Rules for Stealing Stars

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

E
verything 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.

Besides, everyone knows Eleanor has a secret boyfriend, even if she won't admit it.

Everyone meaning me, Marla, and Astrid. It's not the kind of thing we tell Mom and Dad. That's what makes him a secret.

“Can we be excused?” Eleanor says. I'd like to clamp my hand over her mouth and superglue her to the chair.

“Come on,” I say. “Can't you hang out for a few more minutes? Can't we do something together? I'm bored.”

“Silly,” Mom says. “Don't whine. You sound like Marla.” It's not great that her only few words this morning are about me bothering her. She is wearing the same clothes as she was yesterday, and they are wrinkled and slept-in.

It's official: she is not doing well.

I don't look at Marla's face. It will be crumpled with sadness after that comment.

“Don't you get bored here?” I ask Mom. I mean it as a real question, not a whiny one, but I'm not sure she can tell the difference right now. Dad makes a dozen mini pancakes. Polka-Dot Pancakes, he calls them. They're the kind he likes best. He puts bacon in the pan too, but not for long. Like me, he likes his bacon soft and chewy. We have a lot in common.

“I get bored everywhere,” Mom says with a shrug. Astrid
stares at her orange juice, and Eleanor wipes her own forehead. Marla pours Mom more coffee, like that is some sort of antidote for boredom.

“No one's bored,” Dad says. “There's a lake. Go to the lake. You girls love the lake. Gretchen? You want to take them to the lake? I'll clean up here, pack you a picnic. You and the girls can spend some time together.”

“No, thank you,” Eleanor says before Mom has a chance to say no as well. “Astrid and I have a whole thing we're working on.”

“I'll help,” I say.

“It's not the kind of project you can help with,” Eleanor says. Astrid looks sorry, like she'd like to say yes to me but can't. Eleanor thinks eleven is too young for everything, but Astrid knows eleven is not that young at all, especially in our family.

“I'm too tired to take anyone anywhere,” Mom says. Of course she is tired. She was up all night doing her routine, where she wanders from closet to closet, opening and closing the doors. Sometimes she steps inside for a few minutes or an hour. She's always the saddest the mornings after her closet searching.

I stayed awake last night too, listening.

I opened the door to my own closet, trying to see whatever it was Mom was seeing. But all I saw were old suitcases
and winter coats. I can't even step all the way inside my own closet, it's so full of things that smell like dust and grandparents. It seems like more things get piled in every year. Like someone is sneaking in extra coats and duffel bags and rain boots and broken umbrellas.

“We'll watch a movie later,” Astrid says. “We'll play Monopoly. We'll make a collage to send to LilyLee.” Astrid kisses my forehead, a thing that no one else ever does. That one gentle touch against my sunburned skin is enough.

I've stopped needing very much at all.