Rules for 50/50 Chances

by Kate McGovern

“I know that.”

  “Okay. Just checking.”

  I let him think he’d won. It just seemed easier.

  * * *

  Now I look over at the two vials of my blood, all my information stored in them, swimming around in microscopic sentences that tell my body what to do. Right there in those vials is all the information about the rest of my life and the end of my life. Just there for the taking.

  I pull my sleeve down gingerly over the Band-Aid and layer on my sweatshirt.

  “So, you know that you’ll get a call when the results come back in—probably about three weeks.”

  “Tell me again why it takes so long?”

  Derek smiles. “That I don’t know. They like to keep you guessing?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Do what you can to put it out of your mind, precious. That’s what I tell everyone who comes through here.”

  “Sure,” I say, zipping up my parka. It’s still freezing out, even though it’s already mid-March. “Think any of them actually manage that?”

  “Doubt it,” he says.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket—Lena, waiting outside to pick me up.

  I cross the street and tap the window of her mom’s car. Lena pops the lock and I slip in next to her. I don’t need to say anything. It’s done. The information is out of my body, into the world, and in a few weeks, it’ll be mine. For better or for worse.

  * * *

  Back in January, I told Caleb he could make up for The Nutcracker mishap when the annual showcase came around at the end of March. At the time, I’m not sure I really believed we’d still be hanging out by spring. A whole few months seemed like an unrealistically long time to keep up this thing between us. But now the showcase is here and, of course, he hasn’t forgotten this time. I get him a ticket for the final performance on Sunday evening—my last show with New England Youth Ballet.

  In the back of my mind—or, let’s be honest, the front of my mind—is the fact that the Sunday night show might not just be my last NEYB performance—it could be my last ballet performance, ever. Before I go to the dressing room to start my makeup regimen, I wander a big loop around the backstage area. Our theater is old and beautiful, with a high proscenium and ornate moldings, and lush, red velvet seats that haven’t been reupholstered in decades. Backstage, it smells predictably of musty costumes, wet paint, and heat from lighting instruments. It’s hard to imagine never coming back here again, never preparing for another performance by stretching on the cold concrete floors. Regardless of what happens with PCCA, I won’t be dancing here anymore after this showcase.

  In the dressing room, Eloise leans in toward the mirror and covers her pale, freckled face with even paler powder. On Eloise’s other side, Georgia attaches her fake eyelashes with glue. We all wear them for performances. I used to think they felt incredibly strange, but now I’m pretty used to them.

  “So,” Eloise says without looking away from her own reflection, “is he here tonight? The distraction?”

  I apply a thick layer of lip liner around my lips, exaggerating their natural shape, and fill the outline in with dark red lipstick. Blotting on a tissue, I roll my eyes at Eloise in the mirror. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I tell her.

  “Oh, give me a break. You’re still hanging out with him, right? I can tell. You seem—jittery.”

  She’s right that I’ve been acting a little cagey around her lately, and I’m glad she’s attributing it all to Caleb. She still doesn’t know about my audition in San Francisco. I certainly don’t need the ballet girls gossiping about me if—when, probably—I don’t get in.

  My face flushes under its heavy coat of makeup. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I say.

  With that, I zip up the fleece I’m wearing over my leotard and shove my feet into my sheepskin slippers. There’s still thirty minutes till curtain; no point in tucking and pinning myself into my costume just yet. I told Caleb to meet me at the stage door.

  I rush down the chilly, concrete maze below the stage and shove the door open. Sure enough, there he is, just on time and carrying a single red rose tied with a white ribbon. He presents it proudly. “For the star of the evening,” he says with a quick bow.

  “Stop,” I say with a laugh, although the sight of him, dressed up and holding a flower he’s brought for me, gives me more butterflies than the thought of the performance ahead. “A rose, huh? Clever.”

  Caleb wraps a hand around my waist, grazing the sensitive spot on my lower back and sending a shiver up my spine. Pulling me in toward him, he kisses the top of my head lightly. “Break a leg.”

  “Thanks. I gotta go get ready. Here’s your ticket.” I pull the ticket from my fleece. “Great seat—third row center. Just don’t wave at me or anything during the show. Oh, and you’re sitting with my family. Good luck with that.”

  I kiss him one more time and scurry back toward the dressing room, feeling anxious and warm and lucky, all at once.

  * * *

  I’m dancing the cygnets pas de quatre choreography from Swan Lake with Eloise and two other girls—four little swans, holding hands. It’s a tricky section with a rapid-fire series of intricate movements, entrechat-quatre, passé, entrechat-quatre, passé, échappé, échappé, échappé, all coupled with quick head and shoulder movements called épaulement. There’s not a lot of room for mistakes—miss a beat and you’ll ruin the whole thing.

  The performance goes by in a blur. I’m aware of isolated moments, little snapshots that I seem to catch while the rest of it flies by. When we finally come to a fluttering, out-of-breath stop in the very last moments of the show, I close my eyes and try to hold on to the moment for an extra split second. The feeling of standing onstage, a performance freshly complete and an audience clapping, isn’t something you can replicate any other way. It’s only itself. I might never feel this again.

  The lights fade up on all of us, standing in our rows for the curtain call, and I catch sight of Caleb and my family, standing up in the third row—the only people giving us a standing ovation. Even Mom is standing, leaning on Dad’s arm. Caleb has a huge, toothy grin plastered across his face.

  The curtain comes down after the final encore and we all relax immediately. Eloise rushes over to me, in tears, and squeezes me in a hug.

  “Can you believe it?” she says. “Our last show together!”

  I hug her back and force a smile, trying to look as moved as she and the rest of the seniors are by the moment. After almost fifteen years at this ballet school, thirteen years performing in this same spring showcase, having it just be over feels a little anticlimactic. It’s not the big finish I was expecting. There’s no rush of emotion of any kind. It’s just over.

  A tiny swan, probably seven years old, flutters past us, trying to run and remove her tutu simultaneously, undoubtedly overwhelmed by the performance and desperate to go find her mother. I used to be that swan.

  I take a quick sip from my water bottle and blot my forehead with a tissue. “Congratulations,” I say to Eloise, who’s grinning through her tears.

  “It’s like, the end,” she says, shaking her head. “Or the beginning. You know?”

  I squeeze her hand. “I’m going to go find my family.”

  “And your boy?” she asks. I give her a swat on the hip and rush back to the dressing room to change.

  * * *

  I spot them as soon as I emerge from the stairwell. They’re waiting together—Dad, Gram, Mom with her walker, and Caleb, looking dapper in a blazer and jeans. I pause for a moment in the doorway to watch them, just chatting together. I can’t hear Caleb, but from the look on his face, I know he’s talking about me.

  “Damn,” is all he says when I reach them. Then he kisses me, right in front of my family. Including my father.

  “Whoa, there,” Dad says. “That’ll do, folks.”

  I pull away from Caleb, flushed. “So? What’d you think?”

  “Superb,” Gram announces. “Your best
ever. Absolutely superb.”

  Mom reaches out with a wavering hand and pulls me into a hug. “Beautiful. Just perfect, my love.”

  “You’re a talented kid,” Dad says, giving me a one-armed hug. “What can I say? Your mother and I will accept full credit. You’re welcome.” He hands me a bouquet of yellow and orange tulips.

  “You don’t get all the credit, do you?” Gram says. “A grandmother has a significant influence on a young person, you know.”

  “Thanks, guys,” I say. “So, I guess this is it. Last spring showcase.”

  Dad looks around the lobby. “It’s been a great run here over the years.” His eyes shine.

  “Don’t cry, Dad. Please.”

  “Who’s crying? No one’s crying. How about a celebratory dinner? What do you say?”

  I catch Caleb’s eye. “I’m starving,” he says. “Dinner sounds great.”

  I hug Dad one more time. “I want to show Caleb around backstage. Can we meet you at home in a bit?”

  Dad looks surprised. “Oh … I thought we’d do an actual restaurant. Something nice—a.k.a. not takeout.”

  “I know,” I say. “But … I just want to spend some time in the theater. Take in the whole last performance thing, you know?”

  “Sure, hey, of course.” I can tell Dad’s disappointed, but he’ll get over it. He turns to Gram and Mom. “We’ll just mosey home, and whenever you guys get there, we’ll figure out some food. Don’t wait too long, though … this guy looks like he needs a solid meal every few hours.” He thwacks Caleb on the shoulder in that awkward man-hug kind of way.

  As my family leaves, I glance around the emptying lobby. Eloise is probably lurking, staking out an opportunity to introduce herself.

  “Come on,” I say, grabbing Caleb’s hand and pulling him toward the stairwell. I lead him around the hallway to the orchestra pit door. “Want to see something extra cool?”

  “Always.”

  “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

  He laughs. “Have you noticed how tall I am?”

  The theater has a catwalk snaking over the stage and the audience, a huge iron walkway in the shape of a capital I, where they hang the front lights for the shows. From up there, you can see everything, even the set pieces hiding up in the fly space over the stage, waiting to come floating down on cue. Aside from being onstage, the catwalk is my favorite place to be in the theater. You can see the whole magic of the thing.

  Right outside the orchestra pit door, there’s a set of stairs that leads up to the catwalk entrance. Because I’m friendly with the tech crew, I happen to know it’s usually unlocked on show days. When we reach the top of the stairs, I pull down on the sticky door handle and motion inside.

  “Duck,” I warn him. Even I have to bend over to avoid smashing my head on the ceiling.

  We make our way gingerly to the middle of the catwalk, where I sit down with my legs hanging over the edge, looking out across the now empty seats. Down below, a couple ushers check the aisles and between the seats for trash.

  “Something tells me the dancers aren’t technically supposed to be hanging out up here.”

  “Perks of being friends with the tech guys.” I grin.

  “Oh, tech guys?” He tucks a strand of flyaway hair behind my ear, and traces my jaw with the back of his hand. His skin is smooth against mine, and sends a little tickle up the base of my spine, like someone is brushing my lower back with a feather. He leans in and gives me a light kiss on my lips, then one on the tip of my nose, then one on my forehead.

  “I don’t think you need to worry about the tech guys. You do need to worry about falling, though,” I tell him. “I will definitely get in trouble if I let an audience member fall to his death.”

  “So you’re saying I’m a liability right now?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  We kiss again, his hand pressing the soft spot where my head meets my neck. His glasses slip down and bump against my forehead. When we pull away, he grins goofily with his eyes crossed. I clamp a hand over my mouth.

  “Don’t make me laugh or someone’s going to hear us,” I whisper, still giggling. Caleb drops the silly face, then squeezes me closer to his chest. He breathes into my hair.

  “You were amazing out there, HD. Seriously.” He’s looking at me like he feels genuinely proud.

  “I messed up one part.”

  “HD. Accept the compliment.”

  “Fine. Thank you.” I don’t know what to say next, so I punch him in the bicep. “And thanks for actually showing up to this one.”

  “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

  “Meh,” I say. “Eventually. Maybe. Thanks for hanging out with my family, too.”

  “You mean sitting with them? Your family’s cool. I like them.”

  “My mom didn’t say anything crazy to you this time?”

  Caleb shakes his head. “Not a word. But it wouldn’t bother me if she did.”

  “It bothers me, though.” I press my head into the nook between his chest and his shoulder. “I just wish it would stop.”

  “That what would stop?” He’s speaking so quietly now that I can barely hear him, even in the silence of the catwalk.

  “The getting worse.”

  I crane my neck to look up into his face and kiss him again. If we could freeze this instant and stay here forever, in the dark theater, just hit Pause on life, that’s what I’d do. There’s a calmness in my chest, in my stomach, even in my head, that I can’t remember ever feeling before, at least not in the last six years. For a split second, I feel what I’m pretty sure other people call certainty.

  “Hey, HD?”

  “Hey, Sickle Cell?”

  “I could sit up here all night with you,” he says.

  He must have been reading my mind. “I thought you said you were starving.”

  “I am starving, that is true. But I’d never get bored. I could watch paint dry with you and I wouldn’t get bored.”

  “You could watch paint dry with me? That sounds delightful,” I say.

  “I’m making a point here! Paint drying is about the most boring thing I can think of to watch, and I would enjoy doing it with you.”

  I want to say something nice back to him—I really do. I want to tell him how I feel. My heart thuds so fast I figure he must be able to feel it thwacking against my chest. I’m pretty sure that heartbeat is the only sound, the only movement in the whole theater right now. But I can’t make my mouth form the words.

  Finally Caleb puts an arm around me and kisses the top of my head. I know he wants to make me think it’s totally fine that I can’t seem to express my feelings in the same way he can, but I feel him sigh in the dark. I wonder how long he’ll wait.

  Nineteen

  In twenty-four hours, I’ll be winding my way across the western half of the country, toward California.

  My flight to Chicago is tomorrow at nine a.m. I land by early afternoon, and then I’ll take the Blue Line to Clinton, and walk about three blocks, take a right, walk one block, and then I’ll reach Union Station. Where I’ll board the Zephyr.

  I’ve laid out everything I might need across the bed—leotards, ballet slippers and pointe shoes, warm-up clothes, snacks for the fifty-two-plus-hour ride: trail mix, pistachios, almonds, peanuts.

  (“What are you, nuts?” Dad said with a little chuckle, when he saw me pile all the snacks on the conveyor belt at Star Market over the weekend.)

  Dad comes in with Mom’s medium-size suitcase. My parents have matching luggage sets, which were apparently once pretty nice but are now frayed around the edges, patched in places, and showing the wear and tear of the decade of traveling my parents did together when they were young and had a life before me.

  “Check out what I found in your mother’s suitcase,” Dad says. He holds up a wrinkled postcard. “Prepare to be impressed with your father’s romancing skills.”

  The postcard is to Mom, from Dad, sent from Scotland, according to
the postmark. I know Dad spent a semester at St. Andrews when he and Mom were undergraduates. He must’ve sent this then.

  His handwriting hasn’t changed much over the years, unlike Mom’s, which has gone from tidy, almost clipped little letters to a sprawling, looping mess.

  “Dear El,” my undergrad dad wrote, “Greetings from the Land o’ Scots, once again! Where the weather is dreary, the people are beasts, and the golf courses are plentiful. I still couldn’t hit a golf ball if my life depended on it, and you’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Don’t abandon me for Steve Branahan. He’s a jackass. I miss you, I love you. Yours.”

  He sounds like himself, already. Like a just slightly less grown-up version of himself. And it makes me smile, because “jackass” is my favorite insult. I didn’t realize I got it from Dad.

  “Who’s Steve Branahan?”

  “Your mother’s other suitor. He tried to make a play for her while I was studying abroad, but he had nothin’ on me.”

  I hear muffled voices and laughter coming up the stairs, and Caleb appears in the doorway. “I’ve come to say farewell before the epic journey.”

  “Well, on that note, I’ll leave you kids alone,” Dad says.

  Caleb assesses my packing progress as Dad slips out the door. “So. Here’s the thing. I don’t trust that you’re going to come back. I think you might just jump off in Utah and set up shop.”

  “Would I have to convert to Mormonism?” I ask.

  “Nah,” says Caleb. “You could just hang with them. I think Mormons and Jews get along.”

  “I’m only a half Jew.”

  “I’m sure Mormons and half Jews get along, too.” He gestures at the postcard, which I’m still clutching. “What’s that?”

  I hand it to him and let him read it for himself. His eyes get wide and his mouth spreads into a sly smile.

  “All right, Dave,” he says, grinning enthusiastically. “Way to play it with the ladies.”

  “Really, that’s uncalled for,” I say, grabbing the postcard back.

  “I didn’t know your folks were college sweethearts.”

  “Well, they were. I mean, I knew they were together back then, but I didn’t realize they were that serious. Jeez.”