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Five . Three. Three. Four. One. Five. Three.
    And so on.
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    He is looking for a pattern. Surely there’s a pattern. He dislikes uncertainty, ambiguity. As the weeks go on, he frets over their lack of system. Over the missing pattern.
    It perplexes him. Why not make up their minds, do one thing or another, be consistent. He plays with the idea of speaking to them about it, but what would he say? Girls, I’ve been watching you. . . . Young ladies, why do you keep shifting the numbers on me. . . . Listen, girls, you’re upsetting me with your constantly changing numbers. . . . He mulls over the possibilities, but eventually discards them all. He’s no fool.
    54

    THE ONE PERSON IN THE WORLD
    SATURDAY MORNING, before you’re even
    out of bed, Fancy finds the notebook with the blue cover that Mrs. Kalman gave you. Last night, after you wrote in it, you forgot to hide the notebook, and now Fancy’s got it, and she’s opening it. She’s in her nightgown and her feet are bare, and she’s got a bad case of bed hair, which you usually think is so cute on her, but not now.
    “Don’t you read that,” you warn, kicking off your blankets. “That’s mine. Give it back to me right now.”
    Fancy backs away, acting like she didn’t hear you or doesn’t understand or something. “Did you get this cute notebook for me?” she chirps, all innocent. “I love it.” She 55

    kisses the notebook, and then she grabs you and lays one of her big, squishy wet kisses on your cheek. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Autumn my sister. It’s sooo cute. I can draw pictures in this notebook. I’ll draw you a picture.”
    You jump out of bed and say in a really stern voice,
    “Give me my notebook, Fancy.”
    “Mine,” she says, and she quick swishes it behind her back with that sly look on her face that you just hate, hate, hate . Like she’s putting something over on you, like she’s smarter than you, which she isn’t, and you know it and she knows it. You reach around her for the notebook, but she dodges, giggling. “Hee hee hee hee!”
    “Give it to me, Fancy, give it back to me right now,” you order.
    “Will you two shut up!” Stevie is thrashing around on the top bunk. “I’m trying to sleep here. Autumn, let her have the crummy notebook.”
    Okay, now you’re getting mad, and you want to yell back at Stevie, but you don’t, because what if she has one of her awful fits and everything gets messed up, and Mommy orders you to give Fancy the notebook, which you will have to do, because Fancy is special needs. Ugh!
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    “Fancy,” you say, and you try to make your voice soft and nice like Mim’s. “Mrs. Kalman gave that notebook to me. Personal, to me. Which means she didn’t want anyone else to have it.” You take a big breath and say, “Okay, Fancy? Does that make sense to you?” Which is what Mim says when she explains something to make people stop fighting. You’re being very grown-up and mature about this, and you think Fancy should respect that.
    Instead, her lower lip droops, and she gets all sad and says, “You don’t want me to have this cute notebook.
    You’re being mean to me. I’m going to tell Mommy you’re being sooo mean to me.”
    Mean? That is just too much . You’re always nice to Fancy, you take care of her all the time, you take her to Lafayette Park, you let her dawdle around looking at the ducks, you tell her stories at night. And now she’s saying you’re mean?
    “I am not being mean!” You can’t help it, you just have to shout. “Give me the notebook! Give it to me now, you stinking brat.”
    “Uh-oh, bad word, bad word,” Fancy cries, her mouth all spitty. “I’m going to tell Mommy, I’m going to tell.”
    On the top bunk Stevie flops around. “Euuu, I hate you 57

    both. Shut up! Shut up, you two brats!”
    Fancy makes a scared face and sinks to the floor, and you sink down next to her and cross your legs underneath your nightgown. “Shh,” Fancy says. “Stevie