Free Rules for Stealing Stars by Corey Ann Haydu

lightly on the twins’ door. It’s dark. I stayed in the closet long past bedtime. Past whatever happened in the moments after Marla’s terrible yelp.
    Eleanor answers the door in her pink nightgown. The rest of us wear shorts and tank tops to bed, or worn-out pajama pants with Christmas trees on them, the kind we get some years from Dad. The years that Mom doesn’t feel like doing Christmas, so Dad has to buy all the presents.
    â€œI messed up,” I say.
    â€œNo kidding. I didn’t get to the birthday party. We wereall stuck here. And don’t think we don’t know what you were doing in your room.”
    â€œAnd Marla—,” I say, wondering why Eleanor cares more about her secret boyfriend than she does about our sister.
    â€œI’m mad at Marla, too, don’t worry,” Eleanor says, like I’m worried about sharing the blame. Sometimes I think Eleanor doesn’t know me at all.
    â€œIs she okay?” I say. Astrid rolls out of bed and stands in the doorway with Eleanor.
    â€œShe’s Marla,” Eleanor says with a cruel shrug. Eleanor’s not that cruel, though. I have a feeling they don’t know what happened.
    I guess I don’t really know what happened, either.
    Maybe nothing happened. I didn’t really see. Marla makes a big deal out of small things. Marla’s been known to make loud noises in quiet moments, to exaggerate to get our attention.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I say. “I did everything wrong.”
    â€œI give up,” Eleanor says, and she really does sound like she’s given up. “Everyone can do whatever they want.” It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard Eleanor say. All she’s ever cared about is telling us what to do and how to do it. All she’s ever wanted are rules and for her sisters to follow them.
    â€œI won’t go in my closet anymore,” I say, but I knowthat’s not true. If Eleanor is going to be sad and Mom-like, I’ll need the closet even more. If I won’t be allowed in their closet anymore, I’ll need my own.
    Astrid reaches out and touches my arm, the place where it bends.
    â€œWe don’t know what your closet is for,” Astrid says.
    â€œIt’s for me!” I say, even though I know that’s not what she’s talking about.
    â€œWe don’t know how it works. We understand Eleanor’s. And we know mine is bad. And we know Marla’s doesn’t work. Yours is too mysterious. We’d tried it once a long time ago and it didn’t work, but now it does and we don’t know anything about what it does. Do you really want one more unpredictable thing in this house?” Astrid says. She’s talking about Mom, of course, but ignoring the fact that something could be unpredictably wonderful, not only unpredictably awful.
    â€œSo you went in your closet and it felt funny?” I say, drastically changing what Astrid said. I don’t want to call her closet the bad closet. I want to leave room for it to be something else.
    â€œIt was a long time ago,” Astrid says. “And we didn’t need another closet. It was ugly. It made things bad. Things we brought inside. And us. It made us bad, too.”
    I try to think through all the summers we’ve had hereto place which summer Eleanor and Astrid might have gone inside the bad closet. Which summer they acted bad or strange or unlike themselves.
    I remember a week last summer when they tried Mom’s wine. It was late at night and they were being loud in their bedroom, and when I walked in, Astrid was hugging a bottle and Eleanor was wearing sunglasses and a life vest. They moved in slow motion, and it took a lot of giggling and slurring for them to articulate that they wanted me to leave.
    They never thanked me for not telling Mom and Dad.
    â€œWas it last summer that you went in the bad closet?” I say, but Eleanor shakes her head to end that part of