Rules for 50/50 Chances (11 page)

“You mean you're not creating images of me that you're going to tape to the walls of the room you have hidden behind a fake bookcase?”

“What!” Caleb exclaims. “Who told you about that? That's my victim room!”

“That's what I thought! See, I knew you were really an Internet stalker!” We both crack up. The Green Line pulls in and we squeeze on board amidst a million other theatergoers.

“Seriously, though,” he says, quietly now that it feels like everyone on the train can hear our conversation. “Can you model?”

“Umm … I can sit still. Will that suffice?”

“That will suffice. I'll even pay you in food.”

“Oh really? What kind of food?”

He grins. “The best kind. My mom's.”

The bottom of my stomach drops as the train lurches to a start. The crowd presses me up against Caleb's chest, and he rests a hand on the small of my back. I flinch when he first touches me, but it feels good to be tucked in against his chest. For a moment I imagine what we must look like right now: like one of those normal, happy, teenage couples.

But normal, happy, teenage couples always think they'll be together forever—because what could go wrong? I know things aren't that simple. Pulling away from Caleb a few inches, I snake my arm through the crowd and grab one of the silver poles to steady myself.

Nine

Caleb picks me up the following Saturday night, driving a slightly battered Honda Civic that doesn't seem like it would belong to a family that can afford to send their three children to private school.

“These your wheels?” I ask as I slip into the front seat.

“Yup. Fancy, right?”

“Fancier than mine.”

“Oh yeah, what do you drive?”

“The subway, unless I'm borrowing.”

The whole truth is, I could drive all the time these days if I wanted to. My mother's car is still sitting in the driveway, even though Dad finally took her keys away earlier this year. (Considering that the fender benders were her earliest symptoms of Huntington's, she was probably a danger on the road long before she stopped driving, but she and Dad had so many vicious fights about it for the first three years post-diagnosis that he gave up until Dr. Howard basically mandated the no-driving policy.)

Anyway, I don't drive Mom's car unless it's a real emergency. It just makes me feel weird, getting a perk out of her falling to pieces.

“So, I want you to warn you about what you're in for here,” Caleb says.

“What's that mean?”

“My little sisters are going to be very interested in you. That's all.”

So he doesn't bring girls home for dinner very often. Okay. “So what can I do to impress them? Any tips?”

“Know anything about tween pop stars? I'm pretty sure any knowledge of the latest Disney hotshot will make you an insta-friend as far as my sisters are concerned.”

“Sorry, but did you just say ‘tween'?”

“I'm ashamed to admit that I did,” he says. “Anyway, they're twins, so be prepared. Ella and Nina.”

“Ella and Nina, huh? Great jazz names.”

He smiles. “Yup. Dad's obsessed.”

“So who are you named after? I don't recall a Caleb among the jazz greats.”

“No obsession for me. I was born early so they were unprepared. They just picked a name they liked.”

Caleb's family lives in a western suburb of Boston, known to me only for its literary significance—Louisa May Alcott was born there, I think—and for its affluent reputation. We take Route 2 for about fifteen minutes before he pulls off, and soon we're winding along slightly hilly two-lane roads with thick trees on both sides. The foliage is full of warm oranges and reds.

“It's nice out here in the fall,” he observes. “The colors are insane.”

“New England falls, man. They're the best,” I agree. They're too short, but they're pretty spectacular while they last. “Okay, so, what about your parents?” I ask. “What am I in for there?”

“You'll be fine. My folks are goofy, but they're pretty cool. My mom teaches. She's a professor of economics at Harvard.”

“So, she's not that smart?”

“Not really. Neither's my dad.”

“Oh, what's he do? Brain surgery?”

“No, he's actually not
that
smart. He's a neonatologist at Mass General.”

I laugh. My mother would've called them a power couple, if she still thought of things like that to say. “That's like preemies?”

“Like preemies, indeed.”

I steel myself to be completely intimidated as we pull up to a big old Victorian tucked down a long, densely forested driveway. The house is lavender with white and gray trim, and there aren't any other houses in view—just land out the back and woodlands to the front. I already know Caleb's family has money, obviously, but I can't even imagine what this property is worth.

He opens the door and ushers me into what I can only describe as barely controlled chaos. The house may be pristine and peaceful from the outside, but on the inside it's a whirlwind of toys, kids' artwork on the walls, and backpacks and sweatshirts strewn across furniture and over the banisters on the tall center staircase. I like it immediately.

“We're back!” he calls into the house. Two little girls in polka-dot leggings and purple tunic-length sweatshirts come sliding into the front hallway, practically squealing.

“Ca-aaa-le,” they call, each grabbing one of their brother's arms and tugging up and down. “Introduce us to your
friend
,” says one of them slyly, eyeing me.

“My friend is Rose. These terrors are Ella and Nina.” He points at one and then the other.

“Are you
sure
I'm Ella?” says the one on the left, who, admittedly, looks quite a lot like the one on the right. Even their hair is styled the same, in two curly puffs on either side of their heads.

“Yeah, who told you I'm Nina?” asks the other.

“Careful,” Caleb says to me, ignoring them both. “They're cute but they bite.”

“We don't bite!” they exclaim simultaneously.

“I actually shouldn't get too close,” I tell Caleb, very solemnly. “I have that allergy I was telling you about.”

He plays along. “Oh, right, right. That's very serious. You really shouldn't get within breathing distance of them.”

“What's her allergy?” asks the one I think is Ella.

“I'm allergic to twins,” I say, deadpanning. Their already huge brown eyes get even wider, four side-by-side saucers.

“That's impossible,” says Nina, suspicious but, I can tell, also not entirely convinced of her own certainty.

“Oh, it's true. It's a rare but very serious allergy.” I back away from them, covering my mouth. “In fact, Caleb's right, I really shouldn't even breathe near you.”

“What happens if you breathe near us?” Ella asks, quietly fascinated.

I look at Caleb. He looks back at me and clears his throat.

“Well…” I say slowly.

“Well … it's very, very dangerous,” he tells them. “She develops a potentially deadly case of…” He pauses dramatically, leaving the finale to me.

“Polka dot–itis!” I shriek, storming at them like I'm going to grab them.

The girls burst out laughing. “That's not real!” Nina exclaims.

“You're teasing us!” Ella says. And then earnestly, to her brother: “Mom says you're not supposed to tease us.”

“Mom says no such thing. I think what Mom actually says is you both need to buck up and work on your comebacks.” He shoves Ella affectionately by the forehead, then does the same to Nina. “Now please, go do something useful with yourselves. Play with dolls, write the great American novel, whatever it is you people are doing these days.”

He takes my hand, just for a split second, to lead me toward the kitchen. I used to think holding hands would make me uncomfortable—too boyfriend/girlfriend-y. I was wrong.

“Parentals, this is Rose.” His mother is pulling a roast chicken out of the oven in a Pyrex baking dish, while his father hovers over the butcher block island, chopping garlic and chilies directly on the wood. Both look up with wide grins—Caleb gets the gap in his teeth from his dad—when we enter the room.

“Rose, so nice to meet you,” says his mother, putting the Pyrex to rest on a dish towel and wiping her hands on her jeans before reaching out to give me a hug. “Sorry, I'm a hugger,” she says, chuckling. “Hope you don't mind!”

I'm not really a hugger, but obviously I'm not going to say that.

“Rose, pleasure.” Caleb's father offers me his hand, which is so big that I momentarily picture it squashing one of the two-pound babies he probably deals with on a daily basis. He has the same, almost painfully firm handshake as his son.

“Thanks for having me…” I trail off, suddenly realizing that I have no idea what to call Caleb's parents.

“Charles, and Valerie,” Caleb rescues me.

“That's right,” says his mom. “We're not fancy people around here.”

You wouldn't know it from looking around the kitchen, which has obviously been remodeled with high-end appliances and granite countertops and one of those deep, white ceramic sinks. It couldn't be more different from our old kitchen, with its mismatched appliances and warped drawers that are impossible to close without putting your full body weight behind them. This is not a kitchen that sees a lot of takeout.

“You guys want a Coke or something? Seltzer, OJ?” asks Caleb's mother from the fridge.

“I'll have a Coke,” says Caleb. “HD? What'll it be?”

“Seltzer's great. Thanks.”

Valerie grabs two cans from the fridge and passes them to Caleb. Leaning toward the doorway, she hollers for the girls to come take their meds. No response.

“Ladies! Meds time!” she repeats. Nothing. I glance at Caleb, who rolls his eyes.

“I'll get them,” he says, sliding off the stool he's perched on. I follow him into the playroom, where one of the girls is on the floor, braiding a doll's hair, while the other is bowling on the Wii. Both appear to be willfully ignoring any interruption from the outside world.

“You heard Mom. Meds. Get a move on.” The one on the floor looks up at her brother and me like we're utter fools. She crosses her arms and juts her little chin out at us.

“We're on strike.”

“You're on strike?”

“We have rights, you know.”

Caleb bursts out laughing. “You have
rights
? Oh really? Where'd you hear that?”

“Miss Robles,” says the twin who's bowling, not even turning away from the game.

The one on the floor continues. “We're learning about the Pullman railroad strike of eighteen ninety-three. People have the right to strike if they don't like how they're being treated.”

I look to Caleb, sideways. Good luck to him with this one.

“True,” Caleb says slowly, considering his next move. “But this is not that kind of situation. You're not being paid unfairly for your work or something like that. No one's taking away your health care. On the contrary, we're trying to provide you with the things you need to stay healthy. Therefore, it's in your own interest to do what I say, and take your meds.”

I like the way he talks to them, like they're real people, not just kids. They're listening now, processing his argument. The one at the Wii has put the controller down and leans against the arm of the couch, cupping her chin in her hands and tapping her cheek with one wiry finger.

“But what if we just feel tired of taking them?” asks the one by the couch. I really have no idea who is who at this point.

Caleb shrugs. “Listen, I hear you. It's your lot in life. You gotta bite the bullet and do it, or you'll have a pain crisis and you don't like that very much either, remember. It would be more sensible to go on strike from your chores if you want to go on strike. But don't tell the parentals. I told you that.”

The one on the floor puts her doll down resolutely and nods. “Fine. We'll do it.” Standing up, she leans toward Caleb with a stern look on her face and wags a finger at him. “But don't think you can always get us to do whatever you want with logic alone.” Then she and her sister march off in tandem to the kitchen.

I turn to Caleb. “Did she just say, ‘do whatever you want with
logic alone
'?”

He laughs. “Yeah, they bust out with that kind of stuff all the time. I don't know where they get it.”

“Is it always like that? Getting them to take their meds?”

Caleb sighs, nodding. “More or less, yeah. I mean, they go through phases. Sometimes they're fine with it, other times they get sassy, other times they just kick and scream like babies.” He shrugs. “It is what it is, right?”

That's true, obviously, but it doesn't seem fair to be so young and have to deal with so much, to be always on the cusp of pain. Not that “fair” even means anything, really. But still, Caleb's sisters are so hilarious and smart and silly, it seems like they should be allowed to just be their hilarious, smart selves for a while without having to deal with heavy stuff like keeping a chronic illness under control. At least for now.

“Food's up, youngbloods!” Caleb's dad calls from the dining room, and we troop in and find our places around the long farmhouse table.

“So, Rose,” Valerie says, passing me a colorful salad, “Caleb tells us you're a dancer.” She smiles at me warmly. The girls giggle.

“Caleb tells us a lot of things about you,” says one of them through her laughter.

“Caleb's like, ‘And
another
thing about Rose, and
another
thing about Rose,'” the other one adds. They fall all over each other, hysterical. Caleb glares at them.