Chapter 1: 8 Simple Rules, and a Distressing Realization

Summary: In this chapter, Stuart discovers the owners of this home on 5th Avenue aren't rich, and has a second encounter with George that causes him to realize the Littles weren't supposed to take home another fourth grader.

In the excitement leading up to his adoption, Stuart hadn't had much time to imagine what the Littles's home might be like.

Cold, white skies had given Stuart a bleak forecast that morning. Though he had a self-instilled duty to be positive, he could not escape the feeling that he was about to have the most unextraordinary of unextraordinary Fridays. This feeling was not helped as Mrs. Keeper came and unkindly plucked him back in from the window he worked so hard to open, slammed it closed, and lectured him for the nth time about undercover agents for the state having a say about one of the children hanging waist-out from the top of the building, and yada, yada, yada—such things a fourth grader simply couldn't fein care about.

The repetition of this whole ordeal only solidified a notion that had been slowly forming for years: Every day that passed was another day against him. He wasn't sure exactly when it had happened, but at some point, the mouse's last chance of being adopted had come and gone. By nine, he had accepted that the remainder of his youth would be spent in that place.

And yet, now he was kneeling on the rear deck of a New York taxi cab, watching that place grow smaller and smaller. And then they turned the corner, and it was gone. And as if to align itself with this phenomenon, the colorless sky had retreated, and Stuart watched the remnants of the gray clouds dissolve into bright, innocent cotton balls. Red and yellow tinted treetops popped against a bright blue background as they ran besides Central Park.

He thought they'd have a winding car ride ahead, through forests and over highways. Under bridges and over rivers and lakes. A view of the greater U.S.A. as he transitioned from one place of living, to another. In hindsight, this was stupid. Nobody in their right mind would try to navigate New York City unless one already lived around here, and even an asylum-bound orphan could list off the reasons. And it wasn't as if the world was short on parentless children. Stuart didn't need to know the raw numbers to know this was true. The never ending rotation and shortage of beds was evident enough, but it was worse when one realized most of these kids were locals. Orphanage #3 was just the tip of the iceberg.

The mouse spent his life as the owner of one of those steel framed beds, until that day. And he was still trying to process just how suddenly his luck had changed he was when the cab's brake rocked him out of his reverie. On his knees, he crawled across the deck to look out the rear door quarter window. What stood outside this bustling Manhattan street was, to his surprise, a house. A standalone townhouse. Three floors tall, but dwarfed between two mighty, towering buildings that it almost appeared hidden.

There's no way this was it. Maybe they were just stopping here for a quick chat. Maybe Mr. Little worked for whoever lived in that home. Maybe he had a colleague or a friend who lived there, maybe a boss. Maybe Mrs. Little did. But his doubt was eliminated by two details. One being the distinct print 'L' in the molding of the portico above the steps, as well as Mr. Little's conclusive announcement. "Well, Stuart, this is it. The family home."

The family home. THE family home.

But… this is fifth avenue.

Stuart thought with awe. This little family lived on Fifth Avenue?

Stuart had seen hundreds of different adopting couples in his time. And just like the other adoptees before him, he had formed his own vision of the ideal parents. But money wasn't high on the list of importance. He didn't see what made Swiss watches and globs of Estee Lauder the marks of particularly good people.

His opinion may or may not have been influenced by a very outspoken mentor of his: A now long gone student who was aggravated by adopting couples not so subtly flaunting their wealth in front of all the orphans. Talking about indoor pools, jet skis, and bringing bags of premium candies for them to fight over. It was shameful to tease kids who would 'lick the floor of an ice cream truck just for a taste of sugar,' as she had put it. Even if the couple would take home a child to enjoy a wealthy life, they would only get to take home one.

Stuart himself couldn't find anything wrong in the other students for indulging in a free Frago chocolate, or talking excitedly about indoor pools and a video arcade room. But his dream of an 'out' was comparatively more modest. To be completely honest, it was pitiful.

Home, as he had envisioned, had been a cozy, one room cottage, with an 18th century iron kettle and a fireplace that served to warm the whole house. Boredom in the classroom would lead him to create new details of this cottage, such as fine cracks in the walls and neat piles of folded laundry. In the morning, the house smelled like lavender and linen rather than the harsh scent of chlorine bleach. (Stuart had found an unused dryer sheet once, after it fell out of a visitor's pocket. Laundry was done out from the orphanage, and that smell was unforgettable). In the evening, rather than the frozen solid, rectangular rocks sent cross country and half defrosted in an industrial oven, the cottage was filled with the aroma of fresh oregano and garlic that could only be caused from a meal made by hand. The limited number of modern books in the school's library is likely attributed to this rather archaic ideal. That, and the fact that the other children sometimes forgot to include him in their games somehow sent the tiny boy to the nearest unread book he could find.

Most days, Stuart found reason to be happy. He was healthy, patient, kind, and well liked, even if he was the strangest boy in the whole asylum. But when the loneliness could not be helped, the usually talkative mouse would go quiet, retreating to the warm cottage in his imagination.

While the Littles organized the payment for the driver, and before either could offer him a ride, the mouse demonstrated his independence as he leapt from the deck, hitting the ground running. Mrs. Little only had time to cry out his name before he was scrambling up the sidewalk as fast as he could, only stopping before his nose collided with the front step.

"He's fine," her husband said, offering a hand to help her exit the cab. "But he won't get in until I unlock the door."

Not necessarily true. Anybody who knew Stuart well enough knew he could squeeze his way under many doors. And with his future on the other side, he was sorely tempted to do so. But this moment was too special to spoil with impatience. Stuart hung back, waiting on the sidewalk with a twisting tail and a pounding heart for the Littles to shut the taxi door and send it on its way, so that they could stand on the outside together.

Right of the door, thick curtains neatly bordered the inside of two long glossy, clean windows. Beneath them, behind a gated lower level, three colorful begonia baskets bloomed, despite the autumn chill. Though the skyscrapers eclipsed it, the house was still several floors tall. Stuart had to tip his head back to drink in the view. "Whoa."

"Take that as a compliment." Mr. Little winked at his wife.

"Well, yeah. It's amazing. But it's just that I didn't think there would be a house over here," Stuart explained. "From the end of the block, you can't even see it!"

"Funny thing about that, isn't it?" Mrs. Little kneeled down and held out her palm. "Here, I'll give you a ride."

"I think I'm good, actually."

"Are you sure?"

"You guys go on ahead. I don't want to be a burden."

"Oh, I didn't carry your brother around for two and a half years to get tuckered out that easily."

Mr. Little looked at her incredulously. "We were at the zoo for two and a half minutes before you shoved George into my arms."

"I think I can manage, guys." Stuart could tell these two were trying to avoid asking questions that would imply his size was like a disability, which it wasn't. Though it would repeatedly shock some out of touch social workers to discover, the mouse who could climb walls and carry things twice his own weight was more independent than most humans his age. Sure, getting around a world made for giants had its inconveniences, but creative solutions allowed him to live a totally normal life.

The Littles had only just met him today, and while their help came from a place of affection, Stuart had a feeling that this was going to be a number of unavoidable questions in the next few days. He just hoped they trusted him not to fall in the toilet. "Thanks anyway."

He smiled, hoping his gratefulness was apparent. But before she went on, Mom's red lips turned downward. Although she didn't say anything, she was already starting to feel anxious of turning her back on their new son.

As well she might. Instead of following at their heels, the mouse lingered back to study the place some more. Though it had been repaired and re-outfitted many times throughout the decades, it was clearly a very old house. Whereas the buildings on either side were accessible at ground level, the Little's front door came after a flight of steps. It looked as if it had been plucked out of another time and dropped there, protected by the many vines that scaled up the bricks like veins. The last remnant of Turn of the Century Manhattan.

Stuart couldn't escape the feeling that there was something familiar about it.

"Hurry now," Dad called to him. "You don't want to get lost!"

"He's only joking." Needless to say on Mom's part. But she knew Stuart had a long way to go between the sidewalk and the door, and she might as well have been trying to assure herself so that she might leave him alone. "You'd find your way back. All Littles do."

"Whaddya mean by that?"

"Well." Eleanor debated giving him the explanation, knowing it sounded ridiculous to most people. "They say every Little in the world can find this house."

"Even if they've never been here. Your mother wasn't much of a believer either. Look how one night lost in Chinatown changed that." Dad smirked as he inside his right pants' pockets. But after a moment of digging around, he frowned. "Huh." He reached into the left, then patted down his back pockets and the sides of his thighs before hesitantly turning to his wife. "Uh… Did you grab the… uh…?"

Mrs. Little sighed and produced her own house key from her pocketbook. "Regardless, once you've lived here long enough, you'll remember your way home. Whether or not you'll always remember the key is another thing."

As far as their new son was concerned, carrying a key half as tall as himself would prove cumbersome. Thankfully the mailslot provided an alternative way inside for the time being.

For the stairs, however, there were no shortcuts. The mouse stretched his arms, somewhat stiff from being cramped in the cab's rear window on the ride here. Thankfully, he was still young, and used to long staircases. He had just thrown himself over the first step when Mom called over her shoulder once more. "Don't forget your suitcase!"

Suitcase. Gritting his teeth, he turned back the single dollsized case sitting on the sidewalk just behind him. Right...

He leaped back onto the sidewalk and dragged the case along the ground up to the bottom step before letting it topple over. It was insanely heavy, despite holding nothing but his old clothes, and a few mementos. The orphan didn't own that much, but he never had to pack it all away and bring it with him somewhere new, either.

He rubbed his chin. Pulling it up the steps was going to be impossible. He was gonna have to push it up. He leaped back onto the sidewalk and took a deep breath. Then, step by step, Stuart raised the suitcase up by the handle, moved his hands to the bottom, and pushed it up so that it lay flat on the step above his head. Then he crawled onto that step, and repeated the process.

The Littles waited with patience that was as reassuring as it was… embarrassing. As soon as they were inside, it took all of his willpower to deny riding in Mrs. Little's hands for the home tour. Only after insisting to him that there was no burden did he concede to it, and even then, Stuart made an effort to look as if he was rather uncomfortable about it, so that they may never feel as though they had to ask again. In reality, however, it was as smooth and calming as the car ride, and he indulged in it selfishly.

So much for independence. Oh well. At least he'd only ever have to drag that stupid suitcase one way.

"Upstairs bathroom." Mr. Little opened the door to yet another ordinary room. "Where we count our teeth, shave our nose hairs, and say goodbye to the meatloaf."

"Not thirty minutes home, and we've already broken out the poop jokes." Mrs. Little shook her head, but something in her voice said she wasn't above the humor. Just the timing. To Stuart, she said: "I hope you're not offended."

"Nah." The mouse in her palm smiled an unaffected grin. He'd slept years in a room crammed with other boys, many of whom made a way of life out of grossing each other out. It wasn't unheard of to wake up with a pair of dirty boxers thrown on your face, and being as small as he was didn't protect him from these shenanigans. Consequently, crude humor rolled off his shoulders.

Anyway, Stuart was too consumed in his surroundings to care. In almost nine years, he'd come to know the orphanage so well, he could almost walk to class blindfolded, leaping over every crack in the floor, and identifying every turn and pipe in the ceiling vents. More importantly, he knew all the shortcuts. All the pipes and vent routes that came in handy for short legs running on limited time. The only places that were off limits were, of course, the girls' rooms.

As a ward of the state, he rarely had the opportunity of exploring the outside world. Having only gone on a few field trips, the city he called home felt almost foreign. That all changed starting today. While Manhattan presented a massive area for him to explore, Stuart would start by getting to know this home, top to bottom. But even that wasn't going to happen overnight. The Little house was bigger than it looked from outside. He wondered just how many rooms it could actually hold.

Before Frederick turned out the bathroom light, something odd caught his eye. "What's that over there?"

Fredrick saw him pointing down to the roll of white paper on the bathroom wall, taped up against the side of the doorway. "Oh. That's George's height chart. Started that when he was about a year old, I think? Though we haven't been keeping up with it."

Stuart could see what he meant. The last line of pencil on that paper stopped somewhere around three and a half feet tall. After they met downstairs, he knew that George was nowhere near that small anymore.

"We could start one for you, too," Mrs. Little suggested.

"I'd like that." But truthfully, he wouldn't. Usually with brothers, there would be a reasonable expectation for one to catch up in height with another, or at least come close. There was so much distance from the floor to the top of that doorway, but given how tall their father was, Stuart felt eerily confident George could actually be that tall someday. To have a height chart for himself, and emphasize how different and George were sounded perfectly humiliating.

But if her enthusiasm was genuine, Stuart would agree to do it. He already felt like he'd do just about anything for these people. His nose whisked thoughtfully as they crossed the hallway, onto the next room.

"And now we've reached the last stop." Mr. Little stopped outside the last door of the upstairs, and turned the knob.

Stuart took in a breath and closed his eyes as Dad opened the door. He'd relished every moment of attention the Littles had set aside for him since they'd come home, and he wanted to savor this last bit of surprise.

That single dryer sheet hadn't prepared for the scent that overwhelmed him once that door was opened. His eyes sprang open, and he ran from Mom's palm to the edge of her cupped hand, leaning over her fingers like a guardrail.

It was quiet and cool, with most of the light courtesy of the second floor window. Sunlight flickered in from the right of the room, lace curtains tied up around an ivory window pane. Beneath the window was a padded seat to sit and enjoy a comfortable view of the park. Right of the window's light, in the shadow of the corner was a small wooden desk and a chair with a checkered seating pad. Along the left side wall was a colorful dresser and gray armchair, small enough for a child to climb into.

Across the door was the bed, draped in a double-wide blue and white checkered comforter. and to the right of that was a small wooden nightstand and a softly glowing, standing floor lamp. At the foot of the bed, seated on top of a padded lid trunk, was a hand-me-down teddy bear. The stuffed animal smiled back at the live mouse with a stitched, crooked, fish hook of a smile.

The couple stopped just before the trunk, and Mr. Little turned to the tiny boy in his wife's hand. "What do you think?"

Stuart looked the room up and down, left to right, admiring every detail. "It's nice," he said. "Real nice. I'm guessing this is George's room?"

"No." Mom smiled. "This is your room, Stuart."

"This—!?" Stuart staggered backwards. "Oh, dear…"

Taking in his surroundings with new gravity, he fell backwards onto the heel of Mrs. Little's palm.

Dad did a double take. "What? What's wrong?"

"Are you alright?" Mrs. Little pulled him up closer. Stuart stared up at them, mouth parted. Their faces stitched with worry. This only affirmed that they'd chosen him, not because they pitied him, but because they genuinely cared about him. If there was a string of words in the English language to describe that honor, Stuart hadn't found it yet.

"N-nothing!" Stuart hurried to get back to his feet, though his legs were still wobbly. "Nothing's wrong! Not at all! It's just…" He spread his arms out wide. "...huge!"

Mrs. Little sighed a relieved sigh, and set Stuart down on the edge of the bed. Less than a few hours ago, Stuart hadn't really believed it when they'd told him he was the one they wanted to take home, and the significance of his disbelief hadn't been lost on her. Nine years was a long time to get used to a life, and she suspected the mouse had been told to be ready for another nine years of the same.

For better or worse, today had been a veritable wrench in that plan, and the smallest surprises were hitting him hard.

Stuart stepped onto the bed, nervously aware that he was still wearing his sneakers. Not that they'd had much of a chance to get dirty. He had been carried around more by human hands in the last few hours than he had in years.

"A little overwhelmed?" asked Dad.

"Maybe." Stuart paused thoughtfully. That word. Little. It had two meanings to him, now. "That is… to say… it's just a lot to take in, y'know?" He spaced his feet apart on the blanket, getting a feel for its springiness. Stuart had never seen beds this big in real life before. It was big enough to fit two, maybe even three people. More, even, as he remembered seeing up to ten little boys sleep in dog piles on top of a single twin mattress in wintertime. Stuart envied those guys in the piles, if only for the feeling of comradery of it all. The only thing that kept him from joining in was the mental image of being crushed to death.

As well as being bigger and more heavier dressed than the beds back at the orphanage, the mattress beneath felt much more plush and springy. Almost like what he imagined a trampoline would feel like…

Temptation overwhelming, Stuart started to bounce. First, just bobbing his ankles, feeling the comforter dimpled under his weight. As the momentum picked up, it gave him the courage to jump. When he landed, he bent his knees, and kicked himself as high into the air as he could reach. On the next bounce, he threw his legs into the air and managed a backflip.

He heard himself laughing, but had no idea when it started. He knew he was acting like a five year old. But who cared? He hadn't felt this exhilarated in all his life! Years of maintaining the most mature version of himself finally gave way to the child inside. It was like reaching the end of the race, crossing the finish line, breaking the tape. It felt like he didn't have to hold back anymore.

This is really happening. Me, getting my own room. A house and a home to share with my very own…

"Uh, Stuart..."

And it was only then he became aware of how intensely Mom and Dad were watching him. Staring at him as he bounced in the space between their hips, up to their hairlines.

…family.

Stuart felt himself stopping as fast as he could. "Yeah?"

Mrs. Little hesitated. Maybe it was because he was so small, and the bed was at no risk of breaking under his weight. Maybe she was reluctant to ruin his fun. But she wouldn't be accused of being an unfair parent. Since it was only his first warning about this, however, she gave it to Stuart in a more mild voice. "Don't jump on the bed… please."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I guess I got carried away."

"I'm having the strangest sensation of deja-vu again," Fredrick said to Eleanor, smiling broadly. "Aren't you?"

On top of the blanket, Stuart eased himself into a sitting position, crossing his legs. He had only met these people a few hours ago. No matter how nice they seemed, the Littles were still strangers, and he wasn't eager to test their patience. "Is there anything else I should know?"

Mom and Dad sat down on the end of the bed on opposite sides of him. It was almost as they were back at the orphanage again, during that first conversation that afternoon. Except that Dad was comfortable enough here to stretch out his arms and legs one by one. "No, I think that covers the Little house in its entirety," he told Stuart, looking to his wife for confirmation. "I've been rattling on for a while. Have you got any questions?"

"Me?"

"Go on," said Mrs. Little. "Ask us anything."

Stuart couldn't believe his privilege. After having the choice of taking or refusing the adoption, then having been given a big bedroom all to himself, he couldn't fathom the audacity of asking for anything more.

But, he'd be lying if he claimed he didn't have any questions for them. There were a lot, and while it seemed inappropriate to press them for questions now, there was something on his mind that just wouldn't go away. "Well, there is one thing I was wondering about. So… uh…" He looked from Mom to Dad, and back again. He knew what he wanted to ask, from the moment they had pulled up to the curb outside of the house. He just didn't know how to phrase it. "Back there… I didn't think you guys were millionaires."

"What?" Dad didn't know whether to laugh or not.

"We're not," said Mom confidently.

"You're not?"

"Not unless you know today's winning lottery numbers." And to prove his point, Dad reached into his pants pocket, and pulled out a folded scratch off. "Best I've ever done was twenty."

"And I'll bet that twenty that your key's in the trash at Sammy's again." Mom turned her scrutinizing expression on Stuart. "What on earth made you think that?"

Stuart frantically waved his arms in the air. "No! No! Please, don't get the wrong idea! I'm-I'm grateful. About everything." He lowered his arms, and felt his ears and tail curl towards his body. "But to have a house like this? Across from the park? I mean, I thought only millionaires lived on 5th Avenue. It can't be…"

"Cheap?" Mrs. Little shook her head. "It's… really not. It's a family heirloom."

"My grandfather inherited the house from his father," Frederick said. "And his father gave it to him, and so forth. Story goes that they bought the property long, long ago, before Manhattan was reshaped, and this became the parkside neighborhood it is now. Not sure how much of that is true—I've only been able to verify bits and pieces of it—but whenever the city offered to cut the Littles a check and move, they managed to stand their ground. They wanted the house for their children, and their children's children, et. cetera."

"But then wouldn't Grandpa Spencer still have it?" asked Stuart.

"He never had it to begin with."

The mouse looked from one parent to the other. "I'm confused."

"This is where the story gets kind of messy," said Mrs. Little slowly.

Her husband took the wheel. "You see, Stuart, my parents were sort of the… adventurous type. They never owned a home when we were growing up, but they did own a camper."

"They were backpackers!" Stuart thought out loud.

"Hippies," Eleanor corrected, waving her hand in a 'so-so' kind of gesture. "The kind that didn't seem to care when the war they were protesting against was already over."

"Right. Well." Frederick cleared his throat. Even if he wanted to be transparent, his past wasn't easy to talk about. "Our parents love us a great deal. And so did my grandparents. "When we weren't on the road with Mom and Dad, we spent a great deal of time here, in this house. This was our permanent place of address, and in a lot of ways, this felt like our one true home. But my parents, under whatever disagreement they had with my grandparents about how Uncle Crenshaw and I were brought up, made it pretty clear that when their turn to inherit the house came, they didn't want it. So, when my grandfather passed, my grandmother decided to turn over the house directly down to us grandsons. Technically, she had turned it over to your Uncle Crewnshaw first, what with him being the older brother. But Crewnshaw seemed to have been bitten by the same bug my father had, and ended up getting a full time job on the road. And when your mother and I got married, Crenshaw may have decided that this old house could use some year-round care. And he gifted the deed to the Little House to your mother and I."

"And Dad works hard to pay the taxes every year," said Mom, "so that the Little house remains with us."

The mouse nodded solemnly. The Littles had seemed so distinctly familiar to him in a way he couldn't put to words. Their first conversation together hinted that they had the same appreciation for the simple things of life. The kind of people who he could actually see in place of the faceless shadows of his one room dream cottage. But when the taxi pulled up to the only private residence overlooking this side of central park, Stuart was conflicted. Rich people weren't supposed to be sentimental, not like these guys, anyway. Any orphans could tell you that!

Maybe he was more biased than he realized. He'd never stepped a foot outside of the orphanage without being heavily guarded, so what did he know about the world or anything in it?

But that just raised another question. There was no way he'd ever have been able to see this house before. So why did it feel like he did?

"Does that clear things up a bit?" asked Dad, finally.

"Yeah. Look, I'm… sorry I asked. It was none of my business."

"No, it's okay. We're not… offended you asked," Mr. Little said. "If that's what you're worried about.

"Not at all," Mrs. Little agreed. "I suppose you could say, I'm… glad you feel comfortable asking such things."

Stuart looked down at his lap. He knew he'd crossed some sort of line, and he didn't know how he was going to make up for it.

These were the parents he'd always wanted, granted they didn't look exactly like how he'd imagined, in that they were… well, human. They were perfect, and he wanted to be perfect, too. He didn't care if they were rich or poor. He could do with the bare minimum.

Stuart pulled his knees up towards his body. "What can I do to make this up to you guys?"

"Make up…what exactly?" asked Dad, looking lost.

"This!" The mouse gestured outwardly again, towards nothing and everything in particular. "I mean, I never thought…" I was beginning to think that I'd never…" Abruptly, he stood up, thrusting his pointer finger to the ceiling. "I know! I'll get my own job!"

"Ha! Did you hear that?" Mr Little gestured towards their new son, impressed. "He's got the Little determination, too!"

"Frederick, you can't be serious."

"Oh come on! I worked when I was a kid. Remember the pictures of me at Ol' Joe's Pop Shop? Cleaning the milkshake machine?"

"That was twenty years ago!"

"Fifteen years ago. Don't make me older than I already am."

"Sorry." Mrs. Little turned to Stuart. "Sweetie, that's an admirable thought. It really is! But, I'd rather if you didn't think about work right now."

"Are you sure? Because I can start calling for positions first thing in the morning." The high was coming back. Stuart's head was spinning feverishly with tangential thoughts. "I don't know if it's obvious, but I'm pretty good when it comes to cleaning in tight places. That's gotta help for something. You guys get the Sunday paper, right?"

"Stuart, we took you home." Eleanor said, more assertively. "Not the other way around. You're the child. You don't have to pay for anything. When you get older—when it is acceptable and legal to work—your father and I will let you get a job."

"Right," Dad chimed back in, feeling guilty for indulging in Stuart's idea. "Maybe just focus on school right now, okay?"

"But since you asked what you can do for us, I guess it's as good a time as any to lay out some house rules."

"Rules," Stuart repeated tentatively. Not that he hadn't expected for there not to be rules. He'd only be confused if there weren't. But if his job was to fill the void of a son—a human son—he was a little nervous about what was going to be expected of him. "Alright. Like what?"

"First things first," Mom began. "Lights off at nine. There will be special exceptions here and there, like when we go out as a family, but otherwise, I want you in bed by then. George has the same bedtime, although he tends to turn in early by himself, so we haven't really had to enforce this with him.

"Second, you can help yourself to anything in the kitchen, but I don't want any food or cups in the bedroom. Nothing more than a glass of water. I think I have a miniature tea set in our china cabinet from my Aunt Ruthie that you can use until we order new dishware." She felt her husband looking at her, and turned to see him with a raised brow. "Uh…Oh! Yes. Dad's sunflower seeds." She suddenly remembered. "That's the only thing that's off limits."

"Thank you," Dad sang with a playful eye-roll.

Eleanor tapped her chin. "Let's see… well, the third thing is, I really do want you to feel comfortable here. This room is yours to use however you want, and redecorate however you want—with a few guidelines. No markers, no railroad spikes in the wall, you get the idea. We do have one T.V. downstairs, along with the VCR. George has lots of movies, I'm sure he wouldn't mind lending them to you. Come to us when you need anything, but please stay out of our room when we're not around. We won't snoop on you if you won't snoop on us."

"Sounds fair," said Stuart.

"Hmm… number four…?" Eleanor looked at her husband.

"What?"

"Well, don't you have any rules you'd like to lay out?"

"Not when you put me on the spot like that, no!" To Stuart, he sighed and explained: "I don't want you to think we didn't have any rules growing up. Quite the contrary, Grandpa was pretty rough on us. For some reason all I can remember is that they weren't the biggests rock and roll fans. So I guess number four would be… no weed, and no alcohol."

"Hm." Not like she could picture such a rule being applicable for a few more years, but Mom nodded.

"I mean, there is that thing we do where we bust out the beer at age eighteen, but that aside... What? Beer at eighteen? Come on, it's a tradition!"

"Number five, Stuart," Eleanor said flatly, pointing to her face. "Just so we're clear: Only I can ever give your father 'this' look."

"Number six, Stuart," Dad echoed back. "Don't ever give your mother reason to give you 'that' look."

"Not bad advice," Mom nodded.

"Number seven—and yes, it's a good one—Do your homework. We promise not to pester you about it as long as it's getting done. If you need help, your mother and I can try and look at the homework, and tutoring is an option. Just let us know early on that you need the help before it becomes a bigger problem."

"Tomorrow, I'll take you and George down to the school together," said Mom, "and we'll get started on getting you enrolled. Ah, number Eight… Saturday is chores day. We're trying to set a good example with George by having him pick up around his room and the basement before he goes off and watches TV or picks up his game controller."

Stuart suddenly remembered the way George flew behind the unmarked door under the stairs. The Littles claimed that the conspicuously camouflaged door was the entrance to the basement. Stuart hadn't had time to really process this. He'd always thought of basements as dusty and full of cobwebs, tangled lights and holiday decorations. Sometimes even the laundry machines, but their laundry room was on the ground floor.

It took Stuart until now to realize that George's bedroom wasn't down there, either. And if that was the case, then what was?

Eleanor looked at her husband. "Are we forgetting anything?"

"Nope. That should do it. Eight simple rules," Dad grinned at Stuart, "For not pissing off your parents… What now?"

Mrs. Little held her hand out, palm up.

"That one doesn't count!" He gave his partner his best doe-eyed stare. When it didn't move her, he sighed, and reached behind his back, producing a dollar. "Fine! Here."

Eleanor took the dollar and busied herself by neatly folded it along the crease.

Stuart tipped his head to the side, watching the exchange. "What's that about?"

"Your father and I were potty mouths back in the day. And as much as I'm not proud to admit it, it's something we're both still trying to improve on."

"There will be absolutely no cussing out family, friends, or strangers. No exceptions. But, minor slips under your breath here are there, eh…" He shrugged. "Not the end of the world. But if someone catches you in a little slip, you owe them a dollar. Don't have a dollar? That's when we bust out the ol' soap and toothbrush. That applies to your mom and dad, too. Sounds fair?"

"Sure, but…" Stuart held out his hands. "I don't have a dollar."

With a smooth flick of the wrist, Mrs. Little thrust the folded bill into Stuart's open palms. "Now, you do. And it would be in your best interest not to spend it today."

"That's fine." Stuart gently lay the bill down next to him on the bed. "I don't know too many cuss words anyway."

"Stick around for the Superbowl party and it won't stay that way for long." Mr. Little reminisced as he gazed up at the ceiling.

"Your brother better bring that camper of his," Mrs. Little warned him. "One more shattered bowl of guacamole on my wall, and you, your brother, your cousin, my sister, you're all outside! All of you! I don't care how cold it is." She glanced at her watch. "I… think that's good enough for now. If anything comes up, we'll talk about it then, Stuart. But I don't see us all not getting along."

Stuart agreed. Considering the benefits of living here, these rules all sounded pretty reasonable. If this was what they wanted out of a son, this could be easier than he thought. They're out to do good for me. Maybe I could do good for them. Nah, I can do better than that.

I could be perfect.

"I should be getting dinner started." Mom pushed herself off of the bed. "I figure maybe you'd want to rest for a bit. I'll call you down when the table is ready."

"And I've got some papers to look over. Can't believe one of the things I looked forward to as an adult was no homework…" He stood up, leaving the door open on the way out. "Need anything, you let us know."

"You got it!"

Once he was alone, Stuart kicked off his sneakers, letting them tumble off the edge and onto the trunk lid. If he was going to be the perfect son, he needed to get in the habit of taking them off nicely and leaving them together on the floor, somewhere out of the way. But he had time to work on that. For now, he crawled closer to the middle of the massive bed, the quiet and the cool, cushy expanse of the comforter the perfect place to unwind, to close his eyes and let everything really sink in.

He'd watched so many of his friends get adopted, going away towards something and someone that was theirs. He'd felt happy for each and every one of them, and he needed to, because it helped take away some of the sting of saying goodbye. But it just couldn't compare to what he felt now. How he felt now…

He hadn't even realized he started to cry until he opened his eyes, and a warm tear rolled down the side of his face, disappearing into the fabric. But something tickled the hairs on the back of his neck. The same sensation that made him open his eyes.

Stuart sat upright and turned to the door. And screamed.

The boy casting a shadow in his doorway jolted and cried out back at him and staggered backwards.

"George!" Stuart gasped, trying to regain his breath. "Sorry. You scared me."

"You scared me." He gave a studious look across the room. Stuart wasn't one to argue, but he felt like George could've made his presence known. His heart was still racing when George's eyes came to rest on him again. "Are you crying?"

"Uh…" Stuart reached up and touched the side of his face. He couldn't see it, but the tear had left a wet trail against his bright fur. He hadn't shed a tear in over three years, and he was a little embarrassed that George had caught him in this moment of weakness. "Uh, it's nothing."

"Are you sad?"

"No." Stuart wiped his cheek with the back of his sleeve. "I'm not sad at all."

Not at the moment, at least. But leaving the orphanage was a pretty monumental moment in his life. And while the bliss overtook the sadness, the goodbyes were still taxing. Stuart knew was going to miss them something awful, especially the nerds, at the wobbly, broken lunch table, immersed in talk of monster movies and comic books they only rarely ever had access to. He wondered what they were up to right now.

George could sense the answer was more complicated than that. But thankfully for Stuart, instead of probing him, he moved on. "So, you're gonna live here, now?"

"Yeah." The mouse knitted his fingers at his waist and had to look around the room again. Assuming everything that had happened today was real, and not some sort of hypothermic fever dream brought on by a slow and painful death in the school's faulty freezer. Yet he was anxious to confirm it. As if verbalizing it would break the spell that brought him to this place. To this house. To this very moment. "I guess I am."

Every minute under George's scrutinous gaze made him feel as if there had been some mistake. A bubble of tension was growing between them, shimmering, shivering, threatening to burst with many unsaid things. Stuart didn't want to feel this way around George. Around his new brother. But what other way was there to feel when the guy looked at him so… coldly?

Maybe it was all just in his head. After all, something had to have made George come looking for him. What reason was there but that he cared? Stuart rubbed his chin. "Hey uh… Mom and Dad mentioned there are some board games in the hall closet. Wanna start a game of Shoots and Ladders? Or-or maybe Sorry?"

"I don't really like board games." George told him with a shrug. "Sorry."

"Oh. Well… we could play hide and seek! I promise I'll play fair! I won't go for the smallest crawl spaces."

"No thanks. Hide and seek is kinda for little kids."

"What about Tag? I'm pretty bad at that one," Stuart told him, faking a chuckle. "It'll be easy."

"I don't really wanna play a game like that. Thanks, anyway."

The mouse felt like he was slowly sinking into the layers that topped the bed. He was doing his best to stay positive, but at this point, the smile just wouldn't stay on his face anymore. "Well… okay. Maybe another time."

"Maybe."

George's eyes flicked to the bedsheet, where the folded dollar sat, back at Stuart, and then the walls, all with an unreadable expression. It was as if he was trying to make Stuart make sense in this setting. In his new brother's room. This room which had been explicitly set up and set aside for months, for this reason.

Stuart understood that he was something of an oddity. But George's looks had him feeling particularly freakish. Like he'd grown a third eyeball in the middle of his forehead or something. Or wiped a big ol' booger there on accident. Gross. Instinctively, he reached up and touched the space between his eyes, just to make sure he hadn't. He then jolted, and lowered his arm in horror once he realized how stupid he must look.

But George only raised a brow.

Brotherhood was idolized in the media, and in the tales of his fellow orphans. Stuart had wondered how he'd gotten so lucky. A new set of parents, a new home, and another kid to share it all with, too? Someone to guide him, to play with him and protect him. Help him navigate his new school, his new friendships, his new life. A pair of brothers, sticking together through thick and thin.

But it was difficult to imagine making that connection with someone who had only ever looked at him like a lost member of a freakshow.

If only George was easier to read! Stuart usually had such an easy time gauging people, but this boy hadn't shown an inkling of enthusiasm for anything since they met. Stuart was forced to blindly reach for this person's heart behind a curtain of indifference. And it was not going well.

Come to think of it, what had made George come to visit him all of the sudden? After what Mom and Dad had said, Stuart hadn't expected to see George again until dinnertime. He almost wondered if George was waiting to see if the mouse would suddenly transform into whatever he had pictured his new brother to look like.

Faintly, Stuart heard the sound of a grandfather clock downstairs. It chimed five times before leaving the boys again to silence. Dinner wouldn't be ready for another hour. There was nothing coming to break this awkward silence, and at last, Stuart could not stand it anymore. He'd run out of tact. "Listen, George. This is all new for me, too. I've never had a family, not in all my life. I don't want to do any of this wrong, but the truth is, I don't know what I'm doing. I know what it's like to be a student, and a friend, but you gotta tell me what I can do to be a good big brother to you-"

"You're not my big brother!" George cut him off, shouting. Like Stuart's speech had grazed a wound. Like an interrogator, he looked the mouse up and down again, cocked and loaded with a brand new set of questions. "How old are you, anyway?"

"N-Nine" It wasn't a strange question, but the sudden onset of George's anger made him nervous to answer. "Why?"

But Stuart had barely returned the question before George spun around and ran out of the room. Footsteps thundered far down the hall, farther than Stuart's ears could map out. The sound became lighter and lighter until it was finaled with another distinct door slam.

So much for breaking the ice. Interestingly, in George's wake, the room felt a little colder.

In the quiet Stuart only now became acutely aware of a distant, small buzzing in the air. It took him a handful of minutes to realize it was coming from inside. From his own ears.

Growing up constantly surrounded by a hundred or more kids had given him tinnitus, but it never bothered him like this before. He'd never been anywhere quiet enough to notice it before. And he didn't like it. It felt like a fly was buzzing right into his ear canal. He prodded and eventually began trying to plunge his ears with the middle of his palm, but as soon as he stopped, the buzzing began again.

He tried to calm down, and flung him back against the bed, pressing an ear to the sheets. His only mercy from this unsettling sensation came in the form of distant police sirens, and the occasional honk-based argument between two taxis on the street outside. Strange how he could still hear the din of rowdy classrooms, the shouts and slams food trays on cafeteria tables, and even the utter mayhem of the smaller kid's playroom. Stranger still how he suddenly missed it.

The sun was leaving the window, the beam of light gradually changing where it lay across the carpet. Every day has to draw to a close. Even wild, terrifying, wonderful, confusing life changing days like today. He felt obligated to write it down, try to make sense of everything that happened. Recount every detail that led to him laying his head down in this brand new bed, clear across the city. Engrain the details in his memory, including the marathon run through the school's vent system that might explain this cut on his palm he hadn't noticed before, and why his muscles were sore.

And there. Right then and there, it happened. The mouse slowly rose back to a seated position as one detail suddenly stuck out to him.

Mom and Dad met me when they came into the playroom, where I was serving detention.

"Mom and Dad," he whispered to the empty room, "came to the playroom."

No wonder George wanted nothing to do with him. The Littles weren't supposed to take home a fourth grader. They were looking for a toddler.

Stuart was willing to do just about anything if it meant getting George to like him. But he couldn't change his age, no more than he could change being another species. That incredible, intoxicating joy that had worked up inside him whilst jumping on the bed had just as easily shown itself out. Maybe this had all been a mistake after all.

The question was, how long until Mom and Dad thought so, too?

So this is one of the more family centered fics I had in mind. And off the bat, I'll admit, like "Something Wonderful," it IS largely a novelized retelling of the scenes of the first movie. Almost a bit of scenery wordsmith practice, although there is a purpose to the fanfic than just retelling the story in print:

My goal with this writing is something I try to convey in the other SL fanfics: The Littles are not exactly the photo perfect family they seem to be, but Mr. and Mrs. Little are just really GOOD at playing the part, and this fic goes into some of my headcanon as to how and why they are the way they are. Like pretty much every family, they've got their issues, troublesome family members, and even some trauma on Eleanor's part, which will get to in another chapter, but she and Frederick have maintained a remarkable class, despite it all.

Meanwhile, I didn't want to get too far away from what makes me like Stuart as a character to begin with, but in trying to portray him as being less 'perfect' playing with the idea that he's more often uncertain and thoughtful, and feels things much more passionately than he might outwardly let on.

He sees this perfect family, and we explore scenes where he works himself up to an unrealistic expectation of perfection from himself, only to come crashing down when his awkwardness gets in the way.

While it creates a certain charm and nostalgia in the franchise, it also puts people off, especially the older audience, because it makes them feel unrelatable.

But I also wanted to get into a conflict involving Eleanor and her mother/ the boys' maternal grandmother. The conflict being she may be the only member of the extended family who the Littles suspect will not welcome Stuart with open arms. (This entire OC setup forces Grandpa Spencer and Estell to be Frederick's parents rather than Eleanor's. Since the movie doesn't quite specify who's parents they are, that gives me a bit of wiggle room to create OCs for Mrs. Little's parents. I also try to explain in this chapter Frederick inherited the Little house while his parents are still around, via Stuart's question here. Whether or not Stuart needed to hear all that, eh, you be the judge.)

In this canon, Tina and Beatrice who we see in the first movie are Eleanor's sisters, but I doubt that's accurate per the franchise canon. I did this because I had this image of Frederick and Crenshaw having to ride out a sort of rough childhood together before Fredrick inherited the house, basically alone with nobody to count on but each other at times. While Eleanor and her sisters came up basically rich, and all three have gone on to lead different lives.

All of this is to try and make Frederick and Eleanor a little more interesting. Despite having similar values, they came from very different places.

Since a lot of orphan plot movies follow the same beats, and SL the movie in particular is guilty of stealing the plot from Annie, I wanted to test my description skills by exploring the movie in novel format, maybe unpack some emotions and make the characters a little more complex. Stuart I think holds a lot more insecurities under the skin.

I'm not as proud of this story as others, and I think it's because the bulk of it is pretty old now.

There's a headcanon I also wanted to explore wherein George is neurodivergent in some way. While it's entirely possible his bluntness and awkwardness is just a result of being a little kid, I wondered if maybe he could have Asperger's, (this is on top of George's resentment of him). He may have never brushed up against someone like this before, and because he's himself is neurotypical and very socially ept, this further explains why he can't do the normal stuff and get George to warm up to him, the way the kids at the orphanage seemed to. Stuart doesn't know George is wired differently yet and since this kind of thing was less diagnosed back in the 1990s, he's inclined to feel frustrated that talking with George is like talking to a wall. Or why some of his behavior doesn't exactly make sense.

I got this very strong image in my head of George wandering into Stuart's room unannounced and just waiting for something to click. In George's eyes he's making an effort to not be a dick and to not ignore Stuart entirely. But as far as Stuart can see, he's just being super awkward and over analyzing him in a way that people sometimes do that makes him feel freakish. And that's what got the ball rolling on this whole fic.

Comments/criticism/typo notes welcome!