Free Rules for 50/50 Chances by Kate McGovern Page B

lame. Maybe he’s just been busy.”
    â€œShould I text him?”
    I can practically hear Lena’s exasperation in the silence on the other end of the line. “Really, do I have to teach you everything? You do not text him. That’s rule number one for dealing with boys! You’re way too busy with all the cool, interesting things happening in your life. Right?”
    â€œSuch as…?”
    â€œSuch as ballet, school, getting into college, hanging out with moi , obviously.”
    â€œI just hope he’s okay.”
    â€œHe’s fine ,” Lena says. Her lack of the anxious gene allows her to soar through these situations without jumping to the worst-case scenario. “Trust me. You’ll either hear from him, or he’s not worth the trouble.”
    When we hang up, I consider Lena’s rules for dealing with boys. She’s 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, it’s the twenty-first century. I pull up Caleb’s last text to me. It was from five minutes before we met at the bookstore, when I’d written to say I was running late and he’d texted back, “No worries. No shortage of reading material here.”
    I start tapping out a text. “Hey, how are you? Haven’t heard from you in a while, hope everything is ok.” Then I delete it. Next I try, “What’s up? Missed you on IM this week.” Missed you? Get a grip, Rose. Delete. Finally I settle on, “Breaking news: the blogger IS a pedo after all.”
    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 phone’s still silent.
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    By the time I get home from dance the next night, my head is more or less exploding. I’ve even tried turning my phone off and on a few times to make sure no text messages got randomly lodged in there, but—big surprise—there aren’t any.
    I’d prefer to skip out on dinner and go straight to my room to obsess some more, but Dad has actually cooked for a change—chicken, salad, and rice pilaf—so I’m 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 it’s just the three of us; Gram’s at her book club. Even Mom seems like she’s having a pretty good night. Her body jerks involuntarily, constant slight, uncoordinated movements, but she hasn’t had any outbursts or said anything inappropriate … at least not since I got home. She’s a little glum, which is her baseline these days, but other than that she seems almost normal.
    â€œCan you help m-m-me with the r-r-rice, Rose?” she asks. I take more pilaf from the ceramic dish Dad hands me and pile a small heap on her plate.
    â€œThanks,” 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.
    â€œLet’s t-t-talk about your college a-a-applications,” she says after she’s carefully chewed the bits of lettuce.
    â€œOh please, Mother, do we have to?” I groan.
    â€œYes. Dad says you’re b-b-behind.”
    I shoot Dad a dirty look. “I’m not behind, guys. It’s barely October.”
    â€œOkay, but the time is going to fly,” Dad says. “Is