Rules for Stealing Stars by Corey Ann Haydu Page A

fairy tales,” I say. Marla sighs and tugs at the bottom of her bathing suit.
    â€œWhy didn’t Mom tell us she has a sister?” I say, since being subtle isn’t getting me anywhere.
    Marla gives me a funny look. “Had a sister, I think,” she says.
    â€œOh.” Of course I know she’s right, but I hadn’t thought about it in stark terms, and the word sort of bowls me over. Had a sister. It’s an awful thing, the past tense.
    â€œLet’s go in,” she says.
    No one else is on our patch of sand. This little area ofthe lake has always been only ours. We can see other families playing on the other side of the lake, at the other end of the strip of beach, closer to the lifeguard, or their own private coves, but we can’t be part of them.
    Marla runs to the lake and I follow, splashing in behind her. She scowls at me when I kick too hard at the water and it hits her face. Marla’s not much of a swimmer, so she stands in the water, up to her waist, and watches me bob up and down in an unofficial stroke I call Mermaid Swimming.
    I’m out of breath quickly and return to stand next to her. Our shoulders are burning, for sure.
    â€œShe started talking about it when we moved here,” Marla says. “About her sister, I mean. But you know she says so many things that don’t make sense. . . .” She takes a few steps back, closer to shore, so the water is barely at her knees. “I don’t think we want to know what happened.”
    â€œWhy? I want to know everything that’s happened to everyone,” I say. I mean it, too. I want to know about Mom and Dad and my sisters, but also LilyLee and her family and also the fairy tales and myths and fables in Dad’s office and the people on the other side of the lake and Astrid’s old secret boyfriend and Eleanor’s new one. I want to know it all.
    â€œThere’s probably a reason no one’s told us,” Marla says. “And anyway, Mom needs her privacy.”
    These are Mom’s words, not Marla’s. Mom says them whenever we’re bugging her to tell us more about when she was growing up, or asking her if we can play in her room or use the sewing machine. “I need my privacy,” Mom will say, rubbing her eyes and raising her shoulders way up to her ears.
    â€œYou’re not worried about anything?” I say. “Like that maybe the New Hampshire house is making everything worse? I mean, last night was bad. With you and her.” I dip back under the water, becoming a mermaid for three amazing seconds before popping back up to the surface. Mom doesn’t like us going underwater, but she’s never at the lake to stop us anymore.
    â€œIt was fine,” she says. “Mom’s really stressed out from the move.” We moved almost two months ago now, so that explanation seems off, but I don’t say anything.
    Marla’s sick of the water already and mumbles something about sunblock and sitting down. We don’t have towels, so I think we’ll go to the dock, but she plops herself on the beach, a terrible idea in a wet bathing suit.
    I sit in the sand next to her and bury my feet in the wet parts. It’s sort of like after a decade of coming to the beach in the summers, we’ve suddenly forgotten how to do it right.
    Like Mom and her failed French toast.
    It all has me feeling limp.
    Marla lies back in the sand, and I can’t imagine the trouble that’s going to cause her already messy hair. Sand will get knotted in with the rest of the tangles, and she’ll be washing it out for days. She doesn’t seem to care. Like a starfish, she spreads all her limbs out wide, and I notice something on her wrist.
    I should have noticed it in the closet or on the walk down here or while we were wading in the lake, but I get so tired from watching Mom’s every move and expression and skin-tone change that I forget to pay attention to much