t matter in the car. It’s only if somebody says “Macbeth” in the theater before the play, right, Dad?

  Stevie: (Teasing.) But what if the play’s Macbeth?

  Me: (Growling, putting hands over ears.) Stop saying “MACBETH,” everybody!

  Joey: (Practically bouncing up and down.) And if you do say “Macbeth,” you have to go outside the building, spin around three times, spit, then curse, and knock on the door till they let you back in. That’s so cool!

  Mom: Alex, it’s just an old superstition. Dad was just telling Joey for fun.

  Me: (Glancing over at Stevie.) I just don’t feel right. Something isn’t right. It’s like I shouldn’t even go onstage or something. I don’t know. I have a bad feeling.

  Dad: It’s called opening-day jitters. I used to have to go backstage and huff and puff into a paper bag just to calm myself down. And Mom used to sing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” to steady her nerves.

  Mom: (Shrugging.) Whatever works.

  Stevie: Alex has stage fright? And I don’t?

  Me: (Clutching stomach.) I think I’m going to be sick. Can somebody open a window, please?

  Stevie and Joey: (Move over to one side, away from me.)

  Me: You don’t know, Stevie. You weren’t there for dress rehearsal yesterday. A bunch of stuff went wrong. And I messed up “Happily Ever After.”

  Dad: You know, they say if you have a bad dress rehearsal, that means good luck for opening day.

  Joey: Does that work for plays besides Macbeth?

  Me: (Sinking back into seat.) That does it. I’m cursed for sure.

  During intermission, I came out into the audience to say hi to Livvie and her parents, then ran over to find Mom, Dad, and Joey.

  Everybody started talking at once. Dad was giving me tips, Mom was telling me how great my voice sounded on my solo parts, and Joey and I were cracking up over all the crazy stuff that happened in Act One.

  Just then, Scott Towel came up behind me. “Hey, Steven,” he said, tapping me on the back. “You gotta do something. Quick. It’s a disaster.” He pointed in the direction of the stage.

  “It’s the curse!” said Joey.

  “It’s not that bad,” I told him. “I know a lot of stuff went wrong, but at least the audience was laughing.”

  “No, I mean Alex. You know how she messed up the first act?”

  “Hey, I tried to save her that time she went blank and her voice locked up.”

  “Well, now she locked herself up in the dressing room backstage, and she said she’s not coming out.”

  “We have a dressing room? And it locks?”

  “OK, the props closet or whatever. Behind the stage. It’s like she has stage fright or something. It’s not like her,” Scott Towel said.

  “She’s probably still upset about her hair disaster. She’ll get over it.”

  “No. I mean it. She’s really not coming out.”

  “She can’t not come out. The play starts again in less than fifteen minutes.”

  “Exactly. You got to go talk to her.”

  “Like I told her, it’s just opening day jitters,” said Dad. “I better go see if there’s anything I can do.”

  “No. It’s OK, Dad. Let me.” I had a feeling I knew what was freaking her out. And it wasn’t the short hair. Or stage fright. Or some stupid curse.

  TALE OF TWO SISTERS

  Starring Alex

  Me: (Sitting on top of a guitar case in the supply closet. Suddenly, hears a knock at the door.) Scott?

  Stevie: Hey. It’s me. Stevie.

  Me: (Goes over and puts ear to door.)

  Stevie: C’mon, Alex. You gotta come out of there.

  Me: (No, I don’t.)

  Stevie: Alex, just open the door. I have something I want to give you.

  Me: (No way am I opening this door.)

  Stevie: I know you can hear me, Alex. Alex? Look, I’ve talked to your door at home plenty of times. I’m pretty good at it even. So if you think I’m going away, I’m not. (Sound of Stevie sliding to floor.)

  Me: (Silence. A minute goes by. Say something!) Are you still there?

  Stevie: I’m right here, Alex.

  Me: (More silence.)

  Stevie: Can’t you just talk to me? What’s wrong? Is it that you think you messed up the play? It’s not that bad. Really. It’s just a matinee, mostly for little kids. People thought it was funny. Honest.

  Me: Not just the play. I messed up a lot of things. You. Us.

  Stevie: (Silence.)

  Me: All I could think about was wanting the part so bad, and now I got it, but I feel miserable, and I’m not even doing a good job and then you step in and save me again, and you did a better job than me, and I’m supposed to be the actor.

  Stevie: Alex . . .

  Me: I should never have gotten the part, Stevie.

  Stevie: What do you mean? Of course you should have.

  Me: No, you don’t understand. I did a terrible thing. I was mean, and selfish — I just wanted the part so bad, that’s all I could see, and now, every time I think about what I did, it makes me want to throw up.

  Stevie: You mean about what you said to Mr. Cannon?

  Me: I’m sorry, Stevie. I really let you down. And I let myself down, too. It shouldn’t have freaked me out that you wanted to be in the play. I should have been happy that we both could be in the play together.

  Stevie: (Silence.)

  Me: So now you know why I can’t go back out there. How can I look anybody in the face? Mom or Dad or Joey or the audience . . . And now I have raccoon eyes again from crying and I feel like I’m going to throw up every time I try to sing. Not to mention, I hate my hair!

  Stevie: Well, I, for one, wouldn’t mind seeing those raccoon eyes.

  Me: I’m sorry, Stevie. I’m so, so, sorry. Can you ever —

  Stevie: That’s all I wanted to hear you say. That you’re sorry.

  Me: So, you’re not mad at me?

  Stevie: Nope. Not anymore. I took that out on a few dozen cupcakes. I mean, OK, it did hurt my feelings that you’d say something on purpose that could hurt my chances of getting the lead. But let’s face it — that’s not why Mr. Cannon didn’t pick me. He didn’t pick me because he wanted to pick you. Alex.

  Me: Are you sure?

  Stevie: Mr. C said from the beginning that he needed me in the chorus, and I think he meant it.

  Me: (Sniffling.) Really?

  Stevie: Yeah. And I’m OK with that. Of course, burning your hair not-on-purpose did help me feel a little better. (Laughs awkwardly.)

  Me: You mean you forgive me?

  Stevie: You forgive me for burning your hair totally-by-accident, right? Hey. You’re my sister.

  (Click. Door opens!)

  (Stevie opens hand, holds out missing Comedy charm, and presses it into my palm, just before Act 2.)

  I was singing “Happily Ever After” from Once Upon a Mattress as I swirled a ruby-slipper-red ribbon of fruit into the batter, mixing up a brand-new batch of cupcakes. Vanilla-raspberry-swirl batter with light pink fluffy icing.

  I stopped mixing to line each space in the muffin tin with a different cupcake liner. Shiny gold foil for Alex like a princess crown, smiley faces for Jo/Joey, G clefs and musical notes for me.

  “More cupcakes?” Mom asked, coming into the kitchen. “They sure smell good.” She looked surprised when she saw the fluffy pink icing I was whipping up. Baby pink. Bubble-gum pink. Princess-not-porcupine pink. r />
  “This is new,” she remarked, reaching a finger into the bowl. I didn’t even bother to swat away her hand today.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “Heaven,” said Mom.

  “Well, I’m going to call them Pink Velvet. Like Red Velvet, only pink. With my special secret ingredient.” I showed Mom all the crazy cupcake liners I’d found at this store with Olivia. “I’m going to make individual ones for Alex and Joey and you and Dad and everybody. Each one will have its own personality.”

  Mom pointed to the tin that had already come out of the oven. “I think this one has a split personality,” Mom said, picking up the cracked-in-half cupcake.

  “You can have that one,” I said, laughing.

  Mom took a bite as I began to ice the cupcake for Alex. Using a fine tip from my cake decorating set, I squeezed out a fancy letter A onto the pink icing, and dotted it with candy silver pearls.

  “Stevie, these are really remarkable. Mmm. I thought maybe you’d be out of the cupcake craze now that the cake-off’s over.”

  “No way. Making cupcakes puts me in a good mood. See, whatever I’m feeling, I put it into the cupcakes.”

  “Like the I-Hate-My-Sister cupcakes I heard Joey mention?” Mom said in her disapproving tone.

  “Joey, who, wha?” said my little sister, following her nose into the kitchen.

  “Just in time, Duck. You can help choose what you want on your special cupcake. I have candy hearts.”

  “Did you girls know that candy hearts with sayings have been around —”

  “Since you were a girl!” Joey and I said at the same time.

  Mom laughed. “I was going to say since the Civil War, thank you very much.”

  “Same difference,” said Joey, and we both cracked up again.

  Joey fingered her way through candy heart sayings, reading off GO FISH, HEART OF GOLD, QUEEN BEE. She handed me three that said UR A QT.

  Joey looked at the pink fluffy icing, dotted with flowers and hearts and rainbows. “These look different. Not like the mad ones you’ve been making lately. These are almost happy!”