Rules for Stealing Stars by Corey Ann Haydu
DEDICATION
To my very first friend, Dana,
and my very first librarian, Timmie:
for the love of stories, moments of magic,
changing New England seasons,
happiest memories
One
Everything is standard Sunday morning today except for a streak of glitter on Astrid’s cheek and the way never-tired Eleanor keeps yawning like a cat.
And of course, the house itself, the one Mom grew up in that we are now being forced to finish our growing up in: old and wallpapered in mostly pink and yellow roses and filled with photographs of Mom when she was eleven, like me, or twelve, like Marla, or fourteen, like the twins, Eleanor and Astrid.
Dad’s in charge of Sunday breakfasts, so I get a heart-shaped pancake, and Marla gets a pancake shaped like a teddy bear, and Eleanor and Astrid share a pancake as big as the entire pan, which they call the Monster Pancake.
Last year Eleanor said we could all have regular-shaped pancakes now, but Dad made a big speech about whimsy and never being too old for it. Then we talked about the “Myth of Peter Pan” and staying youthful and playful forever or something. Dad’s a professor specializing in fairy tales and stuff, so it was all pretty typical.
“How do you want your pancake, sweetie?” Dad says to Mom. We all heard her telling Dad she didn’t want to get out of bed this morning. We all heard Dad coax her downstairs.
“Not hungry,” Mom says. “Coffee fine.” When she speaks in fragments instead of full sentences, it is a bad sign. When she won’t participate in family rituals like Sunday morning pancake shapes and pajamas, and singing along with radio and TV jingles filtering in from the living room, it is a bad sign.
“I’ll get the coffee!” Marla says. Her voice is overbright. She is smiling and eager. She’s only ever this way around Mom. We are all different around Mom—exaggerated, desperate versions of ourselves. Astrid is spacier, Eleanor is sweatier, Marla is sweeter, and I am sillier. It’s probably why everyone but Astrid calls me Silly. Not Prissy or CC or Cilla or any of the other 117 nicknames you could come up with for the name Priscilla. Just Silly. Always Silly.
Marla pours Mom a cup of coffee. It’s a precise movement, like coloring in the lines or measuring a cup of flour. Nothing splashes onto her hand or the counter, and for a moment, Mom is enjoying her first sip of coffee and Marla is peacock-proud and Eleanor and Astrid are actually at the table instead of whispering secrets or squirreling away in their bedroom for hours without me.
For the one moment, I am not totally devastated we moved to the summer house in New Hampshire and away from our home in Massachusetts, and I think: Yeah, okay, this feels good.
I sing along with some local mattress store commercial playing in the background. Astrid hums and giggles; it’s always been easy to make her laugh.
“What’s on your cheek?” I say, since it’s easier to ask questions when someone’s laughing and happy and relaxed.
She reaches for the glitter on her face and with a swoop of her finger it’s gone, like magic.
Astrid’s eyes look paler and her skin rosier.
“Don’t watch me so closely,” she says. “It makes me nervous. Like you’re going to figure us out.” She winks and it’s possible that she’s making a joke, but it’s every bit as possible that she’s telling me she truly has something to hide.
They’ve been cagey lately, my big sisters. The twins keep disappearing into their room, which they always do when we’re at the New Hampshire house. But now that we live here, it’s even worse. I have asked a dozen times what the big deal with their room is and why they sometimes wedge a chair under the doorknob to lock me and Marla out when they’re in there, but they only ever smile and tell me they’ll take me to get candy later.
I don’t want candy. I want to know what they’re doing all the time, locked in their room. I want to be one of them.
“Another Monster Pancake?” Dad asks. He twirls his spatula like a baton and does a sort of jig along with our singing and humming. It’s goofy and childish and embarrassing but mine.
“I think we’re done, right?” Eleanor says, giving Astrid a look that isn’t hard for anyone to decipher. She is declaring Sunday morning over, and special twin time beginning. I’m not ready to let the morning go, though.
“I’m not done,” I say. “I’ll have another pancake.” Eleanor clears her throat and reaches for her phone, which has been going off with dings and buzzes and snippets of pop songs ever since the move six weeks ago. She says it’s her friends back home calling her, but I’m almost sure that’s a lie. LilyLee, my best friend from back home, doesn’t call or text or chat nearly that much, and she’s a pretty dedicated friend.