lame. Maybe heâs just been busy.â
âShould I text him?â
I can practically hear Lenaâs exasperation in the silence on the other end of the line. âReally, do I have to teach you everything? You do not text him. Thatâs rule number one for dealing with boys! Youâre way too busy with all the cool, interesting things happening in your life. Right?â
âSuch asâ¦?â
âSuch as ballet, school, getting into college, hanging out with moi , obviously.â
âI just hope heâs okay.â
âHeâs fine ,â Lena says. Her lack of the anxious gene allows her to soar through these situations without jumping to the worst-case scenario. âTrust me. Youâll either hear from him, or heâs not worth the trouble.â
When we hang up, I consider Lenaâs rules for dealing with boys. Sheâs definitely savvier than I am about this stuff, but the idea of waiting around for some guy I barely know to call or text me just seems annoying. Besides, itâs the twenty-first century. I pull up Calebâs last text to me. It was from five minutes before we met at the bookstore, when Iâd written to say I was running late and heâd texted back, âNo worries. No shortage of reading material here.â
I start tapping out a text. âHey, how are you? Havenât heard from you in a while, hope everything is ok.â Then I delete it. Next I try, âWhatâs up? Missed you on IM this week.â Missed you? Get a grip, Rose. Delete. Finally I settle on, âBreaking news: the blogger IS a pedo after all.â
I hit send before I can overthink it, and let out a sigh as I put the phone down. If Lena asks, this never happened.
I sit on my bed, scrolling through Facebook on my phone and waiting, and waiting. No more texts come through. I toss the phone aside and mark through the combination we worked on today in ballet, going through all the movements but with about fifty percent energy since I have limited floor space in my room. I pause on the part I kept messing up earlier and go through it a few more times until I nail it twice in a row. But my phoneâs still silent.
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By the time I get home from dance the next night, my head is more or less exploding. Iâve even tried turning my phone off and on a few times to make sure no text messages got randomly lodged in there, butâbig surpriseâthere arenât any.
Iâd prefer to skip out on dinner and go straight to my room to obsess some more, but Dad has actually cooked for a changeâchicken, salad, and rice pilafâso Iâm stuck sitting down for a meal.
It almost feels like our old life: real food, cooked by a person in our family instead of someone at one of our local takeout joints, and itâs just the three of us; Gramâs at her book club. Even Mom seems like sheâs having a pretty good night. Her body jerks involuntarily, constant slight, uncoordinated movements, but she hasnât had any outbursts or said anything inappropriate ⦠at least not since I got home. Sheâs a little glum, which is her baseline these days, but other than that she seems almost normal.
âCan you help m-m-me with the r-r-rice, Rose?â she asks. I take more pilaf from the ceramic dish Dad hands me and pile a small heap on her plate.
âThanks,â she says, giving me a lopsided half smile. She aims a small forkful of salad at her mouth and brings it slowly in for a landing, letting a few lettuce leaves scatter to her plate.
âLetâs t-t-talk about your college a-a-applications,â she says after sheâs carefully chewed the bits of lettuce.
âOh please, Mother, do we have to?â I groan.
âYes. Dad says youâre b-b-behind.â
I shoot Dad a dirty look. âIâm not behind, guys. Itâs barely October.â
âOkay, but the time is going to fly,â Dad says. âIs