Free Rules for 50/50 Chances by Kate McGovern

has Tay-Sachs. He’s really funny. You wouldn’t think Tay-Sachs could be funny, I know, but trust me. This kid makes it hilarious. I mean, not the disease. But like, living in his family and dealing with all this stuff. And he posts cool genetics news articles and stuff.”
    â€œOh yeah?” He raises an eyebrow in interest.
    As I launch into a detailed explanation of the testing program in the Jewish high schools and all the fascinating questions it raises about genetic testing, it occurs to me that I am seriously nerding out on Caleb.
    â€œSorry,” I say, cutting myself off. “I’m kind of a dork about this stuff.”
    â€œI already knew that, HD.”
    â€œI’m just saying, you should read the blog because it’s funny and informative.”
    â€œFunny and informative, is it? Well, that must make it worth reading, then.” Caleb shoves me gently. I push him back.
    â€œAt first I suspected that the blogger kid was probably a pedo living in his mother’s basement and just posing as a teenager, you know?” I say. “But then I Googled him and he’s legit.”
    Caleb laughs again. “Why do you think everyone is secretly a criminal? First you accuse me of plotting to lure you into the woods, and now you think this blog guy is a pedophile? I’m pretty sure most people are not murderers posing as teenagers with genetic mutations, even on the Internet.”
    â€œTruth?” I ask, putting my frappe down.
    â€œTruth.”
    â€œI watched too many murder mysteries as a child. I’m damaged. Blame my parents.”
    â€œOh, so that’s what this is? And you’ll never get in a taxi because you watched that movie with Denzel and Angelina, right?”
    â€œExactly!” I say, cracking up. “ Never , ever take taxis!”
    When our laughter naturally trails off, we both force a few extra chuckles out, just to extend the moment a little longer. Finally, I look at him, looking at me.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothing, nothing. You’re funny, HD girl.”
    â€œI do what I can,” I say, shrugging. Because you know, this is no big deal. Just me, hanging out with an attractive male, having a not completely awkward conversation. Like normal girls do.
    â€œAnyway,” I say, “I’ll send you the link. For the blog. You sort have to read it to get what I’m talking about.”
    â€œI’m looking forward to that,” he says.
    Ice cream consumed and all possible topics of small talk utilized, we get up to go. Of course I manage to trip over my own feet going up the steps, and Caleb catches me by the elbow just as I go down on one knee.
    â€œYou okay?” he asks, stifling a laugh.
    â€œFine, fine.” (Mortified, but fine.)
    â€œNow you’re probably going to accuse me of putting a roofie in your ice cream or something, right?” he says.
    I brush my hands off on my jeans. “Actually, I won’t try to blame that one on you. I’m the clumsiest ballet dancer you’ll ever meet.”
    â€œAh, I see. So you’re graceful only when dancing?”
    â€œAnd otherwise can’t walk a straight line without tripping. Precisely.”
    We hover in front of the entrance to the subway station for another minute or two, even though neither of us is getting on. He told me he’d parked his car at one of the meters on Mass Ave. and never mentioned needing to feed it again, even though I’m pretty sure we’ve been sitting here for more than an hour. I wonder how many quarters he put in, how much time he thought we’d spend together. Then I wonder what percentage of that time I spent babbling about something ridiculous.
    Finally, he gives me a weird punch on the shoulder.
    â€œWell, I’ll see you again soon, HD girl?”
    â€œSounds good.”
    â€œGet home safe. Don’t catch a genetic disease on the way home.” The light changes on Mass. Ave. and the